By the ti the first strings of lanterns went up, Whisperwind’s market square was already humming with life. Marron stood beside her cart, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, and let the sound of laughter and bargaining wash over her.
The air was thick with woodsmoke, roasting at, and the faint perfu of wildflowers wound into garlands above the stalls. It was a stark contrast to her first day in Whisperwind, with all of the beastkin observing her like she was a frog waiting to be dissected.
"Three days of preparation for three hours of chaos," Mokko murmured, adjusting his wire-rimd glasses as he eyed the commotion. "Efficient... in its own feral way."
Marron smiled faintly, sliding a tray of dough rounds toward herself. "That’s festivals for you. Blink, and it’s over."
Her hands worked automatically, pressing the dough out into thin circles.
She’d made these a dozen tis in practice—tonight, they needed to be perfect.
I’ve seen it a million tis on food reality TV shows back on Earth. People say they practice a recipe a lot and when it’s ti to make it in front of an audience...it just doesn’t co together and they fail.
Mokko tapped her shoulder. "You okay?"
"Mm? Yeah, just fi--oh." She looked down at her hands and saw she’d finished the dough she rolled out. Now she had been pressing dough out of little scraps from the sheet.
"Sorry. Got lost in thought."
Ding!
[Spiritual fatigue level: rising.]
"You sure you don’t need to rest?" Mokko asked, ears perked up from the notification.
"I’m fine," Marron insisted as she ntally swiped the screen away. "I’ll rest when we’re done."
A familiar owlkin approached, feathers fluffed against the morning chill, carrying a woven basket.
"Miss Marron," he said in a low voice, "I heard you were looking for cinnamon bark. I’ve a little left. Perhaps... a trade for so of those fries you make?"
She traded without hesitation, wrapping the spice carefully in cloth. Cinnamon was exactly what the caral sauce had been missing.
Two stalls over, an elder squirrelkin beckoned her closer. "Your dough looks too pale," the woman said, peering at the tray Marron carried to the communal oven. "Brush it with egg, just before baking. Gives it shine. Makes people’s eyes hungry before their stomachs are."
"Egg wash," Marron repeated, tucking the advice away. "Thank you."
On her way back to the cart, she spotted a raccoonkit crouched behind a barrel, sticky-fingered and wide-eyed. The kit froze mid-bite, a honeyed bun clutched in both hands.
"Is that yours?" Marron asked softly.
The kit’s ears flattened. "...Maybe."
She knelt, offering a rice cracker from her pocket. "Next ti, try trading. Works better than hiding."
The raccoonkit hesitated, then swapped the bun for the cracker, darting off. Marron returned the bun to its stall, pretending not to notice the stall owner’s approving glance.
By early afternoon, the square was thick with scents. Marron’s little cooking space filled with the heady perfu of sliced apples—ruby-red and juicy enough to run in rivulets down her wrists as she cut them. She tossed the pieces in sugar and cinnamon, watching the crystals lt into sticky gloss. The dough rounds were pliant and warm, wrapping snugly around the fruit before she sealed them with practiced pinches.
The caral bubbled low and patient in its pot, darkening to the exact shade her mother used to call "autumn gold." She dipped a spoon, letting it trail in slow ribbons over each dumpling. A few she brushed with that squirrelkin elder’s egg wash, sliding them into the communal oven to bake until the air was rich with sugar and browned butter.
Only when she tasted one—hot, crisp-edged, the apple’s juice mingling with caral—did she allow herself to breathe. Yes. This was the thing she’d bring to the community table.
As the sun dipped lower, the festival began in earnest. Marron set her tray of dumplings on the cart’s counter, steam curling upward. The first to approach were children, eyes round as the dumplings disappeared into their hands. Their laughter left a warmth in Marron’s chest.
Adults followed—slowly at first, then in steady trickles. They still eyed her with a touch of reserve, but it was warr than before. A badgerkin she’d served soup to days ago stopped by, pressing a small jar of berry preserves into Marron’s hands "for later." An otterkin fisherman offered smoked trout in exchange for dumplings for his wife.
Even Lord Jackal passed, regal in his dark cloak, pausing to taste one. He said nothing at first, only nodding once before moving on—a gesture weightier than any complint.
At one point, Mokko returned from the far edge of the square with a parcel wrapped in cloth. "Traded for these," he said, unwrapping it to reveal fresh farm butter. "Figured you’d want so for tomorrow. This kind tastes better too, since it’s straight from the dairy cow."
Marron’s smile lingered longer than usual. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."
"Probably burn sothing," he replied, deadpan, but the twitch of his whiskers gave him away.
Near twilight, when the lanterns began to glow and the music shifted to sothing slow and string-heavy, Marron took a step back from the cart. She leaned against its side, breathing in the scent of her own work mingling with the market’s. People laughed and bartered, children darted between stalls, and sowhere in the shadows, she thought she saw a small, round sli peeking at her cart.
The creature was pale blue, its surface catching the lanternlight like rippling water. Two faint points of glow swirled inside its body—almost like tiny cores.
It bobbed once, almost like a nod, before vanishing under a nearby table.
Marron shook her head, smiling at her own imagination—then winced faintly as a dull ache curled in her forearm.
She flexed her fingers.
I probably just knead too much dough. I can rest and recover later.
By the ti the music wound down, her tray was empty, her hands sticky, and her hair loose from its tie. The silver spoon charm on her apron chain glead faintly—less bright than usual, though she didn’t notice.
As she began packing up, the squirrelkin elder passed again. "Good work, girl. You made people happy tonight."
Marron smiled, though her shoulders felt heavier than they should. "That’s what matters."
She didn’t see Mokko watching her closely, nor did she hear the faint system ping at her hip: "Warning: Spiritual fatigue level—minor."
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