The Elemmírion: The Wizards of the Renewal Times

Preface - In the Middle of the War

In the days of mystic splendour, when the arcane powers of the world coursed through the veins of both wizards and elves alike, the Balkan Mainland were a tome written with enchantment. The wise and venerable Petar Mrnjavčević once governed the throne of Yugoslavia. But everything has changed like the sands of time slipped through the hourglass, and loomed like a storm on the horizon.

Upon Petar Mrnjavčević's relinquishment of the throne, a decision spurred by his desire to see his realm flourish in unity, the power of governance was handed over not to a singular heir, but to the council of Eldarin and Wizarding aristocrats. The throne transformed into a conference of rulers to share the authority and balance the interests of both realms.

Yet, power, like an enticing elixir, had its allure. Among the electors, the ambitious Electoral Prince Božidar Mitrović of Belgrade harboured dreams of dominance. With a silver tongue that could charm even the serpents of the underworld, he laid bare his secret machinations to his confidant, the Dignitary of Serbia Momčilo Radić.

One moonlit evening, within the opulent chambers of Belgrade's Elector Manor, the two conversed in hushed tones.

"Momčilo," the prince began, his eyes gleaming with ambition, "their moment is ripe. The realm aches for expansion, and my destiny, I believe, is entwined with that of a conqueror."

"But, Your Excellency," Momčilo hesitated, his loyalty torn between friendship and prudence, "are the hearts of the people truly with this vision?"

Božidar's chuckle resonated, a symphony of self-assuredness. "The hearts of people are fickle, Momčilo. They shall be won over, just as the tides succumb to the moon's sway."

The die was cast, and plans were etched in the shadows as the Electoral Prince drafted missives that bore the weight of war declarations, meant to be dispatched to every corner of the peninsula. The wheels of fate were set in motion.

Yet, resistance flickered in the darkness. Momčilo, with the quiet courage of a lone star burning against the night's canvas, voiced his apprehension.

"Sir Mitrović, I implore you to reconsider. The path of war is paved with sorrow, and the price we pay may be beyond reckoning."

Božidar's eyes flashed, the veneer of camaraderie cracking under the weight of his ambition. "Momčilo, my plans are grand, my desires noble. But if you lack the mettle to stand beside me, then perhaps you are not the ally I believed you to be."

When the war began to unfold, the Republic of Slovenia and the Federal Kingdom of Croatia stood defiant. No longer would they be held within the grip of central authority, their will as fierce as the firebirds that graced their banners.

Under the wise leadership of the High King Krševan Trpimirović, the Federal Kingdom of Croatia proclaimed its sovereignty, a realm that would bow to none but its own.

And from the misty valleys of Slovenia, the call of autonomy echoed, as they raised the flag of independence, their determination akin to the mighty rivers that carved their lands. These proclamations reverberated across the land and stirred the souls of many.

But peace was not to be granted so easily. As the winds of freedom swept through the peninsula, the Death Wraiths of Yugoslavia, fearsome allies of the Death Eaters, descended upon the land like a tempest. Their steel-clad footsteps echoed the rhythm of chaos, heralding the horrors they brought.

Meanwhile, in the hidden alcoves of the mystical forest of Krka, the home of the Teleri of Knin, where its High King Siruindir Miþailinsarno dwelled, whispers of the impending storm reached his keen ears. In a secluded meeting, he summoned the aid of Slobodan Lucić, an Auror of formidable repute.