The sun dipped lower, softening the sharp edges of the arena buildings. Marron sat on a folding stool inside her cart, arms resting on the counter, eyes on the empty plaza beyond.
Lucy hovered beside her in a slow figure-eight, dim and quiet.
Mokko was napping under the cart's awning, paws crossed over his chest.
Marron stared at her empty prep board.
"How do you sum up your entire cooking soul in one dish?" she muttered.
The arena didn't just want something tasty. It wanted a performance. Something that popped. Something unforgettable.
She thought of what she'd seen that afternoon—chefs who seared food with gemstone torches, blew spices into the air like glitter, or layered sauces that moved on their own.
She wasn't going to attempt sugar sculptures or complex chocolate handiwork. She didn't even own a tempering slab.
Marron flipped open her notebook and scrawled down options. Real-world dishes she remembered from her early days of recipe testing.
— Savory risotto with edible flowers— Ribboned crepes stacked like cake— Floating dumplings (if she could figure out the magic for it)
But nothing felt right.
Not for this stage. Not for something called a First Flame Trial.
The pressure tightened in her chest.
In Lumeria, everything is either a performance or a competition. Like they've been training all their lives for this moment. Compared to them...
"I'm not polished," she said aloud, like a confession. "I dropped out of pastry school. I don't even have a brigade. I can't carve a tomato into a swan."
Lucy emitted a soft, uncertain hum.
She browsed through the pastry stall section, wondering what she could possibly present to the judges. When she saw a cheesecake with a caramelized, crunchy top, a memory came back to her.
It just wasn't officially winter until her mom made her white chocolate cheesecake. She'd said it was perfect for slow days, or when she wanted to make someone feel special.
Marron smiled faintly.
Her mom used to say the best dishes didn't shout. Instead, they were just themselves.
Before the diner, before the apron and the daily rush, her mom had been a professional chef. She dabbled in pastries when she had the time, made desserts that looked gentle but tasted bold. This cheesecake was one of the only sweets Marron had ever helped her make start-to-finish.
It was simple.
Creamy.
A little tangy from the ricotta.
The white chocolate melted in soft ribbons. The cheesecake was the color of pale gold with a soft top that cracked slightly when cooled. Her mother said it didn't need any decorations, but Marron dusted it with powdered sugar, because it looked like snow.
It was a cake that wasn't flashy, but it held its own.
And with how many people who asked her mom for the recipe, it stayed with people.
She touched the recipe gently and whispered, "I think this is it."
Lucy spun in a slow loop and released a happy chime.
Mokko stirred beneath the cart. "So. We're going the sentimental route."
"We're going the honest route," Marron replied. "No smoke. No glitter. Just a dish that helped me fall in love with food."
+
Marron didn't sleep much.
She'd stayed up tweaking the measurements on the cheesecake card, re-writing them in her own shorthand, adapting it to the tools in her cart and the ingredients she hoped to find.
By the time the sky cracked pale orange, she was already dressed, basket on her hip, Lucy hovering quietly at her shoulder.
Vendors were still setting up under canopies trimmed with steam-heated lanterns. The air smelled like damp wood and proofing bread.
Marron passed rows of stacked roots, cloth bundles of dried herbs, crates of glimmerfruit and frost-apples.
She bought:
Palewell ricotta from a water buffalo-beastkin with soft eyes and a sleepy smile. The cheese was sweet and grassy.
Flickerflour, a faintly warm baking flour from the eastern coast — it helped keep custards from cracking.
Crag-egg dozen, sturdy and golden-yolked.
Snowcardamom and cinder-nutmeg, both slightly magical but with gentle flavor.
At one stall, a jar of finely crushed sugarbark salt caught her eye — perfect for the crust edge.
But it was the fruit that stopped her.
It was curled like a hand — no, like many hands — long yellow fingers spreading out from a stub of green. It glowed slightly in the morning light, its skin dimpled and strange.
She stepped closer.
"Lemonfingers," the vendor said. "Lumerian variety. They don't have juice, just perfume. Zest them over a bowl and the whole kitchen smells like spring."
Marron picked one up.
It smelled like sugar and sunlight. And something else — like what a citrus orchard must dream about.
She smiled. "I'll take three."
Back at the cart, Marron spread everything across the counter and started to prep.
She crushed golden crumble-biscuits for the crust — buttery and slightly spiced — then mixed them with melted butter from a jar that smelled faintly of summer meadows.
The crust was less a base and more of a thin shell — a hug for the cake.
For the filling, she added an extra crag-egg for body, and less sugar than the original recipe called for. She liked her cheesecake mild and a little tangy.
She stirred in snowcardamom and a pinch of cinder-nutmeg — holiday flavors, warm and nostalgic.
Then came the white chocolate.
She didn't have fancy bars or truffles, but the market had sold her Sunmelt Drops — Savorian white chocolate pearls made with dreammilk and sweetroot oil.
They melted like silk.
She licked the spoon. Just to be sure.
Finally, she zested one of the lemonfingers over the bowl. Thin curls fell like confetti. The scent bloomed.
Marron closed her eyes.
Her mom would've loved this.
The ricotta gave it airiness. The eggs gave it weight. The chocolate bound it all together. And the lemonfinger zest—well, that was just joy.
She poured the filling into the crust, tapped it twice, then slid it into her oven with a quiet breath.
No glitter. No show.
But something beautiful.