My name is Benethasia “Benson” Plad, and though I now live a quiet life running my late father’s bakery, I have not always been a baker. I am thirty-seven years old, a woman of Lindor, and—plainly enough—human. I rise before dawn to knead dough, to dust flour across the wooden counters, and to breathe in the sweet warmth of ovens. Yet when travelers come through Melrose, when strangers pass me by with quick glances and hushed whispers, they do not speak of the bread.

  They call me by many titles. Mother. Wife. Friend. Diplomat. Commander. And, though I try to hold it lightly, the greatest adventurer this world has ever known. I did not seek these names. They were given to me—by family, by companions, even by enemies who cursed my victories. I treasure them not because of what they mean, but because of who gave them.

  This, then, is the story of how a little girl became something far larger than herself. Of how innocence vanished, and how a world demanded far more of me than I could ever have imagined

  I was born in Rencrest, a world whose name is older than men. Some say it comes from Rin’Carest, an ancient draconic tongue meaning the “to be uncertain”. Over centuries the word bent and broke into the softer Rencrest. Scholars now call it the world yet to be determined. A fitting name for Rencrest has always been uncertain. When I was young, its vastness terrified me; only later did I learn how small it could feel in the palm of fate.

  Rencrest’s story is bound to the Avatar War—the greatest conflict of our time. Scholars bicker about it still, but it began with the strangest of gods: Inos, the Unworshippable. He was the first and only god, and though he blessed mortals freely, not a single prayer ever reached him. No shrines were raised, no temples bore his likeness.

  Yet Inos did not punish us. Instead, he gifted fragments of his own burden to mortal hands, and so the Ten Gods of Rencrest were born. For centuries they reigned, but their rule grew restless. In time, they discovered how to pass their divinity into chosen mortals, creating Avatars: beings who walked in two minds—half god, half mortal. Predictably, it was the god who steered the vessel.

  Inos warned them to stop. They ignored him. Their arrogance drove them to bloodshed, and their quarrel shattered the land that is now called the Sanctum Fields. Inos’ wrath was terrible. The Ten were cast back into the divine realm, their names and histories erased from mortal memory. Only Thim, god of Truth, was spared, for he had spoken honestly of their sins. Through him, the tale endured.

  Life went on. Prayers were still answered. The savage tribes no longer bent to their cruel gods, and ordinary people learned that the sun still rose without names to worship. Rencrest endured, as it always does. But I always felt the story was incomplete, as though entire chapters of truth had been torn away. Teachers said it was only a metaphor—to never take life for granted. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps not.

  Of Rencrest’s many continents, mine is Lindor, split into three lands. The Fjordlands lie in the north, a harsh realm of tribes, beasts, and endless snow. The Monsoons stretch across the south, lush with jungles and storm-washed coasts. And between them lies Middle Lindor—my home.

  Unlike its neighbors, Middle Lindor has no kings, no barbaric warlords. The old monarchs abandoned their thrones, replacing them with dukes who rule from what are called “democratic thrones.” Imperfect though it may be, it has kept peace longer than crowns ever did.

  In Middle Lindor stands Melrose, a city named for the amber-colored flowers that grow along its riverbanks. Not the capital, but the heart. Caravans, farmers, scholars, and wanderers all find their way to its plazas. The Addison family may bear the title of dukes, but everyone knows the true shepherd of Melrose is Father Bruno Tilden—the eccentric head of its clergy, once a warrior from a war-torn land. Brilliant, terrifying, and endlessly kind, he would one day become my mentor. It is with him that my true story begins.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I was ten years old the morning my life began to change. I woke to the smell of maple drifting from the bakery below—my father’s latest experiment, though he hardly needed to prove himself. He was already the most celebrated baker in Lindor, perhaps in all of Rencrest, yet curiosity kept his hands restless.

  The window beside my bed was cracked open, letting in a cool breeze. As I rubbed sleep from my eyes, I noticed the mark again. A brand, raw and red, carved into my right hand: a great T with a smaller t beneath it. I had scrubbed it until my skin ached, but it never faded. I thought I would be scolded for playing rough, for dirt beneath my nails, for tomboyish habits my mother disliked. But my parents’ faces betrayed them. They told me it would vanish. They told me not to worry. Their voices said otherwise.

