Marron stirred the onions—deeper golden now, almost caramel-colored. The copper pot held its perfect temperature, never spiking, never cooling. Just steady, patient heat. "Then I'll register a second establishment under my name. Or we'll find another solution. But Arrow, I promise you—I'm not letting the Merchant's Guild take your cart."

The owl-kin was quiet for a long moment, just watching the onions transform. "Thank you," she said finally, so softly Marron almost missed it.

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you're still selling bread in two weeks."

The onions reached the perfect stage—deep golden-brown, sweet and complex, their original sharpness completely transformed. Marron added a splash of wine (Arrow had a cooking bottle tucked in the back of her cabinet), let it reduce, then poured in the beef broth.

"Now we wait again," Marron said. "Twenty minutes for the soup to simmer and develop flavor. While that happens, we prep the bread."

She pulled out several slices of Arrow's day-old bread, examining them. The crust was indeed harder than ideal, the interior slightly dry. But the bread itself was well-made—good structure, even crumb, honest ingredients.

"Watch," Marron said. She cut the bread into thick slices, then toasted them in a dry pan until they were crispy and golden. "See? The staleness actually helps. These won't fall apart in the soup. They'll hold up, soak in the broth, become something better than they were fresh."

Arrow's amber eyes widened. "You're turning my mistake into the best part of the dish."

"It was never a mistake," Marron corrected. "It was just bread that needed different treatment. Sometimes things that seem wrong for one purpose are perfect for another."

She pulled out the Generous Ladle—her newest Legendary Tool, the one that understood need. Arrow didn't know it was special, of course. To her, it was just a large, well-made ladle that Marron seemed to favor.

The soup had simmered long enough. Marron placed the toasted bread in two deep bowls, ladled the rich, aromatic onion soup over them, then topped each with a generous amount of grated cheese.

"One more step," she said, and tucked both bowls under the small broiler in Arrow's oven. Just long enough for the cheese to melt and bubble and brown at the edges.

When she pulled them out, the soup was perfect. The bread had soaked up broth, the cheese was golden and melted, and the whole thing smelled like comfort incarnate.

She handed one bowl to Arrow and kept the other for herself. The Generous Ladle had given Arrow a larger portion—the owl-kin was running on empty, needed sustenance and care and the reminder that food could be joy instead of obligation.

"Eat," Marron said.

Arrow took a spoonful, breaking through the cheese layer to the soup-soaked bread beneath. She ate slowly, reverently, and Marron watched as her feathers gradually smoothed, her posture relaxed, the tight fear in her expression eased.

"This is good," Arrow said softly. "Really good."

"Your bread makes it good," Marron pointed out. "The staleness you were worried about? That's what's holding the whole thing together. If the bread was fresh, it would be mush. But this way—it's texture, substance, the anchor for everything else."

Arrow took another bite, understanding dawning in those amber eyes. "Nothing wasted."

"Nothing wasted," Marron agreed. She ate her own portion—the Generous Ladle had given her less than Arrow, recognizing that Marron's need was smaller, more about solidarity than sustenance. The soup was rich and deep, the sweetness of the caramelized onions balancing the salty broth, the bread providing necessary weight and texture. Simple food, elevated by care and patience.

They ate together in the small prep area, the afternoon market noise a distant murmur, the immediate world narrowed to warm soup and quiet company.

"I haven't been sleeping," Arrow admitted suddenly. "Every night I lie awake thinking about the decree, about what happens if I lose my cart. My family helped me buy this equipment. I've been building this business for three years. If it's gone..." She trailed off, feathers ruffling with anxiety.

"It won't be gone." Marron's voice was firm. "I know eight days feels like nothing, but we're close. Forty-seven vendors partnered. Three left, including you. I will find solutions for all three."

"You sound very sure."

"I'm terrified," Marron admitted. "But I'm also determined. And I've learned that sometimes determination is enough."

Arrow smiled—small and tentative, but genuine. "You're different than I expected."

"How so?"

"When I heard about the chef organizing the resistance, I thought..." Arrow paused, choosing words carefully. "Someone loud. Aggressive. The kind of person who leads by force of personality. But you're quiet. You lead by doing things. By making soup for stressed vendors who haven't eaten."

Marron felt her face heat. "I'm not—I don't think of myself as a leader."

"No," Arrow said thoughtfully. "You think of yourself as a cook. But that's what makes you a good leader. You see people who are hungry and you feed them. Not just with food. With care."

The words hit Marron harder than expected. She looked down at her empty soup bowl, at the copper pot still radiating gentle warmth, at the Generous Ladle resting on the counter.

Care, patience, generosity. Three lessons from three Legendary Tools. Three ways of understanding what it meant to feed people properly.

"I should probably get back to my rounds," Marron said, standing and collecting the bowls. "I have two more vendors to visit today, and I need to check if the registration paperwork went through for the latest batch of partnerships."

"Wait." Arrow stood too, her taloned hands reaching out tentatively. "I want to be one of your partnerships. Formally. I've been hesitating because I didn't want to be a burden, but..." She took a breath. "If you're willing to take me on, I want to be part of this. The coalition. The resistance. Whatever we're calling it."

"You're not a burden," Marron said immediately. "And yes. Absolutely. I'll add you to the list. We'll find you a partner chef, or I'll register a secondary establishment, or we'll figure out something. But you're covered. I promise."

Arrow's feathers fluffed with relief. "Thank you. For the soup. For everything."

