The village of Aerwyn lay nestled in a quiet valley between the whispering pines of the east and the blue hills that kissed the horizon. It was the kind of place untouched by war or ambition—where bread rose with sunlight, laughter bloomed in the fields, and children ran barefoot between rows of golden wheat.
Among these humble lives, one girl stood out—not because she was loud or striking, but because her presence felt like peace.
Her name was Elira.
She was seventeen that spring, with hair like soft chestnut and eyes the color of early morning skies. She lived in a small cottage on the edge of the village, just past the stone well, and spent her days baking bread for the townsfolk.
Elira was an orphan.
No one remembered where she came from, only that she'd appeared as a toddler during a stormy night, wrapped in silk cloth no villager could afford. The widow Hespera took her in and raised her like her own, teaching her how to knead dough, gather herbs, and live kindly.
And so she did.
Even after Hespera passed, Elira remained in the cottage—quietly making loaves of honey bread and fruit tarts for the village. Children adored her. The old called her a "blessing from the sky."
She never asked for gold.
Never expected praise.
She simply gave.
---
But Elira… dreamed.
Not of riches or escape, but of him.
A boy with raven-black hair and storm-gray eyes. A boy who sat beneath a flowering tree, always out of reach. He never spoke in the dreams—but his gaze, gentle yet sad, always found her.
> "Why do I keep seeing him?" she whispered one morning, clutching her bedsheets.
It was the third time that week.
She had woken with tears in her eyes again, though she didn't know why.
---
That day, after delivering bread to the miller's wife, Elira sat beneath the old apricot tree near the riverbank. The breeze was warm. Bees hummed softly. She pulled out a cloth-wrapped bun and bit into it thoughtfully.
> "Maybe it's just a dream," she said aloud.
But her heart whispered otherwise.
As she gazed into the sky, she felt it again—that strange warmth in her chest. Not love, not exactly. But something like recognition.
> "Like I'm waiting," she murmured. "But I don't know for what."
---
Later that week, a traveling peddler came through Aerwyn, selling mirrors, spices, and tales.
Elira always enjoyed his stories. He claimed to have been to the capital, even glimpsed the royal family.
> "And the youngest prince," the man said, lowering his voice dramatically, "is cursed. Born unable to walk. Hidden from the world like a ghost."
Gasps spread through the villagers.
> "Poor soul," an old woman muttered. "A prince who cannot stand?"
> "That's no prince at all," another said.
But Elira's chest tightened.
> "What's his name?" she asked quietly.
The peddler blinked. "Kael, I believe. Prince Kael of Velmora."
Her bread slipped from her hands.
---
That night, the dream returned.
But it was different.
She stood in a white field, flowers blooming at her feet. And in the distance, he stood—stood—for the first time. He reached out his hand, his voice a whisper on the wind:
> "Elira."
She jolted awake.
The room was dark.
But her heart… blazed.
> "That was real," she breathed. "He said my name."
---
The next morning, she took it as a sign.
She baked her best loaf yet—infused with honey, lemon, and rosemary—and wrapped it in fresh cloth. Then she knelt before the small altar in her cottage, where a faded carving of a goddess stood among candles.
> "Lady of the Sky," she whispered, "if I was born for something… let me find it. If he's real… let me find him."
Outside, the wind stirred the wheat fields.
Above, the clouds shifted slowly toward the east.
---
Elira didn't know why she felt so certain.
But she began to change her routines.
She helped at the healer's hut more often, practiced writing, learned palace etiquette from the priestess who once served a noble family. When asked why, she only smiled.
> "Just preparing. For something."
Even the villagers began to notice a glow in her—a sense of purpose.
> "Maybe she'll marry a merchant," someone guessed.
"Or a nobleman," another laughed. "Wouldn't that be a tale?"
But Elira only thought of him.
She didn't know how or when.
Only that her heart was moving toward something.
And it felt like fate.
---
One afternoon, while walking through the woods to gather berries, Elira came upon an old woman sitting by a tree stump. Her eyes were clouded, her hands gnarled with age.
> "Child," the woman rasped, "come closer."
Elira hesitated but obeyed.
The woman took her hand without asking and smiled.
> "You dream of him, don't you? The broken boy in the tower."
Elira's eyes widened. "How do you know that?"
> "Because I see the threads. And yours… are golden. Tied to his since the day you were born."
> "Who are you?" she whispered.
The woman rose, suddenly younger than before—her eyes glinting like stars.
> "Just a weaver," she said. "The gods watch, child. And soon… they will move."
Then, she vanished.
Elira stood alone among the trees, hand trembling.
> "The gods…"
---
That night, she looked to the stars.
> "I don't know what I am," she whispered, "or who he truly is. But if there's a path… I'll walk it."
In the Celestial Realm, a ripple stirred the sky.
A voice echoed across eternity.
> "She has begun."