There's a moment in every reader's life when magic stops being magic.
You're deep in a fantasy novel. The hero is surrounded, outmatched, completely without hope — and then they do something extraordinary. Light pours from their hands. A word cracks the sky in half. A door opens where no door should exist. And instead of gasping, you think: Oh. Right. Of course they did that.
Pull out the map from almost any beloved fantasy novel — Tolkien's Middle-earth, Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea, Brandon Sanderson's Roshar — and you'll notice something immediately. Before you read a single word of the story, the geography is already telling you things. That jagged spine of mountains running north to south? It's not decorative. It's an argument.
There's a moment in almost every epic fantasy where the impossible is achieved. The ring goes into the fire. The sword finds the stone. The tyrant crumbles to dust and shadow. The camera — metaphorical or literal — pulls back to show the heroes, battered and weary, bathed in the golden light of victory.