First Twenty Minutes: Foundation

The knife sang as it worked, her enchanted blade responding to her intent. Six onions became perfect half-moons, thin and even. She could do this in her sleep now.

Into the pan with butter—low heat, patience. The onions hissed as they hit the hot fat, and Marron felt something in her chest settle. This was familiar. This was hers.

While the onions began their slow transformation, she prepared her stock. Hot water, broth base, dried thyme, bay leaf. The mixture came together quickly, filling her corner of the room with rich, savory aroma.

She glanced around. The orcish man was working on his pastries with intense concentration, his large hands surprisingly deft. The fox beastkin was scaling her fish with quick, efficient movements. The nervous young man was already sweating, his sauce threatening to break.

And Millie—Millie was making her dough, her hands moving in that same measured, purposeful way Marron had watched just yesterday. Press, fold, turn. Press, fold, turn.

She's going to do well, Marron thought. We both are.

Admittedly, Marron was nervous because she no longer had four hours. But she could pull off a French Onion soup.

As long as I focus on caramelizing the onions, the rest should be relatively simple.

Minutes Twenty to Forty: The Long Simmer

Time moved strangely during cooking. Sometimes it dragged—like now, when Marron was stirring her onions every few minutes, watching them slowly lose their sharp bite and soften into sweetness. Sometimes it flew—she'd blink and suddenly ten minutes had passed.

The testing hall was quiet except for the sounds of cooking: sizzling, bubbling, the scrape of knives on cutting boards, the soft whisper of whisks in bowls. No one spoke. This wasn't the arena, where performers might banter for the crowd. This was serious. Focused.

The onions turned from white to pale gold.

Marron stirred. Adjusted the heat slightly. Stirred again.

Patience. This is the part that matters most.

At station five, the nervous young man's sauce broke completely. She heard his quiet curse, saw him frantically trying to save it with more butter. It wouldn't work—once a sauce broke, it rarely came back—but she understood the desperate need to try.

I was you three days ago, she thought. Frantic and defensive and sure I'd already failed.

The onions deepened to gold. Then amber.

Marron increased the heat just slightly, stirring more frequently now. This was the dangerous part—the edge between caramelized perfection and burnt disaster.

Around her, the other candidates were reaching their own critical moments. The beastkin was searing her fish—the smell was incredible, smoky and rich. The orc was pulling his pastries from the oven, golden and puffed. Millie was stamping her moon cakes with that same wooden press, her movements confident despite the pressure.

Minutes Forty to Sixty: The Final Push

The onions were perfect—deep mahogany, sticky and sweet and intensely flavored.

Marron pulled the pan off the heat for just a moment, then added the white wine. The liquid hit with a dramatic hiss, steam billowing. She scraped up all that precious fond, dissolving it into the wine, letting it reduce to concentrated essence.

Then the stock. The broth went in, the onions floating like dark jewels in amber liquid. A pinch more salt. Black pepper. Let it simmer for the final stretch.

Marron checked the time. Fifteen minutes left.

She had everything under control.

Breathe. You've got this.

She looked around again. Most candidates were in their final stages now. The nervous man had abandoned his broken sauce and was plating what looked like pan-seared chicken with roasted vegetables—simple, but at least complete. The orc was dusting his pastries with powdered sugar. The beastkin was carefully arranging her fish with what looked like pickled vegetables and microgreens.

And Millie was pulling her moon cakes from the oven. Even from here, Marron could see they were beautiful—golden-brown, the moon-and-stars pattern clearly visible on each one.

She felt a strange mix of pride and nerves. Millie deserved to pass. But so did she.

"Ten minutes to plating!" the official called.

Marron turned back to her soup. It had simmered perfectly, the flavors melding together, the broth glossy and rich. She turned off the heat and began her presentation prep.

Bowl. Bread. Cheese. Thyme.

Just like practice. You know how to do this.

+

Plating: Fifteen Minutes

"Plating period begins now!" the official announced. "You have fifteen minutes to present your final dish."

Marron worked with deliberate care.

Ladle the soup into Millie's cream-colored bowl. Three-quarters full, letting the onions settle naturally. The broth was dark and glossy, catching the light.

One round of toasted sourdough, placed gently on top. It floated perfectly, a raft of golden-brown bread.

Grate the aged Gruyere over it. Not too much, not too little. Just enough to create a generous layer that would melt and bubble and brown.

Under the broiler. She watched through the small window, her heart pounding. The cheese melted first, pooling at the edges. Then it began to bubble. Finally, golden spots appeared across the surface, deepening to caramel brown.

Now.

She pulled it out, grabbed the fresh thyme sprig, and tucked it carefully into the cheese at the bowl's edge. The green was bright against all that gold and brown.

Steam rose in delicate wisps. The aroma was incredible—caramelized onions, rich broth, melted cheese, herbs.

Marron stepped back and looked at what she'd made.

It was beautiful.

Honest and warm and real. It looked like four hours of patience, like generations of knowledge, like love made visible.

"Time!" the official called. "Hands off your dishes. Judges will enter momentarily."

Marron's hands were shaking slightly. She clasped them behind her back and took a deep breath.

Around the room, the other candidates stepped back from their stations. Six dishes, six interpretations of what food should be.

The nervous man's chicken looked edible but plain—he'd run out of time for proper presentation. The orc's pastries were gorgeous, dusted with sugar and arranged in a careful spiral. The beastkin's fish was a work of art, the plating precise and colorful. Millie's moon cakes sat on their painted ceramic plates, each one perfect, the golden-brown surface gleaming.

Her mother's French Onion soup, finally presented the way it deserved.

Maybe even better.

The doors opened.

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