The wind curled around the little cottage like a living thing, brushing cold fingers against shuttered windows and humming through the eaves with a low, mournful voice. Inside, however, the world was warm. Soft firelight flickered against the walls.
A bed was tucked into the corner beneath a slanted ceiling, layered with woolen blankets and patched quilts sewn with clumsy stars. Wooden toys—blocky animals, a lopsided dragon, a small knight missing an arm—lay scattered across a woven rug. The scent of pine smoke drifted lazily through the air, mingling with lavender oil hanging in strands from a string near the rafters. Outside the thick windowpane, the Arianiac Sea murmured in the distance, its rhythmic crashing barely audible above the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
The fire was still lively at this late hour, popping every so often as embers shifted beneath the logs. Shadows shivered across the shelves stuffed with weather-worn books, jars of pressed wildflowers, and small trinkets of seashells and polished stones.
A small figure wriggled beneath the blankets—dark hair, wide eyes, clutching a stuffed fox by the tail as though it might escape. The child's gaze flickered toward the door just as it creaked open.
Soft footsteps padded in.
The child's mother entered with the calm presence of someone used to moving through the dark without fear. Her hair—honey brown, streaked with silver near the temples—was tied loosely behind her head. A shawl draped around her shoulders brushed the floor as she crossed the room, and the fire welcomed her in, painting gold along her cheeks.
"You're still awake," she murmured, her voice a gentle hush made of warm wool and soft sea breeze.
The child tried to hide a hopeful grin. "I wasn't tired yet."
"Well," she whispered, smoothing the blanket over the child's shoulders, her eyes softened, glowing in the firelight. "Then maybe you'd like a story before sleep catches you."
The child's eyes widened. "Yes, please!"
The mother leaned down and kissed her forehead, pulling the quilts up under their chin. Then she lowered her voice—soft, secretive, as though the shadows themselves were listening—and began.
"Tonight," she whispered, "I will tell you a story older than our family, older than this cottage, older even than the sea that sings outside your window."
The child curled closer, breath held.
"You know of the kingdoms, don't you?"
"I know there are seven," the child said proudly. "Dolus, Invidia, Castimonia, Fides, Laetitia, Lues, and Ipse."
"That's right," the mother murmured. "Seven kingdoms we trade with, argue with, laugh with, and fear in equal measure. Seven that send their ships across the sea, their diplomats to the cities, their warriors to the fields. Seven kingdoms you read about in your books."
She paused, letting the room settle into stillness. Even the fire seemed to quiet, popping softly like an old man clearing his throat.
"But," she continued, "there is an eighth kingdom."
The child frowned. "A… a secret one?"
"A hidden one," the mother corrected, her voice barely above a whisper. "A kingdom older than the others. A kingdom the maps refuse to show. A kingdom that does not speak to the rest of us—nor do they wish to."
A chill—not from cold, but from something far older—slipped across the child's skin.
"Is it real?" they whispered. "Or just a story?"
The mother leaned closer, casting her shadow long across the blankets.
"Some say," she murmured, "that it is nothing more than rumor and superstition. That the Hidden Kingdom—Absonditus—is nothing more than an old tale told to children who ask too many questions."
The room suddenly felt smaller, walls drawing nearer.
"Others," she went on, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "swear it is real. They say the land exists far beyond the edges of our charts, swallowed by fog and darkness. Secluded. Silent. Watching."
The child swallowed. "Watching us?"
"Always." Her smile was gentle, but her eyes carried something deeper—an understanding shaped by years of hearing this story herself. "The seven kingdoms interact with one another. They trade, scheme, fight, and form uneasy alliances. But the eighth… The eighth watches from afar. Hidden, unseen. It keeps to itself, as though waiting for the right moment to return to the world."
The fire cracked loudly, sending a plume of sparks up the chimney.
The child flinched.
"Is it… dangerous?" they asked in a whisper.
"Not dangerous," the mother said slowly. "But powerful. And very misunderstood. The people of Absonditus do not come to our lands. They do not ask for help or friendship. And so over many generations, most have come to believe they do not exist at all."
She tilted her head. "But those who live on the border of the Dolus kingdom's coast say that when the full moon shines down at night…"
Her voice grew softer, hushed with a kind of reverence.
"…and the fog of the Arianiac Sea disappears…"
Firelight shimmered in her eyes.
"…you can see the kingdom of Absonditus."
The child's heartbeat thudded loudly in their ears.
"See… the kingdom?" they breathed. "Like a mirage?"
"Like a truth the world wants you to forget," the mother murmured.
She reached out, gently brushing her thumb across her child's brow.
"The sea hides many things beneath its mist, little one. Some secrets are harmless. Some are dangerous. And some"—she paused, eyes softening—"are simply waiting to be discovered again."
The wind rattled the window frame, and the fire gave a long, low hiss as a log shifted.
The mother tucked the blankets firmly around her child, sealing in warmth.
"That is enough story for one night," she whispered. "Sleep now… before your imagination starts wandering too far into the fog."
The child nodded slowly, eyes wide, thoughts swirling with hidden lands and moonlit seas. The mother blew out the small bedside candle, and the room dimmed until only the fire kept the shadows at bay.
"Goodnight, my child," she murmured, brushing a final kiss to her temple.
She stood, shawl trailing behind her, and slipped out of the room. The door clicked softly shut.
The child stared at the ceiling.
Beyond the window, beyond the darkness, beyond the whispering sea…
A faint drift of fog shifted.
As though something out there had heard the story too.