Aethelgard was a kingdom of legends, its stones steeped in old magic and older expectations. Here, prophecy held the weight of law, and the people believed in heroes—men shaped by battle, fated to rise when the dark returned. And so they looked to me.

Godric Ironvale. Knight Commander. Defender of the Northern Marches. I had spent my life in service to crown and kingdom, steel in hand and oath in heart. I had the scars, the victories, the reverence. I was the prophecy. Or so I believed.

When the Royal Summons arrived, I rode without hesitation to the Court. King Theron, aged beyond his years, greeted me not with pride but with solemn gravity. "It is time," he said, and the ceremony was prepared. Court mages chanted. Ancient relics were brought forth—one in particular, the Eye of Veritas, pulsing with hidden truth. I stood before it, clad in armor that had tasted dragonfire and war.

I was ready.

But the Eye did not answer me.

Instead, the chamber darkened. The air rippled with power. A vision bloomed—hazy at first, then sharpening into the unmistakable image of a woman. Hands dusted in flour. A sunlit hearth behind her. A baker. A baker.

Murmurs rose. Confusion followed. The Chosen One... a commoner? She wasn't even present. The mages were adamant: the magic never erred.

King Theron gave the command. "Find her. Protect her. The darkness stirs."

Which led me here. To Oakhaven. A noisy, salt-bitten port city teeming with fishmongers, gulls, and chaos. But none so chaotic as Buttercup's Hearth.

I pushed open the bakery door and was assaulted by sound and scent—sizzling pans, laughing customers, clattering trays. At the center of it all stood the woman from the vision.

She was scolding an apprentice over pastry folds, completely unaware of the weight of fate balanced on her shoulders.

I crossed my arms, gaze narrowing. This cannot be right.

"You are to come with me at once," I said, voice like a blade unsheathed.

The bakery hushed. Customers froze. And still, she sprinkled cinnamon—utterly unbothered.