No one spoke.

"Good. Let's begin." He gestured to a table behind him, where a dozen whole chickens sat on ice. "Today, we start with breaking down the bird. Each of you, come get a chicken. We'll work together first, then you'll practice alone."

Marron approached the table with the other students. The chickens were fresh, good quality, their skin pale and smooth.

She selected one and brought it back to her station, already thinking about her enchanted knife. Breaking down a chicken with perfect cuts, responding to her intent—this was going to be interesting.

"Before we begin," Henrik said, walking between the stations, "I want to see what you're working with. Show me your knives."

Students pulled out their primary knives—some professional quality, others clearly struggling.

When Henrik reached Marron's station, she unwrapped her set of chef's knives from the Wolfkin Kingdom. They were forged from the finest Whisperwind steel, and a small wolf's head was carved into each handle.

The students around her murmured.

"They're so shiny. I think they're brighter than the classroom lights."

"Did you see the pouch? The mark came from Whisperwind."

"The place where they're wolves but their king isn't?"

"Yeah, the legend is a jackal came and took over the kingdom. I thought it didn't even exist."

Marron's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. People never really commented on her knives. Then again, this was a rare moment when people could observe them up close.

Henrik picked one up and tested its weight. Gingerly, he ran his thumb along the edge.

His eyebrows rose slightly.

"This is exceptional work," he said. "Where did you get it?"

"It was my mother's," Marron said quickly. Life wouldn't be peaceful anymore once word got out that she visited the legendary kingdom. "A gift, passed down."

Henrik studied her for a moment, then carefully handed it back. "Take care of it. Knives like that are rare." He glanced at the copper pot on her station. "And that pot—may I?"

Marron nodded, and he lifted it, examining the inscription, the perfect balance.

"Beautiful craftsmanship," he said. "Eastern provinces?"

"Yes. It belonged to someone's grandmother."

"Good copper work from that region. They knew what they were doing." He set it down. "You'll get good use out of it."

That was all. No recognition, no hint that it was anything special. Just appreciation for quality craftsmanship.

Because it wasn't special. It was just a pot.

Henrik moved on to the next station, and Marron felt her disappointment settle deeper.

She'd been so sure. So hopeful.

But hope didn't make something magical. Intent did. Skill did. Whatever force had created the Lord Jackal's knives had exceptional skill. Marron's food cart, out in the open, still looked quite ordinary.

This pot was just copper.

"All right," Henrik called out, returning to the front of the room. "Let's begin. First cut: removing the wings..."

Marron forced herself to focus. She was here to learn, not to chase impossible dreams.

She had her food cart, and it was the one reason she was able to open a business and feed so many people.

I learned how to live without it, and I really don't want to do that again.

One Legendary Tool was enough.

It had to be.

+

The knife sang as it cut through the chicken's joints, finding the natural separations with ease. Marron's hands moved with confidence—remove the wings, separate the legs, detach the thighs from the drumsticks, remove the breasts from the carcass.

"Excellent technique," Henrik said, pausing at her station. "Your knife work is clean. No hesitation."

"Thank you," Marron murmured, but her mind was only half on the praise.

The other half was on the copper pot sitting uselessly to the side.

She'd been so certain. The dream had been so vivid—a pot that never boiled over, that understood heat and patience and care. She'd walked into Copper & Thyme expecting magic and found... well-made cookware.

Around her, other students were struggling with their cuts. Zara was sawing at a joint with determination but little success. The orcish man was doing well, his large hands surprisingly deft. A nervous human woman two stations down had accidentally cut herself and was being helped by an assistant.

"Remember," Henrik called out, "the chicken will tell you where to cut. Feel for the joints. Don't force it. Guide the knife and let the blade do the work."

Marron finished breaking down her chicken and arranged the pieces neatly: two breasts, two wings, two thighs, two drumsticks, and the carcass for stock. Perfect portions. Her mother would have been proud.

I should tell the Lord Jackal how grateful I am for these knives. She thought, looking at them. Everyone noticed how beautiful they were. Everyone acknowledges the skill of his blacksmiths. They just think it's stuff of legend because...

"Very few humans have ever seen Whisperwind, no?" she asked aloud. A student next to her nodded. "And your mother is one of them. In our history books, you can count how many humans they've trusted with one hand."

There was no mention of Snakewater Cove, of a rival kingdom where a Queen ruled. Marron decided to keep that part of journey to herself.

Unlike the pot, which was probably getting dropped off at Simone's tomorrow.

"Now," Henrik announced, "we're going to make stock. The backbone, wing tips, and any trim—these go into your pot with water, aromatics, and time. Stock is the foundation of so many dishes. If you master stock, you master half of cooking."

Students began filling their pots with water. Marron did the same with the copper pot, adding the chicken pieces, roughly chopped onions, carrots, celery. A bay leaf. Peppercorns.

"Bring it to a boil, then reduce to a bare simmer," Henrik instructed. "You want it just barely bubbling. Too much heat and you'll make the stock cloudy. Too little and you won't extract the flavors. Find that balance."

Marron set the pot on the heat and watched it carefully.

The water warmed. Started to steam. Small bubbles formed at the bottom.

Then it began to boil—faster than she'd expected, the bubbles rising vigorously.

She adjusted the heat down.

It kept boiling.

She adjusted it down further.

Still boiling, starting to splash at the edges.

A pot that never boils over, she'd told Simone. Perfect heat control.

This pot was doing neither of those things.

She turned the heat to its lowest setting and watched the stock finally settle into something resembling a simmer—though still a bit more active than she'd like.

At the next station, Zara was having similar struggles. "Is it supposed to boil this much?" she asked nervously.

"Adjust your heat," Henrik said, walking past. "Every stove is different. Every pot is different. You have to learn their personalities."

Marron glanced at her copper pot. What's your personality, then? Stubborn? Ordinary? Disappointing?

The class continued. Three hours of chicken breakdown, stock preparation, and Henrik's detailed explanations of different types of stock—white, brown, remouillage. By the end, Marron had learned plenty about poultry technique.

But the copper pot had taught her nothing except that she'd been wrong.

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