The testing hall was in a different part of the Guild complex than the Grand Arena—smaller, more intimate, but no less intimidating. The entrance was marked with the sa golden crest: spoon crossed with knife.
Marron arrived early, her cart rolling beside her with all her supplies carefully packed. Mokko and Lucy were with her, moral support disguised as companions.
Other candidates were already gathering—five others, making six total for the Dusk Session. They looked nervous, so pacing, others checking and rechecking their ingredient lists.
Marron took a deep breath and tried to center herself.
You’ve done this twice now. You know it works. Just trust yourself.
"Marron!"
She turned at the sound of her na.
Millie was walking toward her, wearing her embroidered apron—the one with stars—and carrying a small bag. Her long white ears were tied back with a ribbon, and her crimson eyes were bright with... was that nervousness?
"Millie?" Marron’s voice ca out confused. "What are you doing here?"
"Sa thing you are." Millie gave her a small, slightly apologetic smile. "Taking the retest."
Marron felt the world tilt slightly. "You... what?"
"I failed my first evaluation two weeks ago," Millie said, her voice quiet enough that the other candidates wouldn’t hear. "Presentation was perfect, obviously. But the judges said my technique needed work. Said the cakes were beautiful but the filling was too sweet, not complex enough."
"But you—you seed so confident. So put-together."
"I’ve had two weeks to process it," Millie said with a slight shrug. "You’ve had three days. Give yourself ti." She paused, then added, "I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. At the market, you seed like you needed a teacher, not another nervous candidate. So I just... didn’t ntion it."
Marron didn’t know what to say. Part of her felt betrayed—Millie had let her think she was so wise, successful street vendor, not soone struggling with the sa challenges. But another part of her understood. Sotis you needed to be strong for soone else, even when you weren’t feeling strong yourself.
"Your soup is going to be amazing," Millie said, her voice warm despite the tension. "I’ve seen how you think about food. How you care. That’s going to show."
"Your cakes will be too," Marron managed. "You fixed the filling, right?"
"I did. Added salt, like I told you. And a touch of vanilla, for depth. It’s better now. More balanced."
They stood there for a mont, two failed candidates about to face the sa judges, the sa test, the sa fear of not being good enough.
"Good luck," Marron said finally.
"You too." Millie’s ears twitched, half-nervous, half-amused. "May the best dish win."
"May both our dishes win," Marron corrected.
Millie’s smile widened. "Even better."
The doors to the testing hall opened.
A Guild official stepped out—a stern-looking woman with a clipboard. "Dusk Session candidates, please enter. You have five minutes to set up your stations before the evaluation begins."
Marron’s heart started pounding.
This was it.
She looked at Mokko, who gave her an encouraging nod. At Lucy, who ford a heart shape in her jar. At Millie, who squeezed her shoulder once before heading toward the door.
You can do this, Marron told herself. You’ve already done it twice. This is just one more ti. One more bowl of soup. One more chance to show them what you’re capable of.
She took a deep breath, gripped her cart’s handle, and walked through the doors.
Ti to prove herself.
The testing hall was nothing like the Grand Arena.
Where the arena had been all spectacle—tiered seating, spotlights, galleries for spectators—this room was intimate and focused. Six cooking stations arranged in a semicircle, each equipped with a proper stove, prep surface, and basic tools. No crowds. No caras. Just the candidates, their food, and the judges.
At the front of the room, a long table sat empty, waiting. That’s where the judges would sit. Where they would taste, evaluate, decide.
Marron wheeled her cart to station three—marked with a small brass placard bearing her na. To her left was a tall orcish man who looked like he could break her in half but was arranging delicate pastries with surprising gentleness. To her right, two stations down, was Millie.
Their eyes t briefly. Millie gave her a small nod—encouragent and competition braided together.
The Guild official—the stern woman with the clipboard—stood at the center of the room. "Candidates, you have five minutes to unpack and organize your stations. Do not begin cooking until instructed. The evaluation will proceed as follows: one hour to prepare your dish, fifteen minutes for plating and presentation, then the judges will evaluate each dish individually. Questions?"
No one spoke for a mont, and then one of the applicants raised her hand. Marron turned and saw a tall woman whose hair was made of vines. "What’s the the?"
The woman looked up from her clipboard. "Ah, yes. I was so eager to tell you about the rules, I almost forgot. The the is: Beautifully warm and comforting. Any more questions?"
There was a low murmur as the five other applicants repeated the word, like they could taste it. But no one raised their hand.
"Good. Your five minutes begins now."
Marron’s hands moved on autopilot, unpacking her supplies with practiced efficiency. Onions in a basket. Butter, wine, stock base, cheese. Her enchanted knife in its sheath. The toasted bread rounds she’d prepared earlier, wrapped carefully to stay fresh. The bunch of fresh thy. And Millie’s cream-colored bowl, borrowed and precious.
She arranged everything within reach, visualizing the workflow. Onions first, then stock preparation, then the long wait while everything caralized and simred. She’d done this twice now. She knew the timing. She just had to trust herself.
Around her, the other candidates were setting up their own stations. She caught glimpses: a beastkin woman with fox features arranging whole fish on ice; a young human man with nervous hands laying out ingredients for what looked like a complex sauce; Millie, unpacking her moon cake supplies with calm, practiced movents.
"Ti," the official called. "Stations are now closed. Candidates, you may begin cooking. One hour starts... now."
Marron didn’t hesitate.
She grabbed her first onion and began to slice.
Reviews
All reviews (0)