"Some did, at first." Keeper's tone suggested amusement. "But Therra would tell them, 'The ladle knows. Trust it.' And eventually, they learned she was right. The portions were always perfect. No one left hungry, but no one left uncomfortable either."

"What happened to her?" Marron asked quietly. "When the cataclysm came?"

Keeper's posture shifted, subtly. Sadness, maybe, though the mask made it hard to read.

"Ashenbright fell in the first wave," he said. "The rivers flooded, the ground split, the buildings collapsed. Therra died trying to get people to safety—carrying children to higher ground, directing people away from falling structures. The ladle survived because she'd hung it in the kitchen that morning. When the building fell, it was buried but intact."

The circle was silent, processing this.

"And it stayed buried," Keeper continued, "for seventy years. Until we began building New Brookvale, and I found a chamber that had once been part of a kitchen. The ladle was there, waiting. Still warm to the touch. Still understanding need."

He looked directly at Marron.

"Therra would be glad," he said simply, "that her tool found you. Someone who understands the difference between feeding people and selling food. Someone who sees portion size as an act of care, not just measurement."

Marron's eyes were burning. She blinked rapidly, trying not to cry in front of forty mimics.

"The other tools have similar stories," Keeper said, his voice gentling. "Masters who poured their knowledge into creating something that would outlast them. A blacksmith who made shears that would harvest herbs without harming the plant's spirit. A metalworker who created a blade that knew the perfect cut for each ingredient. A elementalist who bound a flame that would warm without consuming."

Four more tools. Four more stories.

"But those tales are for other nights," Keeper said. "Tonight was about Therra, and about understanding that the tools we use carry the intention of those who made them. When you cook with the Generous Ladle, Marron Louvel, you're partnering not just with the tool but with Therra's knowledge. Her understanding of need. Her three years of learning to see people truly."

He settled back, and the circle began to disperse slowly—mimics heading to their tents, to evening tasks, to quiet conversations. But several came up to Marron first, touching the ladle gently, reverently.

"Thank you for finding it," one said.

"For using it right," another added.

"For being the kind of person Therra would have approved of."

Marron could only nod, her throat too tight for words.

Later, much later, when the settlement had quieted and most had gone to sleep, Marron sat outside her tent with her three Legendary Tools arranged before her.

The food cart, which had taught her that care and intention mattered.

The copper pot, which had taught her that patience was necessary for mastery.

The Generous Ladle, which had taught her that generosity meant understanding need, not just fulfilling wants.

Three tools. Three teachers. Three pieces of someone's life work, brought forward into a new world.

"You okay?" Mokko's voice came from the tent entrance.

"Yeah." Marron didn't look up. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About a cook named Therra who spent three years learning to understand need. About how these tools carry the intention of the people who made them. About how I'm responsible for honoring that now."

Mokko settled beside her, his bulk a comforting presence. "You are honoring it. You used the ladle exactly as it was meant to be used."

"But Therra ran a soup kitchen," Marron said. "She fed people for free, not for profit. And I'm... I'm charging for food. I'm making a living from cooking. Is that—"

"Different times," Mokko interrupted firmly. "Different world. Therra's Ashenbright isn't your Lumeria. You can honor her intention without copying her exact methods."

"How?"

"By never forgetting the difference between feeding people and selling food," Mokko said, echoing Keeper's earlier words. "By using these tools to create better food, yes, but also to understand people better. To see their needs. To respond with care and generosity and patience."

Lucy burbled softly from inside the tent, a sound of agreement.

"The old world is gone," Mokko continued, his voice gentle. "Keeper said there's hope in the future, not just mourning for the past. You're part of that hope, Marron. You and these tools, figuring out what partnership means in this new world."

Marron touched each tool in turn—cart, pot, ladle. Each one warm, each one waiting, each one carrying the knowledge of masters who'd poured years into creating them.

"Four more lessons," she said quietly.

"Four more teachers," Mokko agreed.

"Do you think I'll find them?"

"I think they'll find you," Mokko said. "The way these three did. Not through seeking, but through being the kind of person they choose."

Marron hoped he was right.

She carefully gathered her tools and carried them into the tent, settling them near her bedroll. Tomorrow they'd begin the journey back to Lumeria. Back to classes, back to her apartment, back to the life she was building.

But tonight, she let herself sit with the weight of what she carried. Three pieces of a lost world, teaching her how to cook in a new one.

It was a responsibility she was determined to honor.

"Goodnight, Therra," she whispered to the ladle. "Thank you for teaching me."

The ladle seemed to pulse once, gently, as if to say: You're welcome. You're doing well. Keep going.

And Marron finally let herself sleep, ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

+

The journey back to Lumeria took eight days.

They'd skipped the shortcut through Thornbriar Hollow—the Thornback Bear had been friendly, but Marron didn't want to push her luck by treating the guardian's territory like a regular road. Instead, they took the long route, traveling at a comfortable pace that let Marron think, process, and occasionally practice with her new understanding of portion sense.

Mokko had been right, as usual.

The ability worked even without the ladle—she could look at someone and intuitively understand how hungry they were, what kind of nourishment they needed, whether they were seeking comfort or fuel or something in between. It was subtle, almost like the Ingredient Intuition she'd unlocked at Level 50, but focused on people instead of food.

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