Alaric Thalor was met by High Priest Modfrey Basil inside the obsidian walls of Evernight Citadel, a center of arcane learning where Scholars studied the Mysteries of the universe. The smell of incense and the subtle, metallic tang of blood magic filled the air.

  Alaric, his face a mask of icy calm, entered the chamber. Modfrey, his eyes burning with an unsettling intensity, gestured towards a stone altar, its surface slick with dried blood.

  "Alaric," Modfrey began, his voice a low, resonant hum, "the time has come to solidify our rule. To ensure the troubles of the past, are finally silenced."

  Alaric, intrigued, leaned closer. "And how, High Priest, do you propose to achieve this?"

  Modfrey smiled, a chilling, predatory smile. "Through the blood magic, of course. The ancient ritual that once granted the Sigmunds their power."

  Alaric's eyebrows rose. "The blood magic? But… but it is said to be unstable, unpredictable."

  Modfrey scoffed. "Legends, Alaric. Mere Tales of fear. The blood magic, when performed correctly, is a source of immense power. It will grant you strength beyond mortal comprehension, the ability to crush any rebellion, to ensure that your rule is absolute."

  He gestured towards the altar. "One thousand years ago, Rhoy Sigmund, the first King of Medina, and his brother, Modfrey, performed the ritual. They drew strength from the very essence of the land, claiming dominion over six kingdoms – Medina, Taus, Arion, Seadale, Arraxes and Velostria."

  Alaric pondered this, his mind racing. The prospect of such power was intoxicating. To rule without fear, to crush any opposition with an iron fist… it was a tempting proposition.

  "But what of the risks?" Alaric pressed, his voice wary. "The legends speak of… of instability, of… of destruction."

  Modfrey dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. "Those were the failings of Leofric Sigmund, a weakling, a fool. He tampered with the ritual, sought to expand his power beyond its limits. His arrogance brought about the Day of Doom, a catastrophe that shattered the very foundations of Arraxes."

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  He paused, his eyes gleaming with a chilling light. "But we will not repeat his mistakes. We will perform the ritual as it was intended, drawing upon the strength of the land, not seeking to dominate it."

  Alaric, intrigued by the prospect of unparalleled power, could not deny the allure of the High Priest's proposal. The thought of ruling Carlradon with an iron fist, of crushing any opposition with a single, effortless gesture, was intoxicating.

  "Very well," Alaric finally conceded, his voice a low growl. "But we must proceed with caution. We cannot afford to make the same mistakes as Leofric."

  Modfrey smiled, a chilling, predatory smile. "Of course not, Alaric. We will not merely inherit power; we will seize it. We will become more than men. We will become gods."

  The High Priest turned to the altar, his gaze fixed upon the intricate symbols etched into the stone. The air crackled with anticipation, the scent of blood magic growing stronger. Alaric, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration, watched as Modfrey began the ritual, chanting in an ancient, forgotten tongue.

  The ground beneath them trembled, the air grew thick with an otherworldly energy. Alaric, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation, braced himself for the unknown. The blood magic, once a source of power and dominion, was about to unleash its fury upon the land once more.

  The first King of Medina, Rhoy Sigmund, had united five kingdoms under his rule, his power amplified by the blood magic. His brother, Modfrey, had ruled Arraxes, a land of lush forests and vibrant life. But five hundred years later, Modfrey's descendant, King Leofric Sigmund, driven by an insatiable lust for power, had sought to expand his dominion, to make himself the most powerful ruler the universe had ever seen.

  The blood magic, however, had proven unstable. Leofric, in his arrogance, had tampered with the ancient ritual, seeking to amplify its power beyond its natural limits. The result had been catastrophic.

  The land of Arraxes had been consumed by a fiery tempest, the earth itself convulsing in agony. The once verdant forests had been reduced to ash, the rivers poisoned, the air choked with noxious fumes. The Day of Doom, as it came to be known, had shattered the very foundations of the land.

  Two years later, the first settlers, led by the House of Tostig, had ventured into the desolate wasteland. They found a land scarred and broken, a land of shifting sands and scorching sun. They named it Sandars, a grim reminder of the devastation that had befallen the land.

  Now, centuries later, Sandars, once a thriving kingdom, was a land of harsh realities, its people hardened by the unforgiving desert environment. They were a people of resilience, survivors of a catastrophe that had shaped their very existence.

  And now, Alaric Thalor, driven by ambition and the allure of absolute power, sought to unleash the same blood magic that had brought about the Day of Doom.

  The fate of Carlradon, it seemed, hung precariously in the balance.

  End of Chapter Four

  To be continued.....