Once, long before anyone now living was born, there lived a boy. He was the strongest magic-user ever to live, a master of his craft by twenty. He spun light into dancing, twisting shapes, and easily mastered both magical and mundane skills. He grew up beautiful, proud, and strong, winning fame in battle and strategy. His prowess brought him to the king's attention, and soon the boy and the king's daughter were wed.

As king, he inherited the old king’s war. He ended it quickly, his powerful magic backing his soldiers as they conquered and laid waste to the world. Generously, he allowed conquered rulers to maintain stewardship over their lands, so long as they swore fealty to him. Otherwise, he killed them, going down the line of succession until someone swore loyalty.

Thus the Empire of Light began. It was an era known for peace, its birth marked by blood and slaughter. Peace reigned as the Emperor demanded it, his word made law through fear and bloodshed when his propaganda was insufficient.

It was not to last.

Sometime during the Emperor of Light’s rule, the first child with the power we would come to know as wizardry was born. This child was… unremarkable. They grew, lived, and died, hardly ever having touched the river of magic within them. I do not even know who they were, only that I was not the first, second, nor even twentieth such child to be born. I knew none of them.

The Emperor knew them all. It was by his command that every wizard died before they knew their power. He was the most powerful, a god among men, and the most powerful he would stay.

But a legend cannot last forever. A mighty phoenix can be brought down by a murder of crows.

And even a god can be felled by a bird with nothing to lose.