"Oh, they notice." Marron crossed to the window and rested her hand on the glass. "They notice everything. How you look, how you serve, even how you stir your soup. In this city, food isn't just eaten—it's performed."

"Is that bad?" Mokko asked.

"Not bad," she said slowly. "Just… different. I used to think a full belly was proof enough that a meal mattered." She paused, remembering the street market—the egg bread in stamped boxes, the cheese pull game, Millie's moon cakes on painted plates. "But maybe there's more to it than I thought."

Lucy tilted in her jar. "The market lady was nice!"

"Millie," Marron said, and found herself smiling. "Yeah. She was." She turned from the window. "I'm meeting her tomorrow morning. Early. She's going to teach me how she makes those moon cakes look like… well, like they matter."

"They tasted like they mattered too," Mokko pointed out.

"That's the whole point, I think." Marron brushed her hands on her apron, a nervous habit. "Beauty should reveal truth, not hide it. That's what she said, anyway."

Mokko flopped back on the bed with a groan. "Wake me when there's breakfast."

"You'll get breakfast," Marron said, then paused. Her gaze drifted toward the door that led to the small back deck. "Actually… I should probably make breakfast. We've got two days before the retest, and I need to practice."

"Practice what?" Mokko mumbled into a pillow.

"Caring," Marron said quietly.

The back deck was small but charming—barely large enough for her cart and a wrought-iron table with two chairs. A lavender plant grew in a terracotta pot near the railing, its soft purple blooms filling the air with that same calming scent that permeated the room. Tiny mana-lights were strung along the fence, dormant now but probably lovely at night.

Marron stood beside her cart, one hand resting on its copper side. The metal was cool under her palm, grounding. The cart looked even more out of place here than it had in the fancy room—dusty wheels, scuffed paint, dented corners from too many rough roads.

But it was hers.

She opened the coldbox built into the cart's side, the preservation runes glowing faintly as the door swung wide. Inside, her traveling supplies were neatly arranged: eggs in a woven basket, dried herbs bundled with twine, a small jar of her preserved broth base, onions and garlic in a mesh bag. The two bottles of luminescent oil from the mimic dungeon caught the light, glowing faintly blue-green. Next to them, the pouch of truffle dust sat like a tiny treasure.

Standard traveling fare. Practical. Efficient.

Marron pulled out the eggs, then hesitated. Her gaze drifted back inside, toward the small kitchen area the inn had provided.

Most Lumerian lodgings came with basic cooking access—part of the city's obsession with food culture. She'd noticed the compact coldbox earlier, built into the wall with the same preservation runes as her cart. Curious, she stepped back inside and opened it.

The coldbox was stocked with staples: butter, cream, a few vegetables, and—

"Oh," Marron said softly.

A stack of golden-brown rounds sat wrapped in wax paper. Lumerian breakfast cakes—their version of what her mother used to call "griddle buns." Light, slightly sweet, perfect for splitting and toasting. And tucked in the vegetable drawer, she found three golden potatoes, their skins gleaming like polished amber.

She'd heard about these. Lumerian golden potatoes—they crisped up beautifully, held their shape, had a buttery flavor even before you added butter.

Marron stood there for a moment, staring at the humble ingredients.

A sandwich, she thought. Nothing fancy. Just… good.

But this time, she'd make it look good too.

Back on the deck, Marron laid out her ingredients on the cart's prep surface: eggs, butter, the breakfast cakes, the golden potatoes. She also grabbed the length of good sausage from her own supplies—pork with sage and a hint of fennel, something she'd picked up three towns back.

First, the potatoes.

She peeled them quickly, her enchanted chef's knife moving with practiced ease. The blade hummed softly, responding to her intent. She grated the potatoes into fine shreds, working over a clean cloth. When she was done, she gathered the cloth and twisted it tight, wringing out the excess moisture. Her mother's voice echoed in her head: Dry potatoes crisp. Wet potatoes steam.

She shaped the shredded potato into three small patties, pressing them flat between her palms. Added a pinch of salt, a crack of black pepper.

The portable stove on her cart wouldn't work without a mage's flame, but the inn's kitchen had a proper stove inside—one of those fancy Lumerian models with adjustable heat runes. She carried everything inside, set a cast-iron pan over medium heat, and added a generous knob of butter.

The butter melted, foaming golden. She slid the potato patties in and listened to the sizzle. That sound—sharp and immediate—was one of her favorite things about cooking. It meant things were happening.

While the hash browns cooked, she sliced the sausage into rounds and set them in another pan. The scent that rose was rich and savory, filling the small kitchen with warmth. She let them cook slowly, rendering their fat, turning them once so both sides crisped to a perfect golden-brown.

Then the eggs. She cracked four of them into a bowl—two for her, one each for Mokko and Lucy—and beat them lightly with a fork. Just enough to blend the yolks and whites, not so much that they turned frothy. She wanted them tender, not fluffy.

A third pan. More butter. She poured the eggs in and let them sit for a moment, then gently pushed them around with a spatula, forming soft curds. Low and slow. Patient.

The hash browns were ready—golden-brown and crispy on both sides, their edges lacy and delicate. She transferred them to a plate lined with cloth to drain.

The sausage came off next, glistening with rendered fat.

The eggs finished last, still glossy and just barely set.

Marron turned off the heat and stared at her components.

Now came the part she wasn't used to: making it matter.

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