Short Story Contest Third Place Winner!

And here we come to it: our final winner for the 2025 Rivers Of Words short story competition.

This competition seems to have flown by so fast. And I am so happy to see how much it has grown since last year. I ended up getting WAY more submissions than I'd expected, and I'm so glad! To each person who joined, I truly had the best time reading your story! Not everyone won, but everyone wrote a lovely story that you should be proud of. Ahh, they were all so good and fun to read!! I honestly had such a hard time deciding the winners. I was in bliss over each one. Congrats, you guys!

And now it's time to announce our last but certainly not least, third place winner!

(I'm not going to make you all scroll this time XD.)

A. H. MACRI!!!

A. H. wrote a creative story that had me hooked the whole time! Nella's kindness touched my heart, and had me bouncing on my toes for more. Plus, I love how the story ended! It was so simple and sweet and I just want to say congrats, A. H! I hope you're proud of this story! <3

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The Unexpected Royal Baker

The wind always whistled strangely through the cracked boards of the paupers’ quarter, as though singing a private song to those who lived humbly within its leaning walls. Nella had learned long ago that if she pretended the wind’s song was meant for her, if she listened closely to the soft whistles that curled around her family’s tiny cottage, the world felt a little gentler.

Nella could still remember the days that were freerer, happier, and less busy. From sun-up to sun-down she and her family were out working just to get enough food for one day. And Nella wanted to change that, but there was no way a pauper like her could.

She paused now, dough-dusted hands hovering over the wooden table as she tilted her head to the sound. The wind carried something else today—distant bells.

Her mother, startled at the noise, looked up from mending a thin winter cloak.

“Royal letters,” she murmured. “They only ring those bells when word comes from the palace.”

Nella wiped her hands on her apron, dry dough caked on her rough hands. Cooking gave her peace in her chaotic world. It brought memories to her when she used to run with her sisters in the fields picking wildflowers with no notion about when the next time they would be able to eat. But that was different now.

Her father stepped in through the warped door, hair silvering early from too many years of work.

“They’re coming down the street.” His voice was low, with a slight hint of worry.

The family stood together as the footsteps approached. At last, a royal courier—dressed in deep blue and gold—stopped before their house. He knocked, sending an echoing chant through the barren house. Then with a flourish the young man opened the scroll.

“In the name of His Royal Highness, King Dan, and the Royal Court of Arend request that all households in the kingdom are hereby invited to witness the Royal Crowning of High Cook. Selected participants from each village may compete for the honor of royal baker for the upcoming Harvest Festival in honor of Fall.”

Nella felt her breath catch. Royal baker? That was a position so esteemed that even the poorest lines of the kingdom spoke of it in reverent whispers. Her mother’s hand rested on her shoulder, firm but warm.

“The village council will choose participants in two days,” the courier continued. “Prepare well, and good fortune smiles upon you.” He bowed, swung his cloak, and vanished up the lane.

Nella’s littlest sister tugged her sleeve, golden wisps of hair framed her thin face. “You’ll enter, won’t you? You’re the best cook in the village!”

Nella felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I—I don’t know that the council would choose me.”

Her father chuckled. “They’d be fools not to.”

She enjoyed cooking, but she had only ever created meals meant to stretch farther than they should; meant to last another day. She had never used fine sugar or expensive spices. Her breads were good because they were born from necessity—not luxury.

Still, hope flickered in her chest like a candle sheltered from the wind.

Could this be her chance to gain money for her family?

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Nella stood outside the council hall, wringing her hands, aware of every fraying thread on her sleeves. Her hair—thick, unruly, forever a cloud of dark curls—refused to stay pinned. A local merchant’s daughter smirked as she passed.

“You? Compete at the palace?” she scoffed. “They’ll think you wandered in looking for scraps.”

Nella lowered her eyes, but she didn’t retreat. Her father always said that courage wasn’t loud—it was steady.And anyways, maybe there was a chance she could do something to help her family.

When the council elder stepped out to announce the selected competitors, Nella let her hope dim to a manageable glow.

“Aveline, daughter of Master Corren,” he read. The merchant girl preened.

“Leora, granddaughter of Chef Ratin.” More applause.

“And… Nella, daughter of Thom and Mira.”

Silence, as though the air itself stuttered. It made Nela’s heart beat faster. Her own village detested her, what would the palace be like? Did she even have a chance?

Then Nella’s sisters cheered wildly, making up for the hush with enthusiastic squeals. Nella smiled despite herself—a soft, warm smile that surprised the council members just enough that several of them smiled back.

