Eldoria woke with the sun, as it always had.
The scent of dew hung in the streets. Horses whinnied as carts rolled over cobbled paths, and the bell above the village square tolled seven times.
And from the heart of the marketplace came the familiar smell of fresh bread.
Lyra stood behind the stall, sleeves rolled up, golden curls tied in a simple ribbon. Her hands moved with practiced ease—wrapping loaves in cloth, smiling at familiar faces, exchanging warm greetings.
To the villagers, she was simply the bread girl.
To the children, she was the kind one with soft hands who gave honey rolls on rainy days.
To the elders, she was the miracle child Marien had raised alone—gentle, strong, and just a little too lovely for an ordinary girl.
But no one knew she had once worn wings of starlight.
Not yet.
---
"Two rye loaves and one of the dark grain, please," said Mr. Harth, the blacksmith.
Lyra passed them over. "Fresh from the oven. Mind your fingers—it's still warm."
Mr. Harth chuckled. "Warm's the best part."
He lingered a moment longer than needed, then added in a quiet voice, "You've grown into something bright, girl. Your mother would be proud."
Lyra's smile faltered.
"She still is," she replied gently. "She tells me every morning."
He nodded, tipping his cap before walking off.
---
By mid-morning, the stall bustled with noise. Theo arrived, balancing a basket of eggs and nearly tripping over a crate.
"You really need a sign," he said. "Something like: Beware the Breadstorm."
"You mean me?" Lyra smirked.
"I mean you and your mob of hungry villagers."
Mira popped up behind him, clutching her sketchbook. "We should paint your stall. Yellow and white. With wheat patterns. And a sign with your face on it."
"No faces," Lyra said quickly. "I prefer being anonymous."
"Too late," Mira teased. "You're the Lyra. Everyone knows you."
---
As the day wore on, the marketplace buzzed with gossip.
A royal envoy had passed through the western road.
A noble carriage had been spotted near the river.
Some claimed the prince himself had been seen riding with knights along the Eldorian border.
Lyra only half-listened. Royalty didn't concern her. The palace might as well have been another world.
Still, something stirred uneasily in her chest.
---
That afternoon, Marien pulled Lyra aside after they closed the stall.
"You've been distracted lately," Marien said. "Dreams again?"
"Yes," Lyra admitted. "And memories. Of... before."
Marien's expression softened. "You don't have to carry it all alone, Lyra."
"I know," she said. "But it's like I'm standing in two worlds. One foot here. One foot somewhere I left behind."
She looked out at the hills beyond the village. "I don't want to leave. But I feel like something's coming."
Marien reached out and touched her cheek.
"You have always been more than what the world sees. But remember—you chose to live here. You chose warmth, and kindness, and bread."
Lyra blinked back the sting in her eyes.
"I didn't choose to forget," she said.
"No," Marien replied. "But maybe forgetting helped you become someone better."
---
That night, the stars burned especially bright.
Lyra sat beneath the fig tree behind the bakery, eyes fixed on the moon.
Theo found her there.
He sat beside her, silent for a long while.
Then he said, "If you leave someday... will you tell me first?"
Lyra looked at him.
"Yes," she whispered. "But I don't want to leave."
Theo didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned back and said quietly, "My grandfather says change comes in three steps: silence, signs, and storms. We've had the silence. The signs are here."
She smiled faintly. "So... the storm is next?"
Theo met her gaze. "Maybe you are the storm."
---
The next morning, everything changed.
A royal banner fluttered at the edge of the square.
A tall man in red and gold stood at the center of town, flanked by guards. His voice rang out, smooth and commanding.
"By the order of His Majesty, King Alaric of Eriandor, a search is being conducted for the young woman known as Lyra of Eldoria."
The villagers murmured. Heads turned.
Lyra froze at her stall, hands gripping the edge of the table.
"What does the king want with me?" she whispered.
The man unrolled a scroll. "It has come to the Crown's attention that a divine presence stirs within these lands. The king seeks the one who carries the light of the stars."
Mira dropped her sketchbook.
Theo stepped in front of Lyra protectively.
"I'm sure you have the wrong village," he said sharply.
The envoy looked directly at Lyra.
"No," he said. "We do not."
---
That night, Marien and Lyra sat in silence.
The bread had burned in the oven. No one noticed.
"Why now?" Lyra asked. "Why him?"
Marien looked older than Lyra had ever seen her.
"Because the stars don't forget," she said softly. "Even if you do."
Lyra folded her hands in her lap. "What do I do?"
"You decide," Marien said. "You've lived as a baker's daughter. You've loved, laughed, made mistakes, healed wounds. You've earned this life."
"But?" Lyra asked.
"But the world is calling. And it knows your name."
---
The village prepared for the envoy's return.
Rumors flew. Some whispered that the king had dreamed of a girl wrapped in wheat. Others claimed a seer had pointed toward Eldoria with a trembling hand.
Lyra tried to continue her work. She baked. She cleaned. She wrapped loaves.
But the bread no longer rose quite the same.
Her fingers trembled more each day.
---
On the third day, the envoy returned. This time, with a royal carriage.
Theo, Mira, and Marien stood with Lyra at the square as the doors opened.
From within stepped a tall man with silver eyes and a crown etched in iron and gold.
He was not old, nor young. His presence was impossible to ignore.
King Alaric.
He approached Lyra with slow, measured steps.
"You are her," he said. Not a question. A recognition.
Lyra stared back. "I don't remember you."
"You wouldn't," the king said. "But I remember your light."
He extended a hand.
"The palace calls, Lyrielle. Will you answer?"
---
> In the heart of the humble, the divine had bloomed.
A girl of flour and fire.
A goddess reborn in crust and kindness.
And as the crown bowed before the oven,
The world began to turn.