A long time ago, when pegasi still roamed the deserts of Nathjar and the daoune of the deep snows could make the oxen run to them, the sun was growing.
It started out yellow, and over the millenia of circles, it grew red and inflamed. The daoune thought it had been bitten by a sickness-fly. The healers banded together and prayed to heal the sun. But this did not work. The sun kept growing, till the sky was of red fire. The daoune heard legends of the days when the sun was small. They passed the legends down. They built underground homes to escape the burning heat.
Eventually, when the day sky was full of scorching sun that melted the poles, there was a great noise and a great heat and a great light. Some strange explosion had happened up in the sky.
When the daoune emerged from the underground cities, starving and cold, the sun was small, and the healers rejoiced, for a new, smaller and bright star had appeared in the sky. It shone through the daytime, and it was not so hot, and the ice had returned.
No life was on the surface - the daoune had brought it down into those secret, hidden cities. They set the oxen free to run across the snow and they planted the seeds of flexwood and yeverleen into the frozen soil. They did not notice that the magic had gone.
Life returned to the surface.
Legend says that the cities are still there, under the surface. If you can find them, you can release magic back into the world.
But no-one's found them yet. And life is good, so no-one really wants to.