The caravan creaked and swayed down the stone road, the northern winds brushing their cheeks with a chill that hinted at the mountains ahead. After days of travel, the weary travelers finally reached Hearthmere, the midway town nestled between the southern valleys and the far northern provinces.
It was lively, alive with the smell of roasted nuts and iron from the blacksmiths, the calls of hawkers, and the distant laughter of children near the fountain. As the carriages rolled into the square, Clarisse leaned out her window with a satisfied sigh.
"We've made good time," she said. "We'll rest here for two nights before pushing north."
Captain Selene guided her horse beside Baker's window. "Good. The wheels need greasing, and your mother's guard shifts could use rotation."
They found lodging in a reputable inn run by a kindly dwarven couple, their stone hearth burning bright. The travelers unloaded their belongings, and Selene and Baker took the thick Zoar hides they'd gathered from the road hunts to a tanner's shop.
The burly tanner nearly dropped his knife when he saw them. "Flame-mane Zoars? Six-legged beasts, aye? You slew these yourselves?"
"Team effort," Baker replied modestly.
The tanner's hands trembled as he examined the hides. "Fine quality. The mane fibers still hum with mana — worth a small fortune."
When they left, their purses were pleasantly heavy. Baker split the gold among his companions for supplies and road funds.
At the market, Baker lingered at a spice stall, mesmerized by the rows of jars glowing with faint magical hues. He bought smoked paprika leaves, mana-rich frost-thyme, and a rare emberseed blend known to strengthen recovery dishes.
Meryl teased from behind him, "Master Baker, you spend more on spices than most spend on swords."
He smiled. "A meal can win more battles than a blade, Meryl."
After repairs, they agreed to rest a full day before continuing. As dusk fell, the soft bell of the local Temple of the Twelve echoed through the town. Baker, feeling the tug of divinity in his chest, slipped away quietly.
---
The temple was modest but beautiful — wooden beams carved with vines and stars, the air rich with incense and candlelight. A few nuns in soft gray habits tended the pews. Their eyes warmed when they saw the young noble bowing respectfully.
"Welcome, traveler," said Sister Amara, an elderly woman with kind wrinkles and steady hands. "The gods' blessings upon your journey."
"And upon you, Sister," Baker replied. "May I… pray for guidance?"
"Of course, child," she said, gesturing to the altar.
Baker knelt. The moment his fingers touched the smooth wood, the world shimmered and dissolved into light.
---
He found himself standing in the Divine Crossroads, that strange space between the mortal and divine — a place of living mist and shifting colors, where voices of gods wove like wind.
Varun's steady presence was first to greet him, the scent of fertile soil filling the air.
"Baker, my faithful seedling, your roots deepen with every step."
Lyra, the Cooking Goddess, emerged beside him, her hair flickering like gentle flames.
"You've shared more than food, little chef — you've shared warmth. That is true nourishment."
Kael, the Combat God, stood with arms folded and a sharp grin. "And you've learned to strike not for glory, but for purpose. That's the warrior's path."
Then came Elyon, the God of Magic — robed in woven light, eyes swirling like galaxies.
"You wield mana as if it were breath itself," he mused. "But remember, young one — mastery of magic isn't about control… it's about harmony. Let your mana flow, not fight."
And from behind him, Cerys, the radiant Goddess of Skills, appeared with a smile both proud and playful. "You adapt quickly, Baker Cross. Each discipline you touch, you refine it — cooking, combat, even healing. The mark of a true craftsman is not perfection, but curiosity."
Baker bowed deeply. "Your words honor me. I… just wish to make the world better. Whether through cooking, healing, or fighting."
Lyra stepped closer, placing her glowing hand on his chest. "Then continue as you are. Every bowl you fill, every wound you mend, every soul you lift — that is divine work."
Kael's voice thundered warmly. "And remember, boy, next time you're in the dreamfield — bring that fire. I'll be waiting to test your mettle."
The gods' laughter filled the space, light yet powerful, until the world dissolved once more.
---
Baker blinked awake back in the temple pews. The candles had burned lower, and Sister Amara was refilling an oil lamp.
"You prayed long, my son," she said gently. "The gods must have listened closely."
He smiled. "They always do."
As he rose to leave, his eyes caught the sound of quiet sniffles. Through an open doorway, he saw a few thin children eating from small wooden bowls. The gruel inside was little more than watery porridge.
Sister Amara followed his gaze, sighing softly. "The orphanage has many mouths and few coins. We do what we can, but times have been difficult."
Baker knelt beside one of the children. "May I help in the kitchen?"
Before she could answer, he was already rolling up his sleeves. With the nuns' permission, he gathered whatever was available — wild herbs from their garden, leftover carrots, a handful of barley, and a jar of salt. From his travel pack, he added a touch of mana-rich frost-thyme.
The children watched curiously as he stirred the pot. "You see," he said softly, "even the simplest things — when cooked with care — can become special."
The broth shimmered faintly as his Blessing of Cooking activated, infusing the dish with gentle warmth. When the nuns served it, the aroma alone brought smiles. The orphans ate eagerly, laughter filling the once-silent hall.
Sister Amara pressed her hands together, eyes misty. "This… this is divine work, child."
Baker smiled. "No, Sister. It's just soup. But it's soup made with love."
Outside, as he left under the silver moonlight, he looked back at the church. He could feel the faint warmth of Lyra's joy and Varun's pride in the air.
Selene waited for him at the inn steps, arms crossed but smiling faintly. "Feeding the hungry again, I see."
Baker shrugged modestly. "It's what I do best."
Clarisse watched from a window, whispering to herself, "Perhaps the gods didn't just bless him… perhaps they believe in him."
That night, as Baker drifted to sleep, he found himself once more in the Dream Battlefield, Kael's divine domain of endless training. But now, Elyon's mana flowed through him like liquid light, and Cerys's guidance whispered in his mind, refining each motion, each breath.
The gods had not merely blessed him — they were shaping him.