  That night, for the first time, I would sleep away from home—in the church of Bruno Tilden. My parents told me the mark would fade there, that Grandpa Prosic would watch over me. I didn’t yet understand. Innocence never lasts long in Rencrest.

  “Benethasia!” my mother’s voice rose from the kitchen below, pulling me from my thoughts. “Breakfast is ready!”

  “Coming!” I called back, rolling out of bed. My bare feet touched the wooden floorboards, the smell of maple thick in the air.

  I bounded down the stairs, catching myself on the rail before I stumbled. My father was already deep in his morning alchemy, hovering over five simmering pots as though they were arcane cauldrons. He muttered to himself, weighing the merits of each ingredient, his mind caught in a dance of numbers and flavor, like a mathematician solving equations only his tongue could confirm. The air was thick with the scent of syrup drawn from the Rutger Forests—amber, sweet, and alive with possibilities.

  My father was a tall, lanky man, all elbows and angles, with reddish-brown hair, sharp green eyes, and a handlebar mustache that curled like a mischievous grin. His chef’s hat sagged to the back in a floppy, ridiculous fashion, and his smock was so caked in flour, sugar, and batter that one could almost peel off a cookie from it whole.

  I smiled at the sight, nearly tripping on the last stair in my eagerness. My mother’s gaze caught me before I could play it off.

  “Benethasia, you must be careful,” she chided, her voice firm but gentle. She moved toward the table with her usual quiet grace, setting down my breakfast.

  My mother was beautiful in a way that seemed carved from glass and sunlight—slim, sharp-featured, her jet-black hair cropped short and perfectly kept. Her hazel-green eyes held both fire and softness, though today they seemed brighter, sharper, as though holding something back. She wore a simple blue dress and a flour-dusted smock like my father’s, though hers bore only modest stains—she was too neat to let chaos cling to her.

  “I will,” I promised, skipping across the room to hug my father’s leg. It had become my ritual; true embraces often meant I had to change clothes afterward, his smock smearing half the pantry onto me.

  But this time he surprised me. He untied the smock and tossed it aside before crouching to my level, catching me in his arms as I ran to him.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” he whispered, holding me tightly. His embrace lingered longer than usual—stronger, almost desperate. I pulled back, puzzled by the tension I felt in him, though I was too young to name it. Only much later would I understand the weight he carried that morning.

  “Benethasia,” my mother’s voice called from behind me. “Did you see what’s on the table?”

  I turned—and my eyes grew wide. Waiting for me were raspberry and sweet-cream crepes, stacked delicately on my plate, beside a small cup just my size. My favorite meal. My feet carried me to the chair before my mind caught up.

  “Enjoy,” my mother said softly, her voice cracking as though the word itself was fragile.

  I devoured the crepes with the reckless joy of a child. I skipped the drink at first, too enraptured by the treat. But the cup held another of my beloved comforts: birch-bark tea with milk and honey, perfected one summer when I had spent a whole morning at my father’s side, testing and tasting until the balance was right. That tiny cup had been made just for me.

  The room grew quiet as I ate. Too quiet. When I finally looked up, I saw my mother buried in my father’s chest, her shoulders trembling though no sound escaped. My brow furrowed with confusion, worry creeping at the edges of my joy. I slipped off my chair and approached, but my presence broke their embrace.

  My mother turned away, quickly climbing the stairs. “Just going to freshen up before we go out,” she murmured, vanishing into her room.

  I wanted to follow her, but my father bent down to me again, his smile stretched tight, his eyes glistening. “We’re going out to the shops today,” he said, voice breaking with forced cheer. “Just because. Maybe we’ll find you a gift.”

  “Really?” I beamed.

  “Of course,” he replied, his words trembling. “We can invite Sandra Lynn if you’d like?”

  My excitement overcame me. I hopped about the room, twirling, already imagining the treasures the day might hold. My father smiled at my joy, though I did not notice the sheen in his eyes, or how he bit down on his voice to steady it.

  “Well then… go get ready,” he said. “The moment I put these things away, we’ll leave.”

  “Okay!” I shouted, scampering upstairs to change into a fresh dress.

  What I did not see was my mother, alone in her locked room, sitting at the edge of her bed with her head buried in her hands, summoning every ounce of willpower to smother her sobs so I would not hear.

  What I did not see was my father standing at the sink, holding the tiny cup he had crafted for me. His tears fell into it as though it were a basin, and he

  clenched his jaw in anger at himself, furious that he could not stop them.