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.
