Bells echoed through the city, piercing the ears of those close by. Crowds stilled and all attention turned to the tower. Curiosity was heavy in the atmosphere. Anticipation turned sour and silence reigned as the bells tolled once more. All curiosity vanquished now on the altar of dread. For when the bells ring thrice... 

And with that third chime. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The air grew heavy with the weight of the news that was now undeniable. Whispers of "the king is dead" began to spread like wildfire, leaving a trail of sorrow in their wake.

The city seemed to hold its breath, mourning the loss of its beloved monarch. King Alexander Argyll had been a pillar of strength and wisdom, guiding his people through prosperity and hardship alike. His benevolence and fairness were legendary. He would be remembered as the Golden King, for under his reign the land prospered after centuries of recovering from the Enchanted War. A great king, though he never was able to reunite the shattered empire once more. 

With his passing, an immense void was left in the hearts of his subjects. Tears welled in the eyes of men and women alike, spilling over as the reality of their loss took hold. Children too young to fully grasp the magnitude of the event, clung to their parents, sensing the sorrow that pervaded the air. Elderly citizens who had witnessed the entirety of the king’s reign, bowed their heads in silent reverence, their hearts aching with the pain of losing a leader they had come to see as a father figure.

In the palace, the court was draped in mourning. Nobles and servants alike moved with a solemn grace, their faces etched with the same sorrow that gripped the city outside. The throne, now vacant, stood as a stark reminder of the loss they all shared.

A procession began to form, citizens gathering with candles and flowers, marching slowly towards the palace gates. Their steps were heavy, each one a tribute to the man who had given them so much. As they walked, they sang hymns of lament. Their voices rose in a haunting melody that echoed through the streets, a mournful testament to their collective grief.

The city itself seemed to mourn his death, as the sky overcast with low hanging clouds, joining the people in their sorrow. The once vibrant colors of the city appeared muted, as though an aspect of the very land itself had been lost by the passing of its noble monarch.

***

In times past, the Adavant Empire stood strong. It was a nation of wealth and wonder filled with magics the likes of which are long forgotten. Legends tell of buildings that floated like islands in the sky. Towers that reached into the stars. Enchantments so strong that they seeped into the very soil making it teem with life. A land overflowing with boundless energy. Kept safe under the ever watchful eye of the Imperial Family and its retainers. Yet peace is never forever... For while the people were content the Emperor was not. Unsatisfied to simply live in the glory of an empire that had never experienced war, the Emperor became greedy. A vile being fed on his foolish desires, until the emperor soon set his sights to the heavens, wishing to be more powerful than God himself.  

From his ambition and dark corruption, a new magic was discovered. An ancient dark magic running deep within the very core of the earth, powerful enough to rip the stars from their heavenly seats, and rend the very sky in two. He was eager to grasp that which had been out of his reach. The Emperor drank freely from this new well of power, and using its might he ripped a star from its heavenly seat and chained it to the earth. It was then that something broke in the world. It began in the capital growing outward like an infected wound. A shadow began to grow in the hearts of the people turning kindness into savagery. The people themselves began to darken, and not long after the land followed.

Soon after the skies began to dim with storms conjured by malevolent sorcery, casting an eerie twilight over the land. Ancient forests that once brimmed with life became twisted and charred by an unknown blight, their once-majestic trees now gnarled and blackened husks. Twisted creatures creeped up from the bowels of the earth roaming the land and sea to prey upon the innocents. The oceans churned with unnatural fury, and demonic forces began to gain power. Soon the very ground trembled under the weight of an unholy war. Villages razed and cities fell into ruin, their cobblestone streets stained with blood and shadow.

As the demonic forces grew, they began to ravage the lands of the Adavant Empire, sucking the life out of the lands like a parasite, warping the once-fertile soils into barren, haunted wastelands. A terror that had seeped into every corner of the isles. The center of this devastation, the once beloved capital, became known as The Wandering, where the final and most brutal battles were fought. It was where demonic forces and corrupted magicians met their end alongside the innocent. 

The land itself absorbed the essence of this dark magic, becoming so saturated with overwhelming power that could kill any who dared to tread upon it. Villages that once bordered these lands were abandoned, their inhabitants fleeing from the encroaching darkness. 

In the midst of this chaos and darkness, a hero emerged. Elandor the Unyielding, a figure of legend, later known as King Elandor. With his enchanted blade, Lumina, said to be forged from the heart of a star, given willingly. He led the final charge against the dark forces. His victory in the climactic Battle of the Shattered Moon marked the end of the Enchanted War and the beginning of a new era.

In the aftermath, all magic users, both good and evil, were believed to have perished in The Wandering. The kingdoms celebrated, relieved to be rid of those they feared and misunderstood. This era marked the beginning of deep-seated suspicion towards all forms of magic, a consequence of the war’s devastation and the dark deeds of those who wielded its corrupt powers.

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This tragic legacy of the Adavant Empire serves as a stark reminder of the dangers of complacency and the destructive potential of unchecked power, with The Wandering standing as a haunted monument to the consequences of these historical follies Adventurers and treasure-seekers who venture into The Wandering, in hopes of uncovering lost artifacts or the secrets of ancient magic, never to be seen again. Tales of their grim fates circulated in hushed tones, further cementing the region's sinister reputation.

***

The Enchanted War left the Aviral Isles with deep scars causing the Empire to fracture, devolving into 6 separate kingdoms. Medour, the largest remnant of the now Shattered Empire, was the first to form, the northern kingdom scraped together from the remnants of the Imperial Family, and thus a symbol of what once was. 

