In another timeline, where Argider was still a man, the world treated him no better. Magic poured from his veins like a divine river, but even his gifts could not shield him from scorn. They took what he offered, drank deeply of his power, and left him hollow. The peasants called him a miracle-worker, the nobles called him a freak, and the kings? They called him a tool.
He gave and gave. For a while.
"Argider, another blessing for the crops?" a local lord sneered, leaning lazily on a polished cane. "Your generosity is the only reason this village hasn't starved. Surely you'll keep your streak of benevolence alive?"
Argider's lips twitched into a forced smile. He raised his hand, letting tendrils of golden magic weave into the soil. Crops shot up like soldiers standing at attention, lush and ripe. The villagers cheered—for the lord, not for him.
They never thanked him.
