Chapter 123: The City of Light
The morning of the evaluation dawned white and brilliant, light refracting through Lumeria’s crystalline towers like the world’s most expensive prism. Even the air shimmered faintly with enchantment—a perfumed haze of vanilla, cardamom, and something floral that Marron couldn’t quite place. It made the whole city feel like it was forever about to step onto a stage.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any more dazzling, Lumeria proves me wrong.
Marron had seen beautiful cities before, but never one that gleamed like this. Every window was clean enough to see your reflection twice. Unlike Whetvale, Lumeria had trams that ran through tracks along the middle of its roads.
They purchased tickets for the tram line going directly to the Lumerian Culinary Guild, and had to buy two seats for Mokko. He seemed a bit grumpy about this, but Marron checked her gold pouch and had enough for fare: 30 gold total.
The tram was roomier than it looked, and Marron continued to feel impossibly plain when she saw the other passengers.
Every person on that tram wore something colorful, like a statement piece.
Marron saw beautifully dyed scarves or jackets with rhinestone runes. They wandered toward the back of the tram, with Marron looking out into the distance. Even the humble street sweepers all wore tailored uniforms and did their jobs with impeccable posture.
"Even blue-collar looks white-collar with the right clothing," she whispered to herself.
Lucy floated in her jar, drifting lazily as she watched the city pass. "Everyone’s so shiny," she whispered, voice bubbling with wonder. "They always seem to sparkle! Even their aprons!"
"They probably buff them," Marron muttered, adjusting her own plain canvas apron—washed but worn, practical but unremarkable. "Twice a day."
Mokko chuckled beside her, his bulk taking up two seats on the tram. "Don’t be jealous, Chef. Maybe they just use better soap."
"I’m not jealous." But even as she said it, Marron felt the familiar weight settling in her chest. The same feeling she’d had as a kid when the fancy customers from the upper district would come slumming to her mother’s diner, looking around with polite confusion, as if trying to figure out what they were doing there.
She’d spent years telling herself that kind of polish didn’t matter. That good food spoke for itself. But watching Lumeria glide past in all its crystalline perfection, she wondered if she’d been lying to herself.
Maybe I should buy at least one piece of fancy clothing...?
+
The tram slowed near the Guild plaza—a wide terrace framed by banners that rippled in a breeze that smelled of butter and ambition. The Culinary Guild of Lumeria sprawled ahead, a masterpiece of marble and glass that seemed to grow organically from the plaza itself. Its crest was a golden spoon crossed with a silver knife, etched above an archway taller than most houses.
The smell that greeted them wasn’t quite food. It was something more refined: lemon oil, beeswax polish, and the faint citrus of expensive cleaning spells.
"Try not to touch anything," Marron said automatically as Lucy wobbled closer to the edge of her jar, clearly tempted by a nearby fountain that sparkled with what looked like edible gold flakes.
"But it’s so pretty," Lucy protested.
"That’s the point. It’s supposed to make you forget you’re hungry and just... look."
Mokko raised an eyebrow. "That a bad thing?"
"Well...we are in the land of food, aren’t we?" Marron asked quietly.
"True, but...I don’t think there’s anything wrong with making food look a little better," Mokko said. "N-not that it’s everything," he said quickly. "but it doesn’t hurt."
Marron didn’t answer.
Normally she would have insisted that flavor was everything.
But now, she wasn’t so sure.
+
Inside, the Guild looked more like an opera house than a kitchen. The entrance hall glowed with ambient runelight that shifted from warm amber to cool blue depending on the time of day. The walls were inlaid with murals of famous chefs mid-creation—pans flaring like halos, ingredients suspended in impossible spirals, their faces caught in expressions of artistic rapture.
Marron passed clusters of students in pristine white uniforms, each one with some deliberate affectation: feathers tucked into their hair, jeweled pins on their collars, bright cuffs that glittered when they gestured. They moved with the confidence of people who’d never questioned whether they belonged.
She tugged at her own collar, suddenly aware of how plain she looked. How practical. Like someone who’d showed up to an art gallery in work boots.
A receptionist with silver hair and nails that sparkled like frost directed her to a waiting area. "The evaluation begins in twenty minutes. You’ll be assigned a station and given your instructions. Do you have any questions?"
"Just one," Marron said. "What are they actually judging?"
The woman’s smile was kind but pitying. "Everything, dear. Technique, flavor, creativity, presentation. A Guild chef must excel at all of it."
All of it. Marron’s stomach sank.
She found a bench near a window overlooking the city. Mokko settled beside her, and Lucy’s jar clinked gently as Marron set it down.
"You nervous?" Mokko asked.
"No." Then, more honestly: "Yes. Maybe." She stared out at Lumeria’s impossible skyline. "I don’t know what I’m doing here."
"Cooking," Lucy offered helpfully.
"Competing," Mokko corrected. "Against people who’ve been training for this their whole lives."
Marron shot him a look. "You’re not helping."
"Wasn’t trying to." He leaned back, arms crossed. "Just reminding you that you’ve already done the hard part. You survived a mimic dungeon. You fed a furnace. You made monsters choose soup over violence. These people?" He gestured at the passing students. "They’ve never cooked anything scarier than a soufflé."
Despite herself, Marron smiled. "That’s a terrible pep talk."
"But it worked."
It had. A little.
She pulled out her notebook—the same one she’d been using since her mother’s diner closed. The pages were stained and dog-eared, filled with recipes in her mother’s cramped handwriting and her own hasty additions. She flipped to the recipe she’d chosen for today: French onion soup.
Simple. Honest. The kind of dish that had kept the diner’s lights on for twenty years.
The kind of dish that had nothing to do with art or performance. Just warmth, patience, and time.
Maybe that would be enough.