"Thank you for the bread," Marron countered. "And for trusting me."

She cleaned up quickly, gathering her copper pot and ladle. As she was about to leave, she paused. "Arrow? That basket of day-old bread. Don't throw it out. Save it. When this is all over and the vendors want to celebrate, we're going to need a lot of French onion soup. Your bread will be perfect for it."

Arrow's amber eyes widened, then she smiled—truly smiled, the first real one Marron had seen from her. "I'll save every slice."

+

By the time Marron returned to her apartment that evening, she'd visited both remaining vendors (one agreed to partnership immediately, the other needed a day to think), filed paperwork for Arrow's partnership, and checked in with Millie about registration status.

Forty-nine vendors secured. One still undecided.

Seven days remaining.

They were so close.

Mokko was waiting in the apartment with dinner—he'd been cooking more lately, taking care of the practical things so Marron could focus on the crisis. Lucy was entertaining herself by forming increasingly complex geometric patterns in her jar.

"Edmund Erwell was at the street market today," Marron said without preamble, collapsing onto her bed. "Watching me cook. Taking notes."

Mokko's expression went carefully neutral. "I have information about him."

Marron sat up. "You do?"

"Did some research at the Academy library. Talked to a few people." Mokko pulled out his own notebook—much more battered than Edmund's elegant leather one. "Edmund Erwell is exactly who he claims to be. Professor of History, specialization in pre-cataclysm material culture. Published extensively on craft traditions, tool-making, the social role of functional objects."

"So he's legitimate."

"As an academic, yes." Mokko flipped a page. "But here's the interesting part. He's also known as a collector. Specifically, he collects pre-cataclysm tools and artifacts. Has one of the largest private collections in the eastern territories. Museums consult him. Adventurers sell to him. He pays top price for anything with documented pre-cataclysm provenance."

Marron's stomach dropped. "He's a collector."

"Not just any collector." Mokko's voice was grave. "According to one of the librarians I spoke to, Edmund is somewhat obsessive about preserving pre-cataclysm craft. Believes that functional objects from that era represent a level of skill and understanding that modern makers can't replicate. His collection is supposed to be impressive but also... sad. Everything locked away, documented, preserved. Nothing actually used."

"Keeper warned me about collectors," Marron said quietly. "People who see Legendary Tools as trophies instead of tools. Who want to lock them away instead of letting them be used."

"Edmund fits that description." Mokko closed his notebook. "But here's what worries me. If he's been watching you specifically, if he's taking notes on your cooking, your equipment, your methods—"

"He suspects I have something worth collecting," Marron finished.

"Or he knows." Mokko's expression was serious. "You've been using the cart publicly. People have noticed your food tastes unusually good. Add the copper pot, the ladle if he saw it today, and anyone with knowledge of Legendary Tools might start putting pieces together."

Lucy burbled anxiously, forming a worried squiggle.

"What do I do?" Marron asked. "Stop using the tools? Hide them?"

"That defeats their purpose," Mokko pointed out. "They were meant to be used, not locked away. If you hide them, you're doing exactly what Edmund does—preserving them instead of partnering with them."

"So I just... keep using them? And hope Edmund doesn't figure it out?"

"Or you prepare for the possibility that he already has figured it out." Mokko moved to sit beside her on the bed. "Marron, if Edmund is what we think he is—a collector obsessed with pre-cataclysm craft—three Legendary Tools would be invaluable to him. He might try to buy them. Or steal them. Or who knows what else."

"Lord Jackal Alexander warned me about this," Marron said, remembering the letter. "About collectors, about keeping the tools safe. I thought I'd have more time before it became a problem."

"Maybe you would have, if you'd stayed small. But you're not small anymore." Mokko gestured at the paperwork spread across her table—partnership agreements, vendor lists, registration forms. "You're organizing resistance movements, coordinating dozens of chefs, feeding hundreds of people. You're visible. And visibility attracts attention."

"I can't stop being visible," Marron said. "Not with seven days left to save the vendors. I have to keep working, keep coordinating, keep using the tools when appropriate."

"I know." Mokko's voice was gentle. "I'm just saying—be careful. Watch Edmund as closely as he's watching you. And if he approaches you directly, if he makes an offer or asks questions..."

"I'll be careful," Marron promised. "No revealing information. No confirming suspicions. Just... normal chef going about normal business."

"You're many things, Marron Louvel," Mokko said dryly. "But normal isn't one of them."

Despite everything, Marron smiled. "Thanks, Mokko."

"Eat your dinner. Then sleep. Tomorrow you have makeup classes with Henrik, and you'll need to be sharp."

Right. Normal life intruding on crisis management. She had to make up the poultry techniques she'd missed while traveling to New Brookvale, and Henrik would accept nothing less than perfection.

But as Marron ate the simple meal Mokko had prepared and reviewed her notes for tomorrow's class, part of her mind stayed on Edmund Erwell.

The academic who collected pre-cataclysm tools.

The man who watched her with careful, assessing eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

The collector who might want what she carried.

Seven days to save fifty vendors.

And an unknown man documenting her every move, waiting for... what?

Marron didn't know.

But she had a feeling she'd find out soon.

[Quest Update: Defend the Market]

[Progress: 49/50 vendors secured partnerships]

[Time Remaining: 7 days]

[New Information: Edmund Erwell confirmed as collector of pre-cataclysm artifacts]

[Edmund shows interest in functional tools from that era. Your visibility is increasing, but so is the danger. Tread carefully, chef.]

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