They said no such lands ever existed — no record, no ruin, no trace.
But that was before I found the map.
It was pressed between the pages of an old atlas in a forgotten library, its ink faded to a bruised violet hue. The parchment shimmered faintly under candlelight, as if the ink itself still breathed. Three markings stood out among the ghosted contours of the continents — Alfirk, Errai, and Segin — drawn not as cities, but as constellations inverted onto the earth.
At first, I thought it a scholar’s fantasy. But the coordinates, though ancient, matched nothing in any known geography. No mountains, no seas — just empty stretches of unnamed wilderness.
I traced the lines anyway. Something in me needed to.
The first trail led north, where the air grew sharp and cold. I found a valley of black glass that reflected no sky — only me. I felt as though someone, somewhere, was watching. When the wind passed through, it whispered clarity, and I knew I stood where Alfirk once reigned.
The second mark took me to the marshlands. Every sound echoed twice, once in my ears, once deeper — in the chest, in the bones. I found no ruins, only reeds humming with a music older than language. When I whispered her name, Errai, the marsh fell silent, as if it remembered.
The third lay beyond the veil of a forest so dense it swallowed light. My compass spun until I stopped trusting it. I walked until my lantern dimmed and saw — faintly — a crown of thorns carved into the trunk of a dying tree. Beneath it, the roots glowed faintly violet. The air thrummed like a held breath. Segin.
When I returned to my tent, the map had changed. The ink had bled outward, forming a ring around all three regions. And at the center — a faint inscription I swear was not there before:
“The world remembers, even when we do not.”
I burned the map that night. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see that violet glow behind them — and I wonder if the Queens are truly gone… or simply waiting to be remembered again.