The village of Kavan was small, peaceful, and full of life. It sat on the side of a tall mountain, with tiny houses made of stone and wood, and paths that twisted like old stories. Clouds dipped low enough to touch the rooftops, and the wind carried the smell of firewood and fresh bread.
The people here lived close to the land and closer to each other—baking bread, growing vegetables, raising goats and chickens, weaving baskets, and sharing everything with their neighbors and friends. The people of this village were known as Kavanians, meaning the ones living in Kavan.
The Kavanians believed the mountain watched over them, and to thank the mountain, they held a Ritual of Thanks once a year. On this day, all the people of the village gathered around the well, located at the heart of Kavan. They would offer gifts—jars of honey, handmade toys, flowers, fruits, and fresh cakes—along with their wishes for good health, good weather, and a bountiful year ahead.
The Ritual of Thanks was a day of music, laughter, and offerings to the unseen protectors of the mountain. Flowers were strung across windows, houses were decorated with lanterns, and children wore new clothes. The men and women dressed up in their best, visited the well, made their offerings, and whispered their wishes for the well-being of their families.
And today was the most awaited day of the year—the Ritual of Thanks. The whole village was buzzing with excitement. Children ran barefoot through the lanes, their laughter ringing like bells. Some had ribbons in their hair—bright reds and blues, streaming behind them as they dashed past. Everyone was busy with preparations—hanging bells, carrying trays, repainting little clay pots. It was the kind of day where even the sky looked more blue, like it knew it had to show up for the celebration.
And in the middle of all that happy chaos, there was a modest little bakery with smoke curling from the chimney. It was Kavan's only bakery, and inside, things were anything but peaceful.
"Mix it properly, Seven! You can't impress the spirits with a lumpy cake!"
The voice cracked like a whip through the soft bustle of the bakery, and inside, it felt more like a storm than serenity.
Seven, elbow-deep in cake mix, blinked like a startled deer. "I'm mixing! I'm mixing! It's just... being dramatic today."
The kitchen looked like it had been caught in a flour storm. The long wooden counter was covered in sugar dust, sticky bowls, and eggshells that refused to stay in the bin. A tray of slightly overbaked cookies sat forgotten near the window. The bakery—part of her family's home—was larger than most kitchens in Kavan. Copper pans dangled from hooks, racks held dozens of cake tins, and an old clay oven, as wide as a cow, radiated heat like a small sun.
Seven stood at the center of it all, looking more like a painting smudged by careless hands than a baker. Holding a large bowl filled with cake batter, her dark eyes blinked down at the half-mixed mess. Flour covered her hands, and a streak of batter marked her cheek. Her dress—a light blue one with tiny white flowers—was stained at the waist and hem. Her brown hair, tied in a bun, had already started to escape, falling over her face in unruly curls.
"Your cake looks like it's trying to escape the bowl," her mother said, narrowing her eyes. "Why is it frothing?"
Seven peered into the bowl. "Because it's excited to meet the well spirits?"
Lira—short, sharp, and the undefeated baking queen of Kavan—rolled her eyes so hard you could almost hear them. She was on a mission. Ritual day meant precision. Clean corners. Even frosting. And no burnt bottoms. The gods, she insisted, were very opinionated about burnt bottoms.
"I swear, the only thing that saves you is your stubborn charm and the fact that people like you. If this cake sinks, I'm sending you down the well instead."
Seven grinned. "Can't promise I'd come back up."
She kept mixing, trying to smooth out the lumps in the batter. In her hurry, she knocked over a small tin of wooden sticks used for keeping cakes steady. They clattered across the counter. She grabbed one toothpick, stuck it through the center of the cake to keep it from sinking, and one broken piece landed inside the batter, unnoticed.
Seven slid the pan into the oven.
She meant to take out the toothpick before offering it at the well.
But she forgot.
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