All because of a pin.

Rank still makes miracles happen. Maybe if I did a job I liked I would have enjoyed more perks.

Marron thought about her life before she became a chef--that sales executive who chased after metrics just to avoid getting fired. She had bills to pay and things to buy, after all. If she had been a different person, maybe she would have enjoyed sales.

Now life was different.

And she was happy about that, though still a little wary of Philippe.

"Thank you," Marron said carefully. "I'm Marron. And I'll keep that in mind."

Philippe nodded, then paused. "Word of advice? The pin helps, but some places will still look down on you if they think you're not 'established' enough. Don't let it get to you. You earned that certification. Street carts aren't as glamorous as a popular restaurant, but...you can go anywhere."

He headed back into the restaurant, leaving Marron standing on the spotless street, processing what had just happened.

She continued walking, and the pattern repeated itself.

Doormen who'd ignored her now nodded politely when they saw the pin. Hostesses who'd looked through her now made eye contact. Other chefs—recognizable by their own pins and professional attire—acknowledged her with slight nods or small smiles.

It was like wearing a key that unlocked doors she hadn't even known were closed.

At The Starlight Terrace, a maître d' stopped her to ask where she'd trained. When she mentioned the street market and Millie's name, his expression went from polite interest to genuine warmth.

"Millie of the moon cakes? She's certified now too?"

"As of last week. Same session as me."

"Good for her. She's been trying for months." He gestured to the restaurant. "If you want to see the kitchen, I can arrange a tour. We don't usually allow it, but certified chefs get professional courtesy."

Marron found herself accepting, curious despite her discomfort with all this attention.

The kitchen was enormous—three times the size of any kitchen she'd ever worked in. Dozens of chefs moved in choreographed precision, each station handling a specific task. Sauces here, proteins there, pastry in the back corner. The head chef—a severe-looking dwarf woman with gray-streaked beard—barked orders that were followed instantly.

It was impressive. Intimidating. And honestly, a little soulless.

Everything was technically perfect, but Marron couldn't see any joy in it. Just efficiency, precision, the relentless pursuit of perfection.

"Thank you for the tour," she said politely when it was over.

"Of course. And if you ever want to stage here—work a shift to learn our techniques—let me know. We offer that to certified chefs sometimes."

Marron nodded, knowing she'd probably never take him up on it, but appreciating the offer nonetheless.

Late Afternoon - A Quieter Street

As the sun started to dip toward the horizon, Marron found herself on a quieter street in the upper district—still pristine, but less aggressively fancy. Smaller restaurants, more intimate spaces.

One caught her eye: Copper & Thyme.

The name alone made her pause. The restaurant was modest by upper district standards—just a small storefront with warm yellow light spilling from the windows. The menu posted outside featured simple dishes with interesting twists: roasted chicken with herbs, braised vegetables, seasonal soups.

And in the window, catching the last rays of sunlight, was a display of copper cookware.

Marron moved closer, studying the pots and pans arranged artfully on wooden shelves. Beautiful pieces, clearly antiques, polished to a warm glow. Sauce pans, sauté pans, stock pots—

Her breath caught.

There, in the center of the display, was a pot.

Wide and deep, with a lid that sat perfectly flush. Unadorned except for a small inscription around the rim in a language she couldn't read. The copper was warm-toned, almost glowing in the fading light.

It looked exactly like the pot from her dream.

Marron pressed her hand against the window, her heart pounding.

It can't be. It can't possibly be this easy.

But even as she thought it, she knew. Something in her chest—the same instinct that had led her to trust the mimics despite their history, the same feeling that had told her Millie was someone worth knowing—that something was saying yes. That's it. That's what you're looking for.

The door to the restaurant opened, and a woman stepped out—middle-aged, with warm brown skin and silver-streaked hair tied back in a practical bun. She wore a chef's coat and the same Guild pin Marron now wore.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked, not unkindly.

Marron pointed at the pot in the window. "That pot. The copper one with the lid. Is it... do you use it?"

The woman followed her gaze, then smiled—a strange, knowing smile. "That pot has been in my family for generations. My grandmother claimed it was magic, that it never boiled over no matter what you cooked in it. I always thought she was exaggerating."

"Was she?"

"I don't know. I've never used it. It sits in the window because it's beautiful, but honestly—" The woman shrugged. "It feels too special to actually cook with. Like it's waiting for something. Or someone."

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"I'm Marron," she said finally. "I'm a certified chef. Traveling, mostly, but staying in Lumeria for a while."

"Simone," the woman replied. "I own this place. Been here fifteen years." She studied Marron thoughtfully. "You're looking at that pot like you've seen it before."

"I dreamed about it," Marron admitted. "A week ago. A pot that never boils over. I've been looking for it ever since."

Simone's eyebrows rose. "That's... specific."

"I know it sounds crazy."

"Not crazy. Just unusual." Simone was quiet for a moment, then made a decision. "Come inside. Let's talk."

Marron followed her into Copper & Thyme, her heart racing, the pin on her chest catching the warm interior light.

Maybe—just maybe—she was about to find the second Legendary Tool.

If not, surely I would have some trace of where it's gone by now.

And maybe, just maybe, earning her certification had been the key to finding it all along.

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