The world, as the old maps told it, breathed in three great exhalations of land—three continents divided by the restless churn of the Arianiac Sea. Sailors liked to claim that the sea had moods of its own: sometimes gentle as a lullaby, sometimes violent enough to swallow fleets in a single midnight roar. But whatever its temperament, it remained the boundary line separating civilizations older than the written word, and kingdoms whose names carried legacies of virtue, sin, and everything in between.
Liara lay to the west, its coast jagged like the teeth of some ancient, sleeping beast. Forests blanketed its inland territories—pine-dark, moss-heavy, and sheltering both wonders and terrors. In the height of summer, sunlight filtered through the branches in dazzling gold beams; in winter, those same woods sank into shadow that no lantern dared challenge. Its dual nature earned it a quiet reputation: a land that birthed both miracles and monsters, a continent where hope and ruin held hands more often than not.
Liara was home to four kingdoms, each as unpredictable as the land that hosted them.
Dolus, the Kingdom of Trickery, stretched along the northern coast like a serpent sunning itself on pale sands. Its people were clever, silver-tongued, and notoriously fond of half-truths. Diplomats from other lands walked carefully there, for Dolian smiles had a way of masking motives sharp enough to draw blood.
South of Dolus lay Invidia, the Kingdom of Envy, always watching, always wanting. Its citadels were carved into emerald-streaked cliffs and overlooked the sea with brooding, hungry stares. No resource, no innovation, no military achievement in the world escaped Invidia's jealous gaze. Their alliances were brittle things, held together only so long as the kingdom benefitted from them.
Then came Ipse, the Kingdom of Self, whose people prided themselves on independence to the point of isolation. Their gleaming spires rose high enough to catch sunlight from dawn to dusk. Travelers often said that Ipse was beautiful—breathtaking even—but cold in a way that seeped into bone. Everyone there lived for their own ascent, their own legacy. And while this ambition made them formidable innovators, it also made them unreliable allies.
Finally, tucked near the marshlands and tangled forests, sat Lues, the Kingdom of Plague. Or Calamity, as others whispered. A place where the land itself seemed to breathe sickness, where fog drifted in colors it shouldn't, and where legends claimed curses were born. Few dared visit Lues unless they had no choice—or no fear of returning changed.
To the east of the Arianiac Sea rose Niara, a continent of pale stone cliffs and sweeping prairies. It was said to be a land of high purpose, where the winds themselves sang differently—as though urging its people toward greatness. Temples, academies, and white-gold fortresses dotted its landscape like stars flung upon the ground.
Niara held three kingdoms, each a beacon of a virtue the world desperately needed.
Castimonia, the Kingdom of Purity, was the jewel of Niara. Marble towers glittered in sun and starlight alike, and its streets were known for their strict order and austere beauty. Its people lived by ancient codes—unyielding ones that demanded perfection in mind, spirit, and blade.
To the south of Castimonia lay Laetitia, the Kingdom of Joy. Color spilled across this kingdom like an eternal festival. The markets buzzed with music, food, and dance. Even in times of trouble, Laetitians found ways to celebrate—to create brightness in the world's darker corners. They were the smile before the storm, and sometimes, even during it.
Last was Fides, the Kingdom of Loyalty, standing proudly against the rugged eastern cliffs. Its warriors were steadfast, its leaders trustworthy, its traditions woven deep into every stone. Fides was the first to answer when allies called, and the last to retreat when battles turned grim. If trust were a substance, it would have flowed like riverwater through every village and stronghold.
These two continents—so different in temperament—had long danced a fragile rhythm of diplomacy. Liara's kingdoms clashed often among themselves, their differences sharp and volatile. Niara's kingdoms, while more unified, were not without friction; purity could be rigid, joy too frivolous, loyalty too blind. But when dealing with threats beyond their shores, the three stood together more often than not.
Still, even with all their complexities, rivalries, and uneasy peace, the kingdoms of Liara and Niara shared one truth:
They were not alone in the world.
Far to the south, separated by a stretch of sea so fog-heavy it had no official name, lay a third continent—spoken of rarely and charted even less. It was a place where compasses spun, where storms birthed themselves from still air, and where sailors swore the waves whispered warnings. This continent belonged to a kingdom hidden from the world's stage:
Absonditus—the Hidden Kingdom.
Legends said it was ancient, older than most written history. Its magic was strange, its culture stranger, and its existence uncertain. Many dismissed it as rumor, as a tale spun by moon-drunk captains or old widows who claimed they'd once glimpsed impossible lights beyond the fog.
Yet there were those who believed.
Those who had looked out upon a certain stretch of coast in Dolus—on a particular night when the conditions aligned—and swore they'd seen something impossible. A silhouette of towers rising out of the sea mist. Lights dancing across an unseen shoreline. The brief, trembling outline of another world.
Most scoffed at such claims. But some listened. Some remembered. Some feared.
Not far from those fog-covered waters, on a peninsula that curled like a hooked finger into the Arianiac Sea, stood a city unlike any other: Arouz Academy, a neutral land where all kingdoms sent their young elites to study. A melting pot of knowledge, politics, ambition, and danger—a place both revered and resented for its independence.
Across all continents, one truth bound every kingdom, every city, every forgotten corner of the world:
For all its beauty, all its magic and myth, the world was fractured.
Socioeconomic chasms carved the lands into those who suffered and those who soared. The nobles of each nation wielded influence like sharpened blades. Adventurers, mercenaries, craftsmen, and the common folk struggled to rise while kings and queens played shadowed games far above them.
Light existed, yes. Joy existed. Loyalty, purity, and even trickery had their place.
But so did envy. So did plague. So did selfishness and greed and the unspoken chill that came with knowing something ancient hid just beyond human understanding.
The world was not merely a place of heroes and wonders—it was a place of secrets.
And some secrets were close to waking.