Magics Lives Among Them

Before the world was carved apart by conquest and greed, the people of the Ashanti lived in a world where the spiritual and physical realms braided together like strands of gold. Magic was not spectacle. It was not myth. It was inheritance.

It moved through families the way song moves through breath.
It shaped daily life.
It guided decisions, protected communities, and honored the ancestors whose wisdom lingered in every river, tree, and stone.

Gifted children were not feared.
They were celebrated.

Some were born with healing in their palms, able to soothe illness with a touch that seemed made of warm river light. Others could quiet storms or sense danger before it reached the gates. A few rare ones, those fate touched a little differently, carried deeper gifts. Sight. Sound. Light. Shadow. Truth. Memory.

These were the Currents, ancient forces as old as the land itself, woven into bloodlines long before anyone tried to rewrite their meaning.

Magic was woven into architecture. Shrines were built with precise alignment so that ancestral energy flowed through the stone like breath. Festivals pulsed with spiritual power, not performance. Dancers invoked history with each step, and drummers forged pathways between this world and the next.

Even the marketplace carried magic.
Salt traders wore charms of sun-touched glass.
Goldsmiths crafted talismans both beautiful and protective.
Children played beneath baobabs that held centuries of wisdom in their roots.

There was no separation between life and spirit.
The people understood that power was not meant to be hoarded, hidden, or twisted into cruelty.
It was meant to be lived with.

So when the stolen were dragged from their homelands, enslavers believed they were tearing magic from its source. They believed distance would weaken it. They believed chains would silence it.

They were wrong.

Magic traveled with the stolen across the Middle Passage, pressed into bone and memory. It hid in lullabies whispered under breath. It curled beneath tongues that refused to forget the words of home. It flickered in dreams, in visions, in sudden bursts of strength or knowing.

Even when the world tried to bury it beneath brutality, the Currents endured.

Some slept.
Some dimmed.
Some waited for generations to pass.

But magic does not die.
Not when an entire people carries it in their blood.

In Dominion, the gifts that once walked openly return through the children of the stolen. Scattered across continents, scarred by violence, and shaped by survival, they rise with abilities the world believed impossible. Their powers are not new. They are ancient truths resurfacing.

Magic remembers.
Even when history does not.
And when the stolen rise, they rise not only with fury, but with fire older than empire.

This is the world Dominion restores,
a world where magic was not fantasy,
but heritage.