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Nella had never imagined a palace could be so vast. She had pictured gold floors and ruby fountains, but the truth was stranger—marble polished to a shine so perfect she could see her patched shoes reflected in the floor, banners of deep emerald threading down from ceilings so high they vanished into a painted sky.

And everywhere, eyes.So many eyes.

Other girls, perfectly dressed, perfectly groomed, with soft white hands that had never scrubbed a floor or kneaded bread for hours on end. They whispered as she walked by.

“Look at her sleeves.”

“Covered in flour stains.”

“Her hands—they’re so rough.”

Nella only smiled. It was not a defensive smile, not a forced one. Simply her natural response to the world. The palace was enormous and overwhelming, yes—but also beautiful, and she refused to let anyone steal that wonder from her.

A trumpet sounded. “All competitors, gather!”

King Dan himself stepped forward. Nella had expected a stiff, aloof royal. Instead she saw a young

man with kind eyes and a smile that reached one corner of his mouth as though he rarely smiled fully but tried.

“Welcome,” he said. “This year, we will judge not only skill, but heart. Each of you will receive a recipe book—an identical one. Follow it carefully. The winner shall prepare the ceremonial cake for the Harvest Festival, a symbol of unity and gratitude.”

Servants handed each girl a cookbook.

Nella opened hers.

The pages were handwritten—uneven letters, small flour smudges, tiny doodles of flowers in the margins. It felt… personal.

But stranger still were the ingredients.

• One cup of kindness shown without expectation.

• Three teaspoons of attentive listening.

• A pinch of courage shared with a weary stranger.

Nella frowned. The other girls muttered.

“What is this?”

“Is this a joke?”

“Is the King testing us with riddles?” Another girl whispered.

King Dan stepped forward. “The Harvest Festival honors not only the bounty of the land, but the labor and love that bring that bounty forth. This recipe is one I wrote myself, based on my travels among the villages.”

The girls stared.

“Your task,” he continued, “is to interpret these ingredients into a real cake. Your creativity, your sincerity, and your understanding of the people of Eshendell will determine your success.”Then he smiled—small, warm. “Begin.”

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The palace kitchens were enormous, filled with copper pots hanging from the ceiling, strings of herbs, jars of spices Nella had only read about. The other girls rushed to claim the finest ingredients, but Nella walked slowly, reading the recipe again.

A measure of love shown in the behavior of those around you.

What did that mean? How did she measure love?

She watched the kitchen bustle. A palace servant struggled to carry a heavy sack of flour, ignored by everyone else. Without thinking, Nella hurried to help him. Together they lifted it onto a counter.

“Thank you,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Most here forget we’re people.”

“I don’t,” Nella replied simply. She was used to being ignored, forgotten.

As she returned to her station, she realized something—the moment felt like it had weight. As though she had just added something to an invisible bowl.

She glanced down at the recipe again.

Kindness shown without expectation.

Her heart warmed.

Perhaps this recipe wasn’t strange after all. Perhaps it was the truest recipe she had ever seen.

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Each day offered a new challenge.

One morning the recipe called for “the warmth of understanding shared between strangers.” Nella found it when she sat beside a girl who had burst into tears after scorching her batter. Instead of competing ruthlessly, Nella taught her a simple trick to lower the flame.

Another entry called for “the patience to hear the unheard.” Nella discovered it when King Dan himself visited the kitchens, quietly checking on each girl. While others bombarded him with praise and poise, Nella simply asked him how he was feeling.

The King blinked, startled. “No one asks that.”

“Well… how are you?” she asked again.

He hesitated. “Tired. The festival preparations weigh heavily. But seeing you all work so earnestly helps.”

Nella smiled her soft smile. “Then I hope today’s work makes your burden a little lighter.”

King Dan looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes.

And the strange cookbook—the one with doodles and flour-smudged corners—seemed to hum with approval.

But not everyone reacted well to Nella’s approach. Whispers swirled around her.

“She’s pretending to be so sweet.”

“No one is that kind. Not naturally.”

“She’s doing it to impress the King.”

Nella tried to ignore them. She had come from a life where bread was earned crumb by crumb—she would not be discouraged now. But she would be lying if she said their words didn’t sting.

One night in the quiet of the dormitory, she sat with her knees drawn to her chest. The moonlight made her feel small, as though even the sky expected too much.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her memory: “Love doesn’t ask to be believed. It simply is.”

So Nella breathed deeply, unclenched her fists, and continued.

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At last, the competition reached its final day. Nella opened the cookbook, only to freeze.

The final line read:

Deliver your cake to one person—any person—within the court, the royal family, or the kingdom's poorest households. This final ingredient reveals the truth of your heart.

But beneath those words something was scribbled, faint and almost illegible—perhaps written in haste.

