Two days before the eting, she was working in her apartnt kitchen—practicing the Hearthstone Loaf that Henrik had taught her, trying to morize the proportions and techniques—when Millie stopped by unexpectedly.
"You’re stress-baking," the rabbitkin observed, leaning against the doorfra. "That’s new. Usually you stress-cook soup."
"Henrik wants to make this from mory before I resu regular classes," Marron said, kneading the dense, sticky dough. "It’s struggle al bread. Maximizes nutrition from cheap ingredients."
"Looks heavy."
"It is. That’s the point." Marron shaped the dough into a rough loaf. "One slice fills you up for hours. It’s designed for people who need maximum sustenance from minimum resources."
Millie watched her work for a mont, then said quietly, "You’re worried about sothing. I can tell."
"Edmund Erwell invited to lunch," Marron admitted. "Two days from now. He wants to ’discuss’ my equipnt and thods."
"The professor who’s been following you around?"
"Yeah." Marron put the loaf in the oven, set the tir. "I think he suspects about the tools. Or knows. Or is very close to figuring it out."
"Are you going to et him?"
"I think I have to." Marron washed her hands, trying to keep them steady. "If I refuse, he’ll just keep investigating. At least this way I can find out what he actually wants."
"What if what he wants is your tools?"
Marron paused. She hadn’t let herself think about that directly—the possibility that Edmund wasn’t just curious, but wanted to acquire what she carried.
"Then I’ll tell him no," Marron said finally. "These tools chose . They’re not for sale or trade or study. They’re for using."
"And if he doesn’t take no for an answer?"
"I’ll figure it out." Marron tried to sound more confident than she felt. "I fought the rchant’s Guild. I can handle one academic."
Millie’s expression suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced, but she didn’t argue. "Want backup? I could wait nearby during your lunch eting. Just in case."
"That would actually be good," Marron admitted. "I don’t think Edmund’s dangerous, but..."
"But better safe than sorry," Millie finished. "Alright. Where’s this restaurant?"
"The Harvest Table. Mid-district. Noon, day after tomorrow."
"I’ll be there. Discreetly." Millie moved toward the door, then paused. "Marron? Be careful with academics. They’re good at making you doubt yourself. At asking questions that sound reasonable but are actually traps."
"I’ll be careful," Marron promised.
After Millie left, Marron pulled the Hearthstone Loaf from the oven. It looked exactly like Henrik’s had—dark, dense, rough-crusted. Not pretty. Not refined. Just substantial and honest.
She cut a slice while it was still warm, breaking Henrik’s own rule about letting bread cool properly. The interior was tight-crumbed, studded with seeds and grain, slightly steaming.
She ate it slowly, feeling the weight of it, the way one piece genuinely filled her up.
Maximum nutrition from minimum resources. Making sothing good from limited options.
That had been her life for years, hadn’t it? Bare minimum mode. Making do. Not trying for more because more felt impossible.
But now she had three Legendary Tools. A Guild certification. A community of vendors who called her "the soup lady" with affection. A reputation as soone who stood up to power.
She’d made sothing from nothing. Transford limitations into possibilities.
Could she do the sa with Edmund Erwell? Transform a potential threat into... what? An ally? A neutral party? Soone who’d leave her alone?
She didn’t know. But she’d find out in two days.
The morning of the eting, Marron woke early and imdiately regretted it—too much ti to spiral into anxiety before noon.
She tried to distract herself with routine. Made breakfast. Reviewed her class notes. Checked in with two vendors via ssage. Avoided looking at the clock.
It didn’t work. By ten bells, she was pacing her apartnt, running through potential conversations in her head.
What if he asks directly about the tools?
What if he knows more than I think?
What if he tries to make prove they’re not Legendary?
What if—
"Stop," Mokko interrupted her spiraling. "You’re catastrophizing. Edmund asked for lunch, not a trial."
"You don’t know that."
"Neither do you. So stop imagining worst-case scenarios and prepare for the most likely one: he’s curious, he’ll ask questions, you’ll answer what you’re comfortable answering and deflect the rest."
"And if that doesn’t work?"
"Then you leave." Mokko’s tone was firm. "You’re not trapped. You’re not obligated to explain anything. You’re agreeing to a conversation, not an interrogation."
Lucy burbled supportively from her jar, forming a brave little fist shape.
"Okay," Marron said, taking a breath. "Okay. I can do this. Just... conversation. With an academic. Who’s been stalking for two weeks. No big deal."
"That’s the spirit," Mokko said dryly.
Marron dressed carefully—not too fancy, not too casual. She wanted to look like a professional chef eting a colleague, not soone trying too hard or hiding sothing. Guild pin prominently displayed. Simple but quality clothing. Hair tied back neatly.
She left the Legendary Tools at ho—all three of them. The cart stayed parked outside her building. The copper pot remained on her counter. The Generous Ladle hung from its usual hook.
If Edmund wanted to discuss her equipnt, he’d have to do it without physical evidence present.
At eleven-thirty, Marron left her apartnt. Mokko wished her luck. Lucy ford an encouraging heart. And Marron walked through Luria’s streets toward the mid-district, toward The Harvest Table, toward a conversation that would determine... sothing.
She wasn’t sure what yet.
But she’d find out soon.
The Harvest Table was exactly as Edmund had described—quiet, modest, tucked into a side street in the mid-district where upper and lower Luria t. Not fancy enough to be intimidating, not casual enough to be careless. Neutral territory.
Marron arrived five minutes early and found Edmund already there, seated at a corner table with a pot of tea and that damned leather notebook.
He looked up when she entered, and a small smile crossed his face—polite, asured, unreadable behind those wire-rimd glasses.
"Ms. Louvel," he said, standing to greet her. "Thank you for coming. I wasn’t certain you would."
"I was curious," Marron said honestly, taking the seat across from him. "Your letter was... intriguing."
"I hoped it would be." Edmund poured her tea from the pot—so light, floral blend. "I’ve been following your work for several weeks now. The vendor coalition, the partnership program, the hearing. You’ve accomplished sothing quite remarkable in a very short ti."
"I had help," Marron said automatically.
"You had initiative," Edmund corrected. "Help is worthless without soone to coordinate it. You were that soone." He adjusted his glasses—that habitual gesture she’d noticed before. "Tell , Ms. Louvel. How did you go from unknown chef to community organizer in less than a month?"
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