The universe does not remember its own architecture, but the stars keep the ledger. Long before the continents of the mortal world settled into their brittle, stony beds, and long before the seasons learned to obey the strict, mechanical geometry of a sun, magicians ruled the ancient, unmapped earth. Their dominion was not one of iron crowns or stone battlements, but of pure, unbridled resonance. They spoke, and the soil answered in ancient tongues; they breathed, and the winds twisted into deliberate, singing shapes. With their immense and terrifying talent, God hosted the most beautiful of all magical powers across the fertile planes of existence—shaping an ecosystem where giants walked like living mountains, dragons carved red rivers through the night skies, and witches and visionaries caught the fleeting dreams of the cosmos within delicate, woven catchers of silk and silver.

Yet, among all the wonders that populated that first dawn, the favorite of all time remained the unicorns. They were not merely animals with horns; they were the physical manifestation of light given muscle, bone, and breath. To see a unicorn was to see a piece of the creation contract itself running free across the dew-kissed grasses.