The dreams began as whispers.
Soft, wordless murmurs that floated just beneath sleep.
At first, Lyra thought nothing of them. Children dream all the time—about silly things, strange things. But then the whispers formed words, and the darkness behind her eyes bloomed into golden halls and fire-touched skies.
It was not an ordinary dream. It felt too real.
Too familiar.
---
One night, after a long day of kneading dough and delivering bread, Lyra fell asleep with her head on the kitchen table. The oil lamp still burned beside her, casting flickering shadows across her cheek.
In the dream, she stood barefoot on white marble, her reflection stretching in its polished surface. The sky above her shimmered—not with clouds, but with constellations that moved like waves.
She turned and saw a palace of gold and glass, towers reaching into the stars. At the gates stood four women cloaked in flowing robes, each one crowned with a different element: fire, water, wind, and earth.
And there, in the center, stood herself.
But not as Lyra.
She was taller, radiant, her hair glowing like dawn, wrapped in silk and flame. A crown rested on her brow, and behind her floated six golden wings.
The other goddesses bowed their heads to her.
And then she heard it:
"Lyrielle."
The name echoed through the palace.
---
Lyra woke with a start, heart pounding, the word clinging to her lips.
"Lyrielle," she whispered.
It felt ancient. True. Like the missing piece of a puzzle she hadn't known existed.
She looked out the window at the starlit sky and whispered again, "Who... am I?"
---
The next few nights brought more dreams, each one deeper than the last.
In one, she stood in the center of the celestial palace, holding a staff made of starlight.
In another, she watched as mortals prayed to her, leaving offerings of wheat and song by a river shrine.
And in the most vivid one, she stood before the other goddesses—trembling, defiant—as they passed judgment.
---
> "You have given fire to the unworthy," said the Goddess of Flame.
"You interfered with their grief," added the Goddess of Water.
"You taught them to challenge death," whispered the Goddess of Wind.
"You broke the First Law," said the Goddess of Earth. "A goddess must observe, not shape."
Lyrielle stood, arms bare, tears shining like pearls.
"They were suffering," she said. "They cried out for help, and no one answered."
"It is not our place to answer," said the Flame.
"Then what good are we?" Lyrielle asked, her voice cracking.
The chamber fell into stunned silence.
Then the oldest of them stepped forward—the Mother of Stars—and raised her hand.
> "Lyrielle, your compassion is dangerous," she said softly. "It breeds imbalance. We cannot destroy you, but we will cast you down."
"We will strip you of your name, your memories, and your power."
"You will live as one of them—mortal, fragile, forgotten."
"And when you return to us, it shall be through suffering... or not at all."
---
The vision cracked like glass, and Lyra awoke with a cry.
Marien rushed in, lantern in hand. "Lyra! Are you hurt?"
Lyra sat up, drenched in sweat. Her hands trembled.
"I... I don't know," she murmured.
Marien set the lantern down and pulled her close, brushing damp strands from her daughter's brow.
"You've been dreaming again," Marien said quietly.
Lyra nodded.
This time, she didn't lie.
"I saw them, Mother. The goddesses. And me—but not me. They called me... Lyrielle."
Marien froze.
Slowly, she pulled away and looked into Lyra's eyes.
"You've remembered."
"You believe me?" Lyra asked, surprised.
"I always knew there was more to you than bread and flour," Marien said, smiling faintly. "You came from the stars, child. I saw it with my own eyes."
---
The next morning, Lyra walked to the shrine in the woods.
Alone.
She knelt before the stone disk—the one hidden near the lightning-struck tree.
Her fingers traced the symbol again: the star within the wheat.
"Lyrielle," she whispered, eyes closed.
A wind stirred around her.
She saw visions—flashes of the celestial palace, of mortals weeping, of her own hands reaching down, offering warmth and fire.
She remembered the first soul she saved: a child dying of fever. She had whispered healing into the wind.
She remembered the second: a woman too poor to bury her husband, crying in the dark. Lyrielle had sent a fox with coins in its mouth.
Small things.
Kind things.
But they had consequences.
The world had shifted.
The goddesses feared that shift.
And so... they cast her down.
---
Later that evening, Lyra sat outside the bakery, watching the stars appear one by one.
Theo joined her, plopping down beside her with a sigh. "You've been quiet lately."
"Just tired," Lyra said.
He studied her face. "You had another dream, didn't you?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
Theo leaned back, resting his arms behind his head.
"Tell me."
So she did.
Not everything. Not yet.
But enough.
When she finished, Theo sat in silence for a while, then said, "That's... a lot."
"I know," Lyra murmured.
"Do you think it's real? Like—actually real? Not just dreams?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But it feels real. And it explains things."
Theo gave her a sideways glance. "Like glowing bread?"
Lyra laughed. "Yes. Like glowing bread."
He reached out and took her hand gently.
"Well," he said, "you may be a goddess, but you're still terrible at climbing trees."
She smiled at that. "And you still fall in the river every time we fish."
"Touché."
---
That night, Lyra dreamed again.
But this time, she didn't wake up screaming.
She stood in the celestial palace once more.
This time, the great hall was empty.
She walked through it slowly, barefoot, her fingertips trailing along the golden walls. She entered a smaller chamber—a library of constellations. Floating texts glowed in the air, pages turning on their own.
One opened before her.
A prophecy.
Written in starlight:
> "When the Goddess of Bread returns,
The kingdom shall tremble.
A king shall bow.
And the world shall remember her name."
Lyra stared.
Not in fear.
But in understanding.
---
> She had been cast down.
Her name forgotten.
Her divinity sealed in silence.
But memory, like fire, finds cracks.
And soon...
The breadmaker goddess would awaken.