My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!

The first thing Marron smelled was bread.

It wasn't dungeon moss, ash, or strange metal. Instead, it was yeast and the faint sweetness of sugar caramelizing on a perfectly baked crust. The nostalgic smell hit her like a fierce slap as Meadowbrook's rooftops came into view, sunlight spilling over them like butter over toast.

Her cart creaked beside her, its wheels humming a low, pleased sound through their bond. Even it seemed relieved. After weeks of stone corridors and magic light, the dirt road felt gentle beneath the wheels. She reached out and gave its handle a fond pat.

"Almost there," she murmured.

Behind her, Mokko stretched his arms until his joints popped. "Did you ever think you'd see sky again?"

"I dreamed about it every day," Marron said softly.

Lucy's translucent outline shimmered in the morning light. "We're glad you're home with us now."

Elena's eyes darted from the fields to the clustered cottages, full of