The bells rang before sunrise.
High, bright chimes echoed through the valley of Eldoria, bouncing between hills and rooftops like playful birds announcing joy.
It was the first day of the Festival of First Loaves, a tradition older than the kingdom itself—celebrating the season's first harvest of wheat, when the entire village came together to bake, feast, and give thanks to the spirits of soil and sun.
And for Lyra, it was her favorite day of the year.
---
"Wake up, sleepy cloud!" Marien called cheerfully, throwing open the shutters.
Lyra blinked groggily, the scent of morning dew and rising yeast already drifting into her small room.
"I'm up," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
Outside, villagers bustled down the streets in colorful linen clothes, arms full of baskets, bundles of wildflowers, and freshly milled flour. Children giggled as they ran with ribbons trailing behind them. The marketplace had been transformed into a festival square, with long tables, garlands, and music spilling from every corner.
Inside the bakery, the ovens blazed.
Marien and Lyra worked side by side, kneading batch after batch of festival dough. Some were braided, others shaped like animals, suns, or crescent moons. Each loaf would be blessed and offered at the central altar before being shared with everyone.
"You shape them so naturally now," Marien said as she watched Lyra twist a sun-shaped loaf.
Lyra smiled. "They feel like they're already inside my hands."
Marien paused, watching her daughter for a moment too long. "It's like you've done this all your life... even before this one."
Lyra glanced up, startled.
Marien blinked, then shook her head. "Ignore me. Old baker's nonsense."
But Lyra didn't ignore her.
Because it wasn't nonsense.
Not anymore.
---
By midmorning, the village square was overflowing with sound and color.
Mira arrived first, her hair woven with blue cornflowers, a sketchbook tucked under one arm.
"You have to see the dress I designed for next year's festival," she whispered. "It's got sleeves that float like clouds!"
Theo appeared soon after, carrying a small wooden sword at his side and an apple in each hand. "I'm entering the strength contest this year!"
"You're twelve," Lyra laughed.
"I'm almost thirteen. And I've been practicing."
"Lifting bread doesn't count as practice," Mira teased.
Together, they roamed the festival grounds, their arms filled with sticky buns, fruit tarts, and samples of spiced loaves. Musicians played pipes and flutes, and dancers swirled through the streets in flower-covered skirts.
But the centerpiece of the festival was the Blessing of the First Loaf.
Each family submitted one bread to the altar in the square, where the village elder would bless it and offer a prayer to the ancient spirits—many of whom no one remembered by name anymore.
---
This year, it was Lyra's turn to carry their offering.
It was a sun-shaped loaf—bright, golden, and glazed with honey. She held it in both hands like something sacred as she walked to the altar, heart pounding.
As she stepped onto the platform, the village quieted.
The elder, a bent man named Eorin, raised his hands and began to speak. "We gather once again to thank the fields, the rivers, the winds. To honor the cycles of light and life, and the hands that turn grain into nourishment."
As Lyra knelt to place the loaf on the altar, her fingers brushed the stone.
And something stirred.
A pulse.
Soft, like the beat of a distant drum.
The loaf glowed—only for an instant, barely a flicker—and then it was gone.
Gasps murmured through the crowd.
Eorin's eyes widened.
Lyra stood quickly, heart racing. Did they see? Did they feel it?
But no one said anything.
The blessing continued.
And the moment passed.
---
Later, as music and feasting took over the square, Mira pulled Lyra aside.
"You felt that, didn't you?"
Lyra hesitated. "Felt what?"
"The bread. It... shimmered. Only for a second."
"You saw it too?"
Mira nodded slowly. "My grandmother always says bread carries magic. Maybe yours just wanted to show off."
Lyra managed a nervous laugh. "Let's hope that's all it was."
But inside, she wasn't sure.
---
As dusk fell, paper lanterns were lit and floated into the sky, casting flickering lights across the night. Children danced around a bonfire while elders told stories of harvest gods and ancient spirits who once walked among mortals.
Lyra sat quietly near the edge of the firelight, watching the flames.
Theo plopped down beside her. "Why so serious? This is the best night of the year."
She nodded slowly. "I'm just thinking."
He tilted his head. "About the bread?"
"Maybe."
He shrugged. "I don't care if it glowed or sang or floated. You still made the best one."
She smiled at him, grateful.
Then she looked up at the stars.
For the briefest moment, the night sky felt closer—like a veil she could almost reach through.
She thought of the statue in the woods.
The whispers in the wheat.
The judgment in her dreams.
And she wondered: Was she ever really meant to stay here?
---
That night, in the quiet of her room, Lyra opened her window and let the breeze in. The sound of distant flutes still drifted in from the square.
She held a small loaf she had made herself earlier—a simple crescent shape, soft and still warm.
She closed her eyes and whispered to it.
Not words. Just feeling.
Gratitude. Wonder. Love.
The loaf pulsed faintly in her palms—like a heartbeat.
She gasped.
And for a second, she remembered.
A hall of golden arches. A thousand voices in unison. A crown of starlight slipping from her brow.
She dropped the loaf.
It fell to the floor with a soft thud.
---
> On the day of the first bread,
The village danced.
A girl carried more than a loaf—
She carried the weight of a forgotten kingdom,
And hands that remembered how to shape stars into sustenance.
The goddess stirred.
Not with thunder.
But with warmth and wheat and wonder.