Marron and her friends left Whisperwind before sunrise.
The sky had only just begun to fade from navy to soft rose, and the road ahead looked like it had been dipped in tea.
Dew clung to every blade of grass. Somewhere nearby, a nightbird gave one last trill before turning in for the day.
Marron adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag and looked at the inn.
For almost two months, it had been their home.
The wolfkin elder waited for everyone to get ready before she opened the portal again.
Marron didn't wave, since she already said her goodbyes. Before the elder wolfkin opened the portal, she handed Marron a small white stone with a carved wolf's head on it.
"If you ever want to visit, bang this against the trees. I'll hear you and open the way. You are always welcome here, Marron Louvel."
She accepted it gratefully. "Thank you, elder wolf. You and the Lord Jackal have been most kind."
"It's a small gesture of appreciation, for everything you've done. I never thought I'd see the snakekin and the wolves trying to get along in my lifetime."
The portal was opened, and they stepped into the edge of the forest, Whisperwind hidden from the world once more.
Mokko walked ahead, leading the way with a steady gait, one clawed paw gripping the cart's reins. They'd hitched her hybrid cart-stall to a borrowed beast of burden—a shaggy, doe-eyed thistleboar named Marnie who snorted with dignified annoyance every time the path got uneven.
"Did you pack extra flour?" Mokko asked without turning around.
"Yes."
"Milk powder?"
"Yes."
"Emergency spice blend?"
Marron rolled her eyes. "Obviously. Do you think I was born yesterday?"
Mokko muttered, "In this world, kind of."
She stuck her tongue out at his back.
The journey to Lumeria would take two full weeks by foot, maybe more if the weather turned or the roads got congested.
Fortunately, there were inns certified by the Culinary Guild along the main route.
As a registered chef, Marron only had to pay half price for basic lodging.
Plus, most inns gave out complimentary ingredient bundles to active cooks.
+
The first night, she served crispy scallion pancakes and root vegetable stew to the innkeeper and received three jars of preserved garlic paste in return.
The second night, she made black vinegar dumplings with spicy cabbage slaw, and an older guest declared he hadn't tasted anything so "nostalgic, it was annoying" since his mother's kitchen.
After that, a knight staying at the inn shared a bottle of plum wine with them.
By the third night, the stories began.
They didn't seek them out.
Rumors had a way of finding chefs on the road—travelers trusted the ones who could feed them. And Marron always fed them well.
"Spritz? I saw her once. Concert tickets cost a fortune, but my cousin got us in. She made this smoked honey roast with an apricot foam. It tasted like heaven—"
"—and then you're hungry again in an hour, tops. I swear I ate three street snacks after. Chef cooks like it's junk food."
"Some say it's the magic. You're not just tasting food, you're tasting performance."
"She's not a chef. She's a spellcaster with a sauté pan."
"No, she's a culinary genius. You're just not evolved enough to appreciate it."
Marron heard versions of these stories over and over. The details changed—flavors, textures, presentation styles—but one thing remained consistent:
People love Emily Spritz's food…but it never satisfies them for very long.
There were people who were constant concert-goers, and others who just wanted to try it once.
Marron felt a little off about that.
Even if someone calls it junk food, Emily still managed to draw people in. She still draws people in. I guess that's the appeal of the idol chef?
On the sixth night, at a hillside inn tucked into the curve of a creek, Marron sat beneath the glow of a single lantern.
There, she summoned her system interface.
Lucy floated beside her in sleep mode, gently pulsing like a jellyfish adrift on warm current.
She flicked through her personal log, curious.
And there it was.
A newly added tab:
"Connected Chefs – Threaded Destinies"
Her silver spoon pulsed once in her apron pocket.
She opened the menu.
Only one name was listed.
Name: Emily Spritz
Class: Harmonic Alchemist
Alignment: Unknown
Affiliation: Seasonal Exhibition Stage (Lumeria)
Threads Registered: 1
Status: Active
Warning: Culinary Effect deviation detected. Patron Satisfaction baseline misaligned.
Marron stared at the note.
"Patron Satisfaction baseline misaligned."
She read it three times before letting it sink in.
Her fingers hovered over the entry, but there was nothing else. No messages. No way to track or reach out. Just that strange entry line and a quiet hum from the spoon at her side.
She slowly set it on the table.
It pulsed again—this time rhythmic, almost musical. Like a beat waiting for its melody.
"Mokko?" she said quietly, not taking her eyes off the screen. "Do you think it's possible for someone to make food that tastes better than it is? Like an illusion?"
Mokko, lying on his back nearby with a book resting on his chest, answered without looking. "It's rare, but it happens. Some high-magic chefs work that way. They project emotional resonance...enhance perception...maybe even bend memory through taste."
He paused.
"But it never lasts. Eventually the eater notices something's missing. Not right away. But they feel it."
Marron folded the interface closed.
She stared into the lantern light for a long moment, then whispered to the spoon: "Is that what you're warning me about?"
It didn't respond.
But the warmth it gave off was still steady.
Steady… and sad.
"You treat that spoon like it's a magic 8-ball!" Mokko called after her.
"It's a magic artifact that's doing its job!" Marron called back as she blew him a raspberry.
Lucy yawned, scratched her head with a tendril, and continued to sleep.
+
The smell of sulfur hit them before the view did.
Marron wrinkled her nose as they crested the rocky trail, only to stop in her tracks when the landscape opened up before them.
To the south, nestled between jagged cliffs and curling heat-shimmers, sat a jagged tear in the earth.
Its opening was framed by dwarf-carved stones and blackened pillars. A faint breeze rose from within. It wasn't carrying smoke, but something more unsettling: the smell of scorched salt and metal.
A wooden sign stood crookedly nearby:
CAUTION: Active Dungeon — Authorized Parties Only
Riftcleft Cavern
Danger Rating: Tier C+
Status: Stable
"13 Floors. Never the same twice."
"Well," Mokko muttered, "that's appetizing."
They weren't the only ones there.