The Golden Era of Medour, which followed the war, was a time of unprecedented prosperity and peace. The kingdom's fertile lands yielded bountiful harvests, with golden grain swaying in the gentle breeze of the Aviral plains. The riverlands teemed with fish, and orchards bore fruit in abundance. Trade flourished, with caravans of silks, spices, and precious gems traversing the land and ships laden with exotic goods docking at Medour's bustling ports.

It was not just agriculture and trade that prospered. The Golden Era saw the rise of great scholars and inventors. The Royal Academy of Medour, founded by Queen Emery, became a beacon of knowledge and innovation. Here, the brightest minds of the isles gathered to study the arcane arts, astronomy, and natural sciences. Mechanical marvels, such as the Clockwork Golems of Thalor, were created, blending magic and technology in ways never seen before.

Peace was the foundation of this golden age. Under the reign of King Elandor's descendants, the people of Medour enjoyed a sense of security and unity. Until the Enchanted War was but a memory. Reminders of the sacrifices made began to slowly face the centuries.

The royal lineage of Medour was the only thing that stood as a testament to the enduring spirit of the Aviral Isles. From King Elandor the Unyielding to King Alexander, rulers carried the weight of history and the hopes of their people. Their legacy was one of resilience and renewal, a beacon of light in a world that had once been shrouded in darkness. And so, Medour thrived, a land of plenty and peace, forever vigilant against the shadows that had once threatened to consume it. No one could know the dark forces lying in wait for King Alexander’s last breath.

***

As the kingdom mourned the loss of King Alexander, whispers of unrest began to surface. Rumors spread like wildfire through the streets, insidious words painting a picture of betrayal and treachery within the royal court. Shadows danced along the castle walls, casting doubt on loyalties once thought unshakeable.

Alastor Argyll, his ambitious son, the crown prince, ascended the throne. Many believed the son murdered his father, but none could ever prove it. Once he claimed the throne, his desire for war extended to neighboring kingdoms, driven by a determination to succeed where his father had failed. Alastor thought they would give up without a fight, for he was a fearsome warrior. After the kingdom of Sadrea proved to be strong and rebellious, he arranged a union between himself and a wealthy noble's daughter from the region. This family, known as House Teras, was not an ordinary noble family; they owned nearly half of the wealth in the Aviral Isles thanks to their numerous endeavors and investments. Money was important to him, for it fed his armies but when he first laid eyes on her, he was in awe of her divine perfection, obsessed even. The people celebrated as the queen's marriage to their king brought a glimmer of hope for peace. For this queen was kind and dedicated to the well being and prosperity of her kingdom. Her influence spread beyond the walls of Medour; it even reached the depths of the king's heart.

The queen bore him a beautiful daughter that many hoped would inherit her mother’s grace, beauty and strength. She would be known as Amaira. Prophecy spoke of a child who would one day wield the power of the Divine One that had long since disappeared from the land. It said this child would use it to save Medour from its downfall. The people believed she would be their salvation, and honored her with the name Ishtar meaning "Star," for she radiated light and hope to all who knew her. 

It was said that the king was uninterested in having daughters or the prophecies. He longed for a son, a male heir, to carry on his legacy. Not some daughter he viewed as property but that all changed the moment he held his little girl, he would do anything to ensure her happiness and success. Under their rule, the kingdom flourished once more, until tragedy struck during a diplomatic voyage, leaving the queen lost at sea.

Amidst the grief that engulfed the kingdom with the queen's disappearance, King Alastor's heartache manifested in a different way. He became more reclusive, burying himself in his work and thoughts. As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, Alastor's grief morphed into a cold determination, a steely resolve to protect his daughter Amaira at all costs. Amidst the whispers that circled the court about the queen's tragic fate, darker rumors began to surface—whispers of foul play and betrayal once more. Alastor found himself surrounded by advisors whose loyalty wavered, their eyes watching him with suspicion and distrust. The shadow of doubt crept back into the royal court, casting a pall over the once vibrant halls of the palace.

He soon abandoned the memory of his loving wife all together. He began to besmirch the name of House Teras and the Argyll Royal family by defiling the throne with whores from the deepest cesspools. It was not their fault he sought their attention, they even found pleasure in it until they soon lost his favor but none could fill the hole in his heart after the death of his wife. The court noticed the change in the king's demeanor, his once fierce countenance now clouded with sorrow and regret.

Whispers soon circulated among the nobles. The royal court mocked and laughed at the king, some even going as far as calling him the Syphilic Devil while others called him the Great Tormentor of Medour. However, despite all the talk about the Alastor, no one dared to speak these words to his face. He was known for his cruelty and any who disobeyed or angered him would meet their end at the hands of the Soul Reaper - a massive black sword named after the countless lives it had taken under the tyrannical rule of the king. He only showed kindness to Princess Amaira.

Amaira's presence in the kingdom shone like a beacon of hope, brightening the darkness that threatened to consume them all. Her innocent laughter echoed through the castle, bringing a flicker of light to her father's eyes. As she grew older, her wisdom and perceptiveness grew, allowing her to see the undercurrents of deceit and power plays within the court. She observed how alliances shifted like sand in the wind, loyalty. She bided her time, waiting for the opportune moment to reveal the treacherous misdeeds and deception of those around her.

Long live King Alastor. Long Live Princess Amaira.