Nurture joy in someone who needs it most.

Nella looked at her finished cake—a simple creation, not elaborately decorated like the others, but crafted with care. Honey from the palace gardens, spices donated by a kindly merchant after she repaired his spilled basket, warmth earned through genuine connections.

She looked around the palace hall. Dozens of people. Hundreds.

Who needed joy the most?

Her eyes swept over nobles, servants, judges, even King Dan—who watched from the balcony with an expression she couldn’t quite place.

Then she saw the woman sweeping the hallway.

Older. Bent with years of service. No one noticed her—no one even slowed their steps as they passed.

But Nella saw her pause, wincing as she pressed a hand to her back.

Nella carried her cake quietly to the woman.

“I made this,” she said softly. “And I’d be honored if you tried it.”

The woman blinked, startled. “Me? But—child, surely it’s meant for someone grander.”

“You are grand,” Nella said. “You keep the palace standing.”

The woman’s eyes shone as she accepted the slice. When she tasted it, tears gathered beneath her lashes.

“Bless you,” she whispered. “No one has been this kind to me in years.”

In that moment, the wind that always traveled with Nella—the wind that had sung to her since childhood—seemed to swirl through the palace, lifting the scent of her cake into the rafters as though announcing her choice to the world.

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The great hall fell silent as King Dan stepped forward.

“Each competitor has delivered their final ingredient,” he said, voice resonant. “But only one cake captured the spirit of the recipe—both in flavor and in heart.”

Nella stood at the back. She had no illusions. She had chosen a palace sweeper instead of a noble. The judges would surely see it as foolish.

The King lifted a slice of a familiar golden cake. “This,” he said, “is the one.”

Gasps rippled through the hall. The girls turned. Nella stared, stunned.

King Dan met her eyes. “You may be humble, Nella,” he said, stepping down from the dais, “but the greatest leaders—and the greatest bakers—are those who see the invisible.”

He approached until he stood before her.“Your cake,” he continued, “held every ingredient in the recipe. Kindness, courage, humility, and joy. You gave it not to impress or to gain, but to uplift someone who rarely receives even a fraction of what she gives. That choice… reveals your heart.”

A warmth spread through Nella’s chest—not pride, not disbelief, but a deep sense of rightness.

The King bowed his head to her.“Nella, daughter of Thom and Mira, you are the winner.”

Cheers erupted—from her fellow villagers who had gathered at the back, from the servants who had watched her kindness with quiet admiration, from the judges who had tasted the sincerity in her work.

Her sisters rushed forward first, nearly knocking her over with hugs. Her mother wept openly. Her father wiped his eyes with a sleeve he pretended needed cleaning.

And King Dan smiled—not the half-smile he guarded carefully, but a full one, bright and unrestrained.

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Later, when the palace had quieted and the sun dipped behind the western towers, Nella stood in the empty kitchen, hands resting on the wooden table. She felt the weight of her journey settle gently around her—not as a burden, but as a blanket.

King Dan entered, hesitating at the doorway. “I wanted to give something to you,” he said, holding out the strange cookbook.

“But it’s your recipe,” Nella answered.

He shook his head. “It’s ours now. You completed it.”

She ran her fingers over the rough cover, feeling each crease, each scribble. A quiet, fierce joy welled within her—the kind of joy that came not from victory, but from knowing she had remained herself all the way through.

“I’m glad,” she said softly. “I’m glad I could give something back.”

“You did more than that.” His voice warmed. “You reminded this palace of what kindness looks like.”

She met his gaze—and found no judgment there, no pity, only respect.

Perhaps even admiration.

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The kingdom sparkled with fluttering banners and music as Nella presented the ceremonial cake. It was simple, as everything she had ever made was simple—but it shone with a glaze made from honey gifted by villagers and decorated with blossoms from the palace gardens.

As she set the cake before the gathered crowd, the wind curled around her, singing once more.

King Dan stepped beside her and addressed the kingdom. “Today’s cake,” he said, “is a reminder that greatness comes not from birth, nor wealth, nor polish, but from love freely given.”

Nella bowed her head, cheeks warm.

The King continued, “And this year, our Royal Baker—chosen not merely for her skill, but for her heart—is someone who embodies the spirit of Eshendell: humble, kind, and brave.” He turned toward her.“Lady Nella.”

The crowd erupted with applause.

For the first time in her life, the wind’s song sounded like applause, too—soft, proud, and carrying her name.

Now her family wouldn’t need to worry about the next meal or how much money they had. But deep down, Nella knew she would miss the days on the small farm and the quiet peace of her family's little cottage.

But she would visit them because that was her home.