World Without Spells
Long ago, before ink was used to write and kingdoms were made, the world was quiet.
The sky did not blaze with light, and the soil did not bend to human will.
The people knew only fire from rock, rain from sky and death from silence
There was no word for ''magic''.There was only the world and a single person who listened to it more deeply than others
Nameless Child
A nameless child, born in a forgotten place.
Somewhere between a forest and a sea with no end.
He never spoke, yet all heard him. He never aged, yet always had the eyes of a sage.
Some say he was abadoned, others say he was an incarnation of solitude, a child made not from flesh but of concept.
And whenever he walked, the wind bowed.When he breathed, earth trembled.And when he cried, fire took shape
Discovery Of Breath
The child grew older and began to wander.
He began to sense something that no one else could, a rhythm beneath everything, a silent hum.
And so, he sat for weeks beneath rivers, on the edges of the highest mountains and slept in caves besides ancient beasts.
He listened and breathed.
And finally, one day, a response.
Not a word, but shape and flow, and heat and cold and dark and light.
Mana.
It has always been there, but none had seen it.
Until he did.
The First Spell Was Will
The first spell was not spoken.
Nor written.
But willed.
Standing in the lost desert, he held out his hand and imagined rain. And then it rained.
That was the first spell, not fire, not light but intention.
The world had listened to him because he had listened first.
Decades of wondering, teaching no one. Writing nothing.
Magic was still wild and pure.
He carved runes the first runes into clay stones, bent the wind into shapes and listened to the flow of everything.
Slowly, he became the bridge between magic and mankind.
The Disciples and the Doctrines
Eventually, they found him.
Wanderers, warriors, poets, beasts and kings alike.
All drawn to the one whose eyes shimmered with knowledge.
They begged him to teach them.He did not speak, and so he showed them.
To one, he gave a rune drawn in sand.
To another, a single flame conjured without a spark.
To a third, a wound healed by hum.
He did not teach how, he taught why.
These few became the first inventors, the first to create grimoires, spells and magic theories.
They all wrote what they understood, but never all of it.
The First Mage never gave them the whole truth, only enough to guide, never to control.
The Vanishing and the Truths
One day he just vanished.
Some say he dissolved into mana itself.
Others claim he walked into the eye of a storm, never to return.
And others whisper that he grew roots, buried himself into the earth and became a tree, hiding among the deepest of forests.
All he left behind was a stone tablet carved with his first ever words in his long life.
The tablet was found beneath a lake that had never frozen until the night he dissapeared.
The tablet was brief, but mages all over, studied them and found entire lifetimes of knowledge, hidden meanings and lost truths.
The more they understood, the more dangerous and beautiful their magic became.
The First Mage had no name, no family, not even a painting or statue to be remembered by.
But his influence remains to this day.
In every drop of ink.
In every whisp of life.
In the gaps between ancient runes and the madness of those who seek the origin of magic.
In the awe of children.
And somewhere, perhaps in the dreams of the twisted or the deepest crevices of the abyss, there he is.
With his heart still beating.