Marron stirred the onions—deeper golden now, almost caramel-colored. The copper pot held its perfect temperature, never spiking, never cooling. Just steady, patient heat. "Then I'll register a second establishment under my name. Or we'll find another solution. But Arrow, I promise you—I'm not letting the Merchant's Guild take your cart."
The owl-kin was quiet for a long moment, just watching the onions transform. "Thank you," she said finally, so softly Marron almost missed it.
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you're still selling bread in two weeks."
The onions reached the perfect stage—deep golden-brown, sweet and complex, their original sharpness completely transformed. Marron added a splash of wine (Arrow had a cooking bottle tucked in the back of her cabinet), let it reduce, then poured in the beef broth.
"Now we wait again," Marron said. "Twenty minutes for the soup to simmer and develop flavor. While that happens, we prep the bread."
