"I don't know, Chef. I came here first because I thought—" The apprentice's voice wavered. "I thought maybe you could help. You're on the Guild council, and everyone knows you care about proper cooking, and—"

"I'll speak to Guild Master Savorin immediately," Henrik interrupted. "This is overreach by the Merchant's Guild, and the Culinary Guild has jurisdiction over food quality standards, not them."

"But will that be enough?" The apprentice looked desperate. "The decree is already in effect. The vendors have two weeks. Even if the Culinary Guild contests it, that could take months to resolve, and by then—"

"By then the vendors will have already been forced into exploitative partnerships or shut down completely," Marron finished. Her mind was racing. Millie. The egg bread vendor. The molten cheese pancake stand. Fifty carts, maybe more. People's livelihoods.

Henrik looked at her, and something in his expression suggested he was seeing exactly what she was thinking. "Louvel, this isn't your fight—"

"Yes, it is." Marron's voice came out harder than she'd intended. "I run a food cart. Or I did, before I left for New Brookvale. This decree affects me directly."

"You're a certified Guild chef now. You have more options—"

"And the vendors who aren't certified? Who've been running carts for years, feeding people good food, building their businesses from nothing?" Marron could feel her hands clenching. "They don't have options. They have fourteen days before their lives get destroyed by bureaucratic overreach disguised as public health policy."

The apprentice was looking at Marron with something like hope. "You understand. You get it."

"I get it." Marron turned to Henrik. "Chef, I know we were supposed to do make-up work today, but—"

"Go," Henrik said curtly. "This is more important than trussing technique. But Louvel?"

"Yes, Chef?"

"Be strategic about this. Anger is useful, but only if it's directed properly." His expression was stern but not unkind. "The Merchant's Guild has power and money. You'll need more than righteous indignation to fight them."

"I know." Marron was already mentally calculating. She needed information. Needed to talk to the vendors, to Millie, to understand exactly what they were facing. "Thank you, Chef."

She turned to leave, then paused at the door. "What will the Culinary Guild do?"

"Contest the decree through official channels," Henrik said. "File objections, request hearings, argue jurisdiction. It's the proper way to handle this."

"And how long will that take?"

Henrik's silence was answer enough.

Marron nodded once and left, the apprentice following close behind.

The street market was in chaos.

Marron heard it before she saw it—raised voices, angry shouting, the sound of something being knocked over. She pushed through the crowd gathering at the market entrance, Mokko clearing a path with his bulk, Lucy's jar clutched protectively against her side.

Vendors were clustered in groups, some reading the decree notices that had been posted on every available surface, others arguing with officials in Merchant's Guild uniforms. A few carts were already being dismantled—whether by choice or force, Marron couldn't tell.

She spotted Millie's moon cake cart immediately—the white paint and gold accents stood out even in the chaos. Millie was there with her cousin Iris, both of them reading the decree with identical expressions of fury.

"Millie!" Marron called, pushing through the crowd.

The rabbitkin looked up, her red eyes flashing. "You heard."

"Just now. An apprentice burst into my make-up class." Marron reached the cart, slightly breathless. "What's the situation?"

"Terrible," Iris said bluntly. She was a shorter, rounder version of Millie, with the same white fur but brown eyes instead of red. "The Merchant's Guild posted these notices at dawn. By noon, restaurants from the upper district were already circling, offering 'partnerships' with absolutely predatory terms."

"How predatory?"

"Seventy percent of profits," Millie said, her voice tight with anger. "Plus mandatory use of their 'approved suppliers' at inflated prices. Plus random inspections that could shut us down on a whim if we don't meet their 'standards.'" She made air quotes with her clawed fingers. "It's not a partnership. It's indentured servitude."

"And if you don't accept?"

"Two weeks until they seize our carts and revoke our licenses." Iris gestured at the market around them. "Half the vendors here can't afford to lose their carts. They're our capital, our equipment, our businesses. Without them, we're unemployed."

Marron felt her anger crystallizing into something colder, more focused. "This is the Restaurant District Council, isn't it? Trying to eliminate competition."

"Obviously." Millie's ears were flat against her head—a sign of extreme agitation. "The street market has been growing for years. We're more affordable than the upper district restaurants, and people know our food is just as good. Better, sometimes, because we don't hide behind fancy plating."

The jab at presentation would have stung a few weeks ago. Now Marron just heard the truth in it: Beauty should reveal truth, not hide it.

"Have any vendors accepted the partnerships?" Marron asked.

"Two so far," Iris said. "Both of them were desperate—single parents who couldn't afford to lose income for even a week while fighting this. But the terms..." She shook her head. "They'll be working twice as hard for half the profit. It's exploitation."

A commotion erupted near the market entrance. Marron turned to see a well-dressed man with a Merchant's Guild badge arguing with the grilled fish cart vendor—an older woman with weathered hands and a determined expression.

"—safety standards must be maintained!" the official was saying loudly, clearly performing for the crowd. "Food exposed to outdoor elements, handled without proper supervision—"

"My fish is fresher than anything in the upper district!" the vendor shot back. "I buy from the docks every morning, prep everything in clean conditions, and cook to order. What more do you want?"

"Partnership with an established restaurant. As the decree clearly states—"

"I can't afford your 'partnerships'! You know that!"

The official's expression went cold. "Then I suggest you find another line of work. The decree is mandatory, not negotiable."

Marron felt Mokko tense beside her. Lucy's jar was vibrating with agitation. The crowd was getting angrier, vendors shouting at the official, other Merchant's Guild representatives moving into defensive positions.

This was going to escalate badly if someone didn't intervene.

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