There was a holocaust on my world. A man of terrible evil hunted down anything containing magical power, in order to use it himself. I was among a small group that stood against him, but in the end I was forced to leave not only my world, but a part of myself as well.

I looked back at my world, a place that used to be full of the light of Magic. Now it was nothing more than a sphere of dead blackness. When I reached out to touch it, longing to rejoin the other part of me, it felt terribly cold and solid. There was no way back. Even through this barrier, though, I could feel the other part of myself, and ached with the desire to unite with her again.

Magic is never created, nor is it ever destroyed. That is how I survived. When beings of magic die, they dissipate, though their energy is not lost. I, however, did not die. I moved. Perhaps I was able to do this because of my time as part human. I don't know. Our connection was and is mysterious, even to me.

The magical void out here pulls at me from all directions. I must find shelter. I must hang on to what defines me. So I can come back for her. I will return for her.

I can see dim pinpricks of light in the magical landscape of the universe. They are not simply far away, but weak. What I need is a magical hub. There is something just on the edge of my hearing. It's a voice. It's not calling me, but calling for help. Very distant, but very strong. Perhaps she will have the strength I need.