Outside the Kingdom of Lues, outside the continent of Liara, far beyond the maps and the minds of those who believed the world ended at the mist-choked edges of the Arianiac Sea…
a girl stood staring into the fog.
It was the same last night.
The same the night before.
And now another night passed—and the fog still surrounded them.
The fog had always been here, thick as wool, cold as bone, swallowing everything beyond their borders. It clung to the land like a jealous lover, refusing to loosen its grip, refusing to let light in or life out. Some days it crept across the ground in pale ribbons; some days it loomed like a monstrous wall. But it was always there.
It had always been like this—trapped inside the fog.
People whispered that the fog itself was alive. That it breathed. That it remembered. That it hated letting anything leave.
Many had tried to escape. Adventurers, hunters, scholars, mothers searching for medicine, fathers searching for hope. They stepped into the fog with torches held high, voices shaking with determination.
None ever stepped back out.
The Absconditus Kingdom—the Hidden Kingdom, as the outside world called it—was a place frozen in eternal night. The sky was always dark, a moonless ink that blotted out stars and swallowed sunlight before it ever reached their land. Surviving was difficult… especially during winter.
And here?
It was always winter.
Wind whistled through splintered beams and half-collapsed roofs. Frost rimmed windows from the inside, crusting corners in jagged white feathers. The cold bit at exposed skin until it burned, gnawing at fingers and toes the moment gloves loosened or boots tore.
And yet, in the icy silence of this cursed land, one figure remained still—refusing to step away, refusing to blink.
The girl who had not been called anything but "My Queen" since her parents died.
A girl who had forgotten her own name long ago.
Her hair—white as frost and tangled by the wind—whipped behind her. Her lips were cracked from cold. Her cloak hung off her thin shoulders, frayed and stiff with frost. She used to have attendants who wrapped her in fine furs, who braided her hair with silver string, who kissed her knuckles and called her blessed.
Now she had servants who guarded her, not because of love—
but because of need.
She would leave this place one day.
She had to.
This land was nothing but a graveyard of memories she didn't want to remember. Memories she wished the fog would swallow along with everything else it took.
"My Queen!"
A voice cut through the cold.
The girl didn't turn. Her blue eyes remained fixed on the fog—massive and unmoving before her, swirling ever so slightly like something breathing beneath its surface.
"My Queen, stay away from the border!" the servant shouted, feet crunching through ice as she ran up. "You don't know what monster could be lurking inside!"
The Queen exhaled, the breath leaving her as a thin plume of frost.
She was tired.
Gods, she was tired.
Tired of being called Queen.
Tired of being looked at like some relic of hope.
Tired of the villagers bowing so low their foreheads touched the frozen earth.
Tired of the weight.
Tired of the fog.
Tired of being tired.
She finally tore her gaze from the mist and looked at the servant—Lira, if she remembered the name correctly.
The woman's cheeks were raw from cold, her hands red beneath thin gloves. She panted lightly from her rush to reach the Queen, her breath spilling in frantic clouds.
The Queen looked back at the fog.
"Don't you wish you could leave?"
Silence.
Lira's breath froze mid-air.
"That you could walk out into that fog," the Queen continued softly, "and come back whenever you want?"
The servant swallowed hard. Her gaze darted to the mist as if expecting it to lunge at them.
"My Queen…" she began, voice trembling slightly, "I know it's been hard. Since your parents died and all…"
The Queen didn't reply.
Lira continued, gently placing a hand on the Queen's arm. "And I know it's not easy for you. You're still young. Too young for all of this."
She turned the Queen toward her.
And if you looked into Lira's eyes long enough—past the admiration, past the reverence—you'd see something else.
A desperation so sharp it could spill blood.
"But we need you," Lira whispered. "My Queen—we need you."
The Queen laughed.
It wasn't a delicate laugh. It wasn't regal or composed.
It cracked through the cold like shattering ice.
"Do you?" she asked, a sharp edge slicing her voice. "Then what makes me so special?"
She dragged out that last word, tasting the bitterness on her tongue.
"Why do you need me?" she rasped. Her breath stung her throat. "Because everyone here knows I'm not anything special."
Her voice trembled. Her jaw clenched. She gritted her teeth so hard her temples ached.
"Everyone knows…"
Her breath caught.
"I…"
She stopped.
Then, with a slow breath, she forced her shoulders back, straightened her spine, and smoothed the expression from her face—the poised mask she wore for everyone else.
"Never mind," she said coolly. "What did you come here for?"
Lira hesitated, worry tightening her expression.
"The General wants to see you about the hunt, and how we should distribute it."
Of course he did.
Of course it was about survival. It was always about survival.
The Queen nodded once.
"Then let's not keep him waiting."
Lira dipped her head and guided her away from the border and toward the settlement that housed what remained of their people.
The path was uneven and coated with layers of compacted snow. Some steps made a hollow sound—frozen earth beneath. Others crunched loudly. The few lantern posts lining the path were crooked and frostbitten, their flames barely flickering in the unending cold.
The settlement consisted of small homes carved into the stone ground and reinforced with the remnants of old ships—wooden ribs of vessels that had once attempted to escape but had been dragged back by the frost storms. Their broken hulls formed makeshift roofs, their figureheads buried in drifts of snow.
The Queen passed people bundled in mismatched furs, dragging sleds of firewood, carrying buckets of slush to melt into water, sharpening jagged weapons scavenged from past hunts.
All bowed deeply when she walked by.
She kept her eyes forward.
A thin trail of smoke curled upward from a shabby shed near the far edge of the settlement—a structure made of cracked stone, patched wood, and old metal scraps hammered into shape. Snow piled at its base, and a single lantern swayed outside the door, its flame dim and trembling.
"This way, My Queen," Lira murmured.
The Queen stepped inside.
The warmth hit her first—but it was the harsh, suffocating kind of warmth that came from a fire burning too fiercely in too small a space. The shed's interior was cramped, low-ceilinged, and smelled of smoke, wet fur, and dried blood.
Animal pelts hung from ropes overhead. Some were fresh, still dripping. Others were old, stiff with frost. Bones lay stacked in a corner, cleaned and sorted for tools. A wooden table stood in the center, scarred with knife marks and covered in maps drawn on scraps of hide.
This place…
This shed…
was their "strategy room."
She hated it.
She hated how small it was.
How broken it looked.
How desperately the people crowded into it, clinging to hope the way a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood.
Lira shut the door behind them, sealing out the icy wind.
The Queen exhaled slowly.
Another night.
Another cold.
Another memory she wished she could forget.
And the fog outside shifted—
as if watching.