Chapter 135: Dawn of the Final Day
That evening, after the sun had set and the city’s neon glow painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, Marron sat at the small kitchen table with Mokko and Lucy.
"So," Mokko said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "What’s the plan for tomorrow?"
"Rest," Marron said, surprising herself with the word. "The test is at dusk. If I start cooking too early, I’ll be exhausted by the time it matters."
"That’s... surprisingly wise of you."
Marron shot him a look. "I can be wise."
"I know, I know. It’s just usually you’re the ’work yourself into the ground’ type."
"Well." She glanced at her mother’s notebook, still sitting on the table. "Maybe I’m learning. Millie said patience matters. That includes being patient with myself."
Lucy bubbled approvingly. "Smart!"
"I’ll sleep in," Marron continued, thinking out loud. "Have a proper breakfast. Maybe take a walk to clear my head. Then start cooking around midday—that’ll give me plenty of time to make the soup, let it rest, practice the plating once more before I have to leave for the Guild."
"And if you mess up the practice?"
"I won’t." The certainty in her voice surprised even her. "I know this soup. I know what I’m doing now. I just need to trust myself."
Mokko smiled. "There’s the Marron I know."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the city lights through the window. Somewhere out there, the Guild tower rose into the sky, pristine and perfect. And somewhere below, the street market hummed with life and laughter and food made with love.
Marron had spent so long thinking those two worlds were opposed—that you had to choose between substance and beauty, between authenticity and presentation, between being true and being lovely.
But Millie had shown her something different. Something better.
You didn’t choose. You braided them together.
"I’m going to pass," Marron said suddenly, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. "The retest. I’m going to pass."
Mokko grinned. "Damn right you are."
Lucy formed a little star shape in her jar, glowing softly in the dim light.
Marron felt something warm bloom in her chest—not quite confidence, but close. Hope, maybe. Or determination. Or the quiet, steady belief that she was finally on the right path.
She’d spent so long running on empty, doing the bare minimum, protecting herself from disappointment by not caring too much.
But caring didn’t make you weak.
Caring made the work matter.
And tomorrow—tomorrow evening—she would show the Guild exactly what that looked like.
Marron woke to sunlight streaming through the enchanted curtains, which had shifted to a soft golden hue. For the first time in days, she’d slept through the night without waking up anxious, her mind churning through recipes and presentations and what-ifs.
She felt... rested. Ready.
Breakfast was simple—leftover bread from yesterday, toasted with butter and honey, a pot of tea that Mokko had somehow figured out how to make in the fancy Lumerian kitchen. They ate on the deck, watching the city wake up below them.
"Nervous?" Mokko asked.
"Yes," Marron admitted. "But in a good way. Like... I’m nervous because I care. Not because I’m scared."
"That’s growth right there."
Lucy bubbled happily, forming little encouraging shapes in her jar—hearts, stars, a tiny thumbs-up.
After breakfast, Marron took a walk through the mid-ring market, not to buy anything, just to move. To think. To let her mind settle. The market was busy with morning shoppers, vendors calling out their wares, the smell of fresh bread and spices mixing with the ever-present hint of magic in the air.
She thought about her mother. About the diner in Whetvale, about those early mornings when she’d watched her mother work, learning through observation and osmosis. Her mother had never been fancy—she’d never worried about presentation or beauty or impressing anyone.
But she’d always cared.
Every plate that left her kitchen was made with intention. With love. Even if it was just eggs and toast, it was good eggs and toast. It mattered.
I learned that from you, Marron thought. I just forgot it for a while.
By midday, she was moved out of her own kitchen and went into the inn’s larger one, ready to work.
+
This time, she worked with quiet confidence.
The onions sliced thin and even, her knife humming its familiar song. Into the pan with butter, low heat, patience. She set her timer and stirred every ten minutes, watching the transformation from white to gold to amber.
While they cooked, she prepared the stock—rehydrating her broth base, adding thyme and bay leaf, letting it simmer gently. The kitchen filled with warmth and the rich scent of caramelizing onions.
She toasted the bread. Grated the cheese. Set everything in place, organized and ready.
Two hours passed. Then two and a half.
The onions darkened beautifully, their edges browning just right. She increased the heat slightly for the final push, stirring constantly, watching the line between perfect and burned with experienced eyes.
Deglaze with wine—hiss and steam and scraping up all that fond. Add the stock. Simmer for thirty minutes.
Done.
Four hours, almost exactly. Within the evaluation window.
Now, the presentation.
She worked more slowly this time, deliberately. Millie’s cream-colored bowl on the counter. Ladle the soup—three-quarters full, letting the onions settle naturally. Place the toasted bread round on top, centered. Grate the aged Gruyere over it, generous but not excessive.
Under the broiler. Watch the cheese melt, bubble, brown. Golden spots spreading, edges caramelizing to deep amber.
Out. Fresh thyme sprig tucked into the cheese at the rim, just so.
Steam rising. Aroma concentrated by the bowl’s tapered shape.
Beautiful.
Marron stepped back and studied it critically.
The presentation was good—better than good. The bowl choice was right, highlighting the soup’s depth. The bread was visible beneath the golden cheese, showing the layers. The thyme sprig added that necessary pop of color, hinting at the herbaceous notes within.
But was it Lumerian enough?
She thought about the street market—about humble beauty, honest presentation. About Millie’s philosophy: beauty should reveal truth, not hide it.
This soup revealed truth. It showed patience in every layer, care in every detail. It looked exactly like what it was: four hours of work, generations of knowledge, love translated into food.
"It’s ready," she said softly.
Mokko looked up from where he’d been reading. "How does it feel?"
"Right," Marron said. "It feels right."
She tasted a spoonful—perfect, as expected. Rich and complex and warming. Exactly as it should be.
"Okay." She set down the spoon and looked at the clock rune on the wall. Three hours until she needed to leave for the Guild. "I’m ready."