Sleep didn't arrive for Marron, especially after they broke into the workshop.
She felt like she swallowed a thick choux pastry made of regret and starlight.
Marron heard Mokko's snoring and Lucy's soft body twinkling in the candlelit room. Usually, concentrating on that was enough to soothe her nerves.
But tonight, she was filled with anxious energy.
I guess I should prep tomorrow's dish. There's no way I'd rest easy tonight anyway.
Her body moved through the usual motions—heating the pans, testing the kettle's whistle, prepping prep trays—but everything shimmered with a thin, unfamiliar clarity.
The guild's secret voices still rang in her ears.
"A potential SSS-Grade chef can't be left unchecked."
Mokko wokę up when he heard the clang of pans and the bang of prep trays. He blearily wiped his glasses on his coat and walked out of the bedroom. He watched her from the doorway, eyes tracking her movements with concern.
"Oh, good morning, Mokko." Marron said softly, looking up from cutting the tops off of the ruby berries.
"Mornin'. You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
Mokko sat on one of the stools on the kitchen island and observed her prep work. Every time her hands used a technique she didn't remember learning, his ears flattened.
Later on, Lucy bounced out of bed and settled herself on the kitchen island. She glanced at the bowls that had some dough left over and absorbed the bowl before spitting it out, all clean.
"Thanks, Lucy," Marron said appreciatively, and she burbled with pleasure.
+
Even the townsfolk approached with more caution than usual. Something about Marron had changed, and everyone could sense it.
Still, the day was marked for sweets. It was supposed to be light-hearted, a relief from the heavy emotional dishes of days past.
Marron hadn't planned anything fancy, but now her hands ached to make something that honored what she'd seen in Juno's memory kitchen—without revealing too much.
To be honest, most of Juno's recipes are out of my league right now. I'm just an F-rank chef.
But...I can make a sponge cake. That was one of the desserts aunt Raye taught me.
She reached into the cold box and took out her staples:
1L flour
1L sugar
100g dreambutter
3 large goosefolk eggs
But her hands moved like they remembered more than she did.
Each motion was precise, practiced—folding the batter with a twist of the wrist that felt ancient, whisking in a rhythm that wasn't quite her own. As if someone older, wiser, was gently guiding her movements.
Ruby berries macerated in honey and lime. A whipped cream filling, flecked with thyme. And the cake—golden, soft, and layered like memory itself. Victoria sponge, but lighter than air.
Ding!
[Trait Active: Resonant Layering + Memory Origin Tracing
Passive Effect: Legacy Echo – Inspired Technique Detected (Juno Lineage)]
The smell curled through the market before the cart opened. Like warm kitchens on festival mornings. Like strawberry jam spilled on wooden counters. People slowed their walks. Vendors paused mid-setup.
Someone whispered, "Is that cake?"
They were wary. Everyone still remembered the courier's joy-surge and the widow's tears. But hunger was stronger than fear, and sweet things had a way of bypassing judgment.
The first customer was a child tugging her father's sleeve. "I want that one. The one that smells like a birthday."
Marron served her a slice—just one. The child took a bite, and then another. Her father tensed… but nothing surged. No magic burst. No laughter or tears or collapse.
Just… a small, quiet smile.
"That," the father said cautiously, "was very nice."
Word spread. People began lining up.
+
By midday, the street near Marron's stall smelled like powdered sugar and summer fruit. The guild rep hovered nearby in her usual gray robes, scribbling furiously into her notebook.
But as Marron achieved that perfect balance—sweet without overwhelming, joyful without force—the woman's pen suddenly stopped mid-sentence. She stared at Marron's hands, then at the cake, then scribbled something that looked urgent.
Mielle stopped by around noon, eyes puffy from lack of sleep. She took a forkful of the Victoria sponge and froze.
"You're doing control now?" she asked, but her voice carried an edge of unease.
Marron nodded. "Sweet and quiet. That's all I wanted."
"That's not how you folded batter yesterday." Mielle's light flickered nervously. "Those aren't your hands, Marron. Whose technique are you using?"
The question hit like cold water. Marron looked down at her fingers, still dusted with flour, and for a moment couldn't remember which movements had been hers and which had felt borrowed.
"That workshop," Mielle whispered, leaning closer. "It changed you. I can see it in every layer of this cake."
Marron didn't deny it.
Couldn't.
"Well, she doesn't have to know that."
Mokko handed out tiny cups of warm rose-milk to waiting customers, but his worried glances never left her.
Lucy's pulse flickered a steady peach pink, trying to project calm, but her tendrils stayed wrapped protectively around Marron's wrist.
For the first time in days, the stall felt like hers again. Almost.
+
Ding!
[System Update: Emotional Echo Stability Achieved – Moderate
50 XP gained!
Progress: 3/7 Regulated Dishes Served]
But as she wiped down her counter, heart finally starting to settle, the guild rep approached. The woman's smile was pleasant, professional, and absolutely terrifying.
"Lovely work today," she said, taking a small bite of the Victoria sponge. Her expression shifted subtly—recognition flickering behind her eyes. "Interesting technique. That particular layering method... where did you learn it?"
"I just... felt right," Marron managed.
The guild rep nodded slowly, making another note. "Indeed. Instinct can be quite... illuminating."
As the woman walked away, Marron saw someone standing across the square. A courier—not the same one as before. This one was older, more serious, and he held himself like someone bearing bad news.
He didn't approach. Just waited.
In his hand, a silver-sealed envelope that seemed to pulse with its own inner warmth.
The afternoon crowd began to thin, but the courier remained. Finally, as Marron started packing up her remaining cake, he stepped forward. Nearby customers suddenly found reasons to be elsewhere, as if the silver seal carried its own warning.
"Marron of Whetvale?" His voice was formal, clipped.
She nodded, though her throat felt tight.
He extended the envelope. The moment her fingers touched it, warmth shot up her arm—not pleasant, but demanding. Lucy recoiled with a sharp pulse of alarm.
"The Guild Council requests your immediate presence for early evaluation," the courier said. "Time is... a factor."
Marron's blood turned to ice. Early evaluation?
Did I do something wrong? I thought this trial was supposed to last seven days.
"When?" she whispered.
"Tomorrow at dawn. Kitchen Seven. Come prepared to cook for the full council."
He turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. Bring only what you can carry. No assistants. No companions."
Marron looked at Mokko, at Lucy, at the life she'd been building one careful dish at a time.
"What if I refuse?"
The courier's smile was thin as paper. "The Guild Council doesn't extend invitations, Miss. They issue summons."
He walked away, leaving Marron standing in the empty market square with a silver envelope that felt heavier than it should and the sudden, terrible certainty that tomorrow would change everything.