Chapter 124: The Trial
When they called her name, Marron followed a silent attendant through corridors that smelled of fresh bread and nerves. Other candidates waited in alcoves, practicing knife techniques or muttering to themselves. One woman was levitating three onions in a perfect triangle, her fingers trailing light as she peeled them without touching them.
Marron’s fingers tightened on her cart handle. Just cook, she told herself. You know how to cook.
Her assigned station was in the Grand Arena. It was a circular chamber with tiered seating rising up on all sides. The station itself was immaculate. Too immaculate. No scorch marks, no patina of use, not a single nick in the cutting board. Even the ladles gleamed like they’d been polished for a royal inspection.
It felt like she was cooking in a museum.
Just...wrong.
I mean, it doesn’t have to be a dirty diner in the middle of nowhere, Marron thought. But it’s too perfect. It’s creepy.
The judges sat at a curved dais on the far side of the arena, five figures in white and gold robes with insignias of spice jars and stylized forks embroidered on their chests. Their faces held the polite indifference of people who’d seen a thousand dishes and been impressed by none of them.
Above, in the gallery seats, spectators watched. Some held tablets, recording everything. Others simply observed with the detached interest of critics at an exhibition.
Marron’s hands wanted to shake. but she forced them still.
"Guild candidate Marron Louvel," the head judge announced, her voice carrying through the arena without needing amplification. "You have one hour to produce a signature dish that represents your culinary philosophy. Ingredients are provided. Improvisation is permitted. Presentation is mandatory."
That last word landed with weight.
Marron bowed slightly. "Understood."
The bell chimed. It was a clear, crystalline note that echoed through the space.
She didn’t move for a heartbeat. Just stood there, letting the silence settle, trying to remember why she’d come here. Not for the Guild. Not for the prestige. But because somewhere in the mimic dungeon, she’d remembered what it felt like to care about cooking again.
That was worth fighting for.
She set to work.
The rhythm steadied her—knife against board, the clean slice through onion skin, the satisfying weight of the blade in her hand. She made what she always did when she needed courage: French onion soup, the way her mother had taught her.
First, the onions. She sliced them evenly, methodically, letting the sharp sweetness fill her nose and sting her eyes. Into the pot with butter—real butter, not the enchanted kind that never burned—and she stirred, slow and patient. The heat low, the time long. This wasn’t a dish you could rush.
The onions began their transformation. From sharp and pale to soft and golden, then deeper—bronze, then caramel. The smell changed too, from acidic to sweet to something rich and almost savory.
She deglazed with wine, the liquid hissing and steaming, then added stock. Not the pre-made kind. Real stock, with depth and body. She added thyme from her own stores, the woody scent grounding everything.
While the broth simmered, she toasted bread—thick slices that crisped on the edges but stayed tender in the middle. Into the bowls they went, then the soup ladled over. Finally, cheese. It was a good flavorful Gruyere that she grated herself, and she watched as it slowly melted under the broiler’s heat.
When it was beautifully bubbled and browned, she lifted the bowl from the heat. The onion soup smelled like pure comfort, the kind that settled behind the ribs like a promise.
It smelled like her mother’s kitchen, the early mornings before the diner opened and she was focused on prep work. For Marron, it was like the first good thing after a terrible week.
Lucy, watching from her jar at the edge of the station, hummed softly. "It smells like home."
"Like my home," Marron murmured.
When the bell chimed again, she carried her bowl to the judges’ table. The only garnish she added was the melted cheese and one sprig of thyme. She refused to add any artistic swirls or geometric arrangements.
The bowl she served it in was plain white, with a square plate beneath.
It was just French Onion soup.
The judges leaned in. Sniffed. One lifted a spoon, tasted, and paused. A flicker of something—surprise, maybe recognition—crossed his face before he schooled it back to neutrality.
The second judge murmured, "Flavor’s excellent. Very traditional execution."
But then the third tilted his head, studying the bowl like it was a puzzle. "And... presentation?"
The lead judge—the woman with hair like polished steel—set down her spoon after a single taste. She folded her hands, the gesture precise and final.
"Candidate Louvel." Her voice wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t warm either. "Your soup is technically sound. The flavor is balanced, even nuanced. The onions are perfectly caramelized. The broth has depth." She paused. "But this Guild values more than taste alone."
Marron felt her stomach drop.
"A dish must speak before it touches the tongue," the judge continued. "It must tell us who you are and why your food deserves our attention. This—" she gestured at the bowl, "—is something one might eat between errands. Competent, yes. But unremarkable."
"It’s soup," Marron said carefully, trying to keep her voice steady. "It’s meant to comfort, not perform."
"Then make comfort worth looking at," another judge interjected. "Beauty and sustenance are not enemies, Candidate Louvel. They should be partners."
The head judge consulted her tablet, making notes with precise flicks of her stylus. "Your technical scores are high. Your flavor profile is exemplary. But presentation cannot be ignored. This is Lumeria. We do not serve invisible food."
She looked up, meeting Marron’s eyes. "You will be given another opportunity in three days. Same dish, if you wish. But show us that warmth can be beautiful. Show us that you understand: we eat with our eyes first, our hearts second."
The verdict appeared on the display screen behind them:
Marron Louvel
Taste: 9/10
Technique: 8/10
Presentation: 4/10
Overall: FAIL - Retest Available
Marron stood there, bowl in hand, feeling the weight of the dismissal like a stone in her chest. She bowed and walked off the arena floor.
The spectators were already losing interest, turning to watch the next candidate. Someone whose station was beginning to glow with color magic, ingredients floating in carefully choreographed spirals.
Behind her, applause started. For them, not for her.
And for the first time since she arrived, Marron thought briefly:
It isn’t fair.