But she never got to Brookhaven.
Instead, Marron nearly burned the stew, and her heart started to race. Luckily, she was able to rescue it just in ti from boiling over.
Mokko’s snout twitched disapprovingly as he pushed up his wire-rimd glasses with a clawed paw. "Patience," he rumbled. He had to stop her from whacking the at with a glass bottle, insisting it would tenderize it.
"Wild thornboar tastes milder than it looks. Adding unnecessary things just muddles the at, and that’s why it’s so tough to cook with."
"I am being patient," Marron muttered, pulling the wooden spoon from the pot and blowing gently on the thick, dark broth. "It’s just... this at cooks weird."
"Because it is wild," Mokko said. "It has survived countless battles before it was cut down. And even now, it won’t give up without a fight."
The at in question sat in her pot: it was a cut of wild thornboar, a C grade ingredient with purple-veined marbling and a tough, bark-like outer grain.
It was a gift (challenge, more like) left by that wolfkin, Kael.
After the quiet joy of her successful first dish last night, Marron had fallen asleep in the grass next to her food stall. Mokko, having more dignity than her, had slept on a large hay bale he’d grabbed from an abandoned barn.
Kael appeared just after dawn, all gray fur and quiet nace. He didn’t bat an eye at the quality of her food cart, and instead went straight for the person inside it.
He unceremoniously dropped the at on her counter with a single eyebrow raised. "If you’re serious," he’d said, "cook this."
Then he’d leaned in, breath warm and earthy, and added, "But don’t butcher it."
That’s kind of intense, was Marron’s first thought.
Now he waited by the empty stall across from her cart, arms crossed, chewing on what might’ve been a pine needle.
Ti to get to work.
Marron stirred the stew again, adjusting the fla beneath the pot. Her cart had changed subtly after yesterday’s service—its brass fittings polished themselves, and the spice rack no longer rattled.
Maybe it’s the Cooking System’s way of telling I did make progress? So I wouldn’t give up? Probably?
"You might be nicer than the algorithm," Marron murmured.
Ding!
[Thank you, dear Chef.]
It was the first ti the system had acknowledged her outside of giving her progress markers or little quests.
She laughed and continued stirring, not willing to waste an opportunity. Even if, deep inside, she didn’t feel confident yet.
Not with Kael watching, creating an unfamiliar tension in the air.
He was looking for sothing special, and she thought he was looking in the wrong place.
Mokko brought her out of her thoughts.
She felt his paw on her shoulder and looked up.
"Slls like you’re winning," Mokko said. He offered a soft grunt that might’ve been approval.
She tried not to smile. Instead, she focused on the flavors. The broth had taken on a deep, woodsy base from the Thornboar, but it needed brightness.
Sothing to cut through the richness.
We have so of that, don’t we? Acidity?
She scanned her spice rack and smiled.
Yup, we do.
Marron reached for the wild berry vinegar Mokko had foraged yesterday.
Just a few drops.
The stew hissed as it accepted the vinegar, and released a sharp and nostalgic sll. Like bonfires in autumn and cold mornings in her mother’s kitchen, listening to the hum of the refrigerator.
She ladled a portion into a shallow wooden bowl and stepped out from behind the cart.
Kael didn’t move.
"I don’t have plating magic," she said. "But this’ll do. Wild thornboar stew with vegetables and wild berry vinegar. I hope you enjoy."
Kael took the bowl with both hands and sniffed once.
Then he drank straight from it.
Marron blinked. "Uh... spoons exist, you know."
He ignored her, and continued to drink. She heard his slow and careful slurping sounds, and chewing from the at. His ears twitched, and his tail thumped along the ground.
She had no idea what was running through his mind.
Finally, he looked at her.
"You listened," he said.
"Listened to what?"
Kael tilted his head. "To the at."
He sat at one of her crates, now repurposed as a table, slowly finishing the stew. Marron returned to cleaning up, her hands busy but her mind still buzzing from the exchange.
"What did he an?" she asked Mokko in a low voice.
The bear’s ears flicked. "It is how they test you here. Whisperwind doesn’t care about grades or skill trees. They care if you honor the ingredient."
Marron frowned. "I didn’t even know what that ant until twenty minutes ago."
"But you knew enough to respect it. You didn’t slice it thin to hide the toughness. You didn’t mask it in heavy spice. You coaxed it."
She looked down at her fingers, now stained with berry and broth. Her mother’s voice echoed faintly in mory: "Let the food speak. You’re just here to help it find the words."
When Kael finished, he rose and placed the empty bowl on her counter with ceremonial calm. "You can co," he said.
"Co where?"
"To Whisperwind."
Marron blinked. "Just like that?"
"No. Not just like that." He paused, gaze narrowing. "You passed my test. The others will take longer. So still think humans bring only greed and war."
"I’m not—" she stopped herself. "I’m not here to take. Just to cook. To live."
Kael nodded once. "Good. Then you’ll be fine."
He turned to leave.
"Wait," Marron called. "You said... others. Who?"
He didn’t look back, but his ears twitched again. "Ask Lyra," he said, and disappeared into the overgrown paths behind the Commons.
Later that night, Marron sat inside the cart, reorganizing her spices and thinking of the road ahead.
The Cooking System pinged softly.
[Cart Evolution Unlocked: Tier 1 – Whisperwind Travel Ready]
- Wheels reinforced with mossstone alloy
- Storage expanded x2
- Hearth efficiency improved (F → D grade fla)
Mokko grunted in approval as the cart subtly shifted. The wood creaked, the canopy stretched slightly higher, and the wheels sparkled faintly with new green runes.
"Well," Marron whispered. "Looks like we’re moving up in the world."
Mokko was already making a checklist of ingredients they’d need for the journey.
But Marron’s thoughts weren’t on logistics.
She thought of Kael’s quiet intensity, the weight in his voice when he ntioned others. The unease there. And the way the stew had tasted when she stopped trying to control it.
She thought about how her mother never wrote recipes down—how she’d felt her way through a dish, letting mory and care guide her hand.
Maybe that’s what this new life needed, too.
Not just cooking.
But listening.
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