The next morning, when Seven stepped into her room, the letter she had left for Rukas was gone.
But her heart sank—there was no new letter in its place.
She blinked, stared at the empty windowsill, and quickly glanced around, half-expecting the wind to have swept it away. But the rosemary pot hadn't moved, and nothing fluttered across the floor. There was no sign of parchment, no lingering scent of ink.
With a soft sigh, she leaned her elbows on the windowsill, her chin resting on her hand. She didn't know what she had expected—a sign, a response.
Instead, there was only the sound of morning birds and the distant bark of a dog. Disappointed, but refusing to linger on it too long, she tied her apron and went down to the bakery.
The ovens were already warm. She baked a fresh batch of cookies and cakes, humming quietly to herself, trying to keep her mind from drifting back to the letters. The day passed in errands and deliveries—vanilla buns to the tailor's shop, spice cookies to the chapel, lemon cake to the innkeeper's youngest daughter.
By the time the afternoon sun hung low over the hills, she returned home, her hands slightly floury and her arms sore from carrying boxes.
"Seven!" her mother called from the kitchen. "Someone placed a large order—ten of your Ritual cakes. They need them by this evening!"
"Ten?" Seven echoed, blinking. "Who ordered them?"
"An old woman came in with a young man," her mother explained while wiping her hands. "It's the woman's birthday, apparently. She said she wanted that cake—the one you made for the last Ritual. She kept asking about the ingredients, the flavor, the texture... I think you'll know what she meant."
Seven smiled faintly and nodded. "I do."
Without delay, she got to work, her fingers moving with familiarity and rhythm. Mixing bowls clinked, sugar and cinnamon danced into the batter, and the scent of baked joy slowly filled the house.
By the time evening arrived, the kitchen was a soft chaos of cooling racks, cream swirls, and boxed delights. Seven had just finished packing the last cake when the bell above the door chimed.
She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door.
Standing there was a regal woman, her silver hair coiled in soft waves, draped in richly woven fabrics that shimmered slightly under the evening light. Beside her stood a young man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a clean-cut jaw and eyes the color of storm clouds.
The woman's smile was kind but knowing.
"Good evening," Seven greeted warmly, stepping aside to let them in. "You must be here for the order."
"Indeed," the woman replied, her voice melodic. "It smells like a celebration in here."
Seven's mother joined them, welcoming the guests with her usual grace. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Bramlow, and the young man beside her was her grandson, Nalson. As Seven boxed the cakes one by one, the older woman watched her work with a sort of quiet admiration.
"You've got hands that make magic," she said thoughtfully.
Seven chuckled, "That's the best compliment I've heard all day."
Once the cakes were stacked safely into the carriage with Nalson's help, Mrs. Bramlow turned back toward them.
"There's a small gathering tonight," she said, "at the inn near the well. I'd be honored if you both would join us. Consider it a thank-you."
Seven opened her mouth to decline politely, but her mother gently elbowed her.
"Oh, come on," Lira said. "We haven't been to a celebration in ages."
With a small laugh, Seven agreed.
That evening, the inn was a warm blur of golden lights, music, and murmuring voices. Lanterns dangled from beams, and flower garlands wound around the posts. The birthday hall buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glasses.
Seven wore a soft emerald-green dress, simple but elegant. It brought out the gentle curves of her frame and made her eyes shimmer like moonlit moss. She looked… almost otherworldly.
Mrs. Bramlow welcomed them graciously, taking a moment to hold Seven's hands in hers.
"Thank you, truly," she said. "The cakes are more than just food. They're a memory I wanted to relive."
Seven smiled gently, touched by the woman's sentiment.
After some time, as the celebration carried on and the music swelled around her, Seven felt a strange tightness in her chest. The air felt a bit too heavy, the lights too bright.
Slipping out quietly, she walked toward the old well just beyond the inn, letting the cool air wrap around her like a shawl.
She stood there in silence, the distant sound of laughter washing over her.
"Didn't like the party?"
The voice came from behind—low, refined, laced with a slight hush. She turned.
There he was.
A man, standing casually beneath the lantern glow, his posture easy, but his presence commanding. His eyes were deep and unreadable, the kind that could both burn and freeze. He was handsome in a way that made time hesitate—a face that didn't belong in a crowd.
Seven stared at him.
Too long.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Do I have something on my face? Or do I just look suspicious?"
She blinked, caught herself, and fumbled. "Oh, no, I was just—umm…" She cleared her throat, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. "You are…"
"Handsome?" he finished for her, a teasing glint in his eye.
Her mouth parted, but she had no reply. She could only stare again.
He laughed, soft and smooth. "I know you didn't mean to say that. My apologies for causing such… distractions."
He stepped forward, extending a hand like a gentleman from another era.
"My name is Rukas. Rukas Carlov."
And just like that, the sender of those mysterious letters, the name she'd whispered at her window, now stood in front of her—in flesh, in voice, in breath.
Real.
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