Chapter 1 — The Dream of Three Fates

1
I woke up screaming again.
Not because of monsters.
Because Mum smacked me with a pillow.

“If you’re going to shout at dawn, shout while kneading dough!”

My heart was still racing. The dream clung to me like a wet cloak— a chained girl crying in the dark, an elven city burning, and a woman standing alone in the rain, turning toward me with eyes I couldn’t forget. Three women. Two disasters… and one rain-soaked mystery. Destiny had bad taste.

A faint echo pulsed somewhere beneath my ribs—almost like memory, almost like warning. I exhaled until it faded.

“Up!” Mum barked. “You’re late for deliveries, and I’m late for pretending the oven isn’t on fire again!”

“Morning to you too,” I muttered, dragging myself out of bed. My arms still tingled, as if I’d been holding something back in my sleep. Downstairs smelled like heaven’s bakery and financial ruin.

2
Hearth & Crumb. Our family shop—famous for perfect bread, criminally good cakes, and the complete absence of profit.

Mum baked. Dad delivered. Hana handled “quality control,” meaning she ate anything that didn’t fight back. I handled everything else—mostly earning enough coin to buy more flour for the food Hana heroically “tested.”

Our food was legendary. Honey buns gave a tiny magic boost, meat pies raised attack, rolls hardened your skin like cheap armour for ten minutes. The guild called them “budget potions.” We called them “breakfast.”

Problem was, Mum never charged anyone crying, Dad forgot prices, and Hana ate the evidence. The business model relied mainly on “optimism.”

Mum slid a plate in front of me—fresh bread, butter sliding down its side, scent powerful enough to raise spirits and the dead.

“Eat,” she ordered. “Then work. No heroics.”

“I prefer pay over glory,” I said, taking a bite. My whole body sighed. “Wow. You could conquer kingdoms with this bread.”

“I’d rather feed them.” She smiled, briefly. “Now—what was that scream about?”

“Just a dream.”

Dad lowered his newspaper. “True one?”

“Could be. Chains, fire, rain. You know—my usual relaxing variety pack.”

A second heartbeat thumped once when I mentioned chains, then again at fire, but softened at rain. Those dreams always tug in threes. Faces. Fates. Places. Warnings without instructions.

Hana leaned in. “Were they pretty?”

“I didn’t stop to check. One was crying, one was on fire, and one was soaked. That’s three categories of danger, not a dating pool.”

Mum crossed her arms. “If it was one of your proper dreams, you’ll be careful. Right?”

“I always am.”

“You weren’t careful when you tried to tame that chicken.”

“That chicken attacked first.”

“It was three months old!”

Dad sipped his tea. “To be fair, it won.”

Hana grinned. “You should marry it. At least someone would cook for you.”

“Why don’t you get married?” I shot back.

“I’m still deciding which of your future wives I’ll bully most,” she said sweetly.

Mum flicked her with a towel. “No fighting at the table! It curdles the jam.”

We ate in noisy warmth—the kind of breakfast that tasted like family, love, and mild chaos. And under the laughter, a quiet truth settled in my chest.

If those dreams were real, someone out there already needed help. You don’t wait for fate to knock. You get moving.

3
After breakfast, I geared up: plain leathers, short blade, reliable boots, worn cloak. Mum, naturally, sabotaged my pack by filling it with extra food.

“Bread, jerky, cakes,” she said. “And this one’s for anyone who looks hungry.”

“You’re giving away my lunch again.”

“They’ll pay it forward.”

“They won’t.”

Dad entered carrying a crate. “Deliver this to the guild. They’re out of sweet rolls again.”

“Because they hoard for ‘strategic morale.’”

“Best buff there is,” he nodded. “Sugary morale.”

Hana popped up with a pouch. “Good-luck charm.”

Cinnamon crumbs. “It’s symbolic,” she insisted.

“Of what? My finances?”

Mum hugged me, tight and warm. “Don’t take dangerous quests.”

“I never do.”
A small lie. If danger found me, I’d choose to face it.

“Good. And if you meet someone nice—”

“—I’ll tell them to visit the bakery,” I cut in quickly.

Dad clapped my shoulder. “If it glows, don’t touch it.”

Sound advice, given my history with glowing objects.

I stepped outside into morning sunlight, the scent of rising dough following me like a promise I refused to break.

4
The guild hall loomed like a box full of noise and questionable life choices. Inside, adventurers argued, compared bruises, swapped bad quest advice, and almost never filled out paperwork correctly.

Marin, the receptionist, spotted me and sighed like she aged ten years. “Eron. Back again? Didn’t you promise to rest a week?”

“I did. Then Mum promised to bake rent.”

She pinched her nose. “Fine. What flavour of mediocrity today?”

“I’ll stack a few small errands. Herbs near the ridge, roots by the creek, rabbit cull near the next village.”
North paths. If flames would rise anywhere, rumours would start there.

“That’ll take a few days,” she said.

“Perfect. Fewer witnesses if something goes wrong.”

She flipped her ledger. “Bring the slips back. Try not to die.”

“I’ll do my best. No refunds if I don’t.”

She handed me the papers. “Also, your mum dropped off free muffins.”

I groaned. “Of course she did.”

“They were incredible,” Marin said. “Half the guild is glowing.”

“That’ll wear off. Just don’t cast spells while sugar-drunk.”

She hesitated—tone dropping into sincerity. “If those dreams feel real again… don’t shoulder them alone.”

“I won’t.”
I will. Because if help arrives late, people burn. I can’t let that happen.

I headed out to the chorus of dice and bragging, and one man yelling that a dagger counted as a spoon.

5
The road out of town stretched beneath a sky that couldn’t decide on weather. Pack clinking with jars and bread, quest slips tucked inside. A few days of gathering herbs, culling pests, and listening for trouble—that was the plan.

Travellers passed me muttering about monster sightings. The Demon King’s army crept closer—not enough to cause panic, just enough to thicken worry.

We weren’t starving, but Hearth & Crumb was living on prayers and frosting. I could carry that burden. I’d chosen to.

I crouched by a feverroot patch and cut clean stems. Safe, simple, quiet work—just enough coin to keep our ovens warm.

Rustle. A horned rabbit appeared, stared, and decided I was edible.

“You don’t want to do that,” I warned.

It charged. I sidestepped and tapped it with the flat of my blade. It scampered off without dignity. I collected two abandoned cull tokens. Poor rabbits. Poorer adventurers.

Clouds thickened. Thunder mumbled far away. I finished bundling herbs and hummed Mum’s lying song about “bread that never burns.”

Something tugged faintly at my sternum again—directionless but insistent. Like fate clearing its throat. I kept walking.

“Great,” I told the wind. “Rain. My favourite atmospheric omen.”

First drop on my cheek. Hood up. The creek valley ahead would have shelter if the skies threw a tantrum.

Lightning flashed. The scent of rain deepened. I tightened my cloak.

Three women, three headaches, zero backup.

“If one of you shows up tonight,” I muttered to the sky, “I’m pretending not to notice.”

Thunder answered.

Typical.

And that’s how my quiet, responsible, completely safe work trip began—and how, without realising it, I walked straight toward the first of those three fates.

A storm.
A cave.
And a woman who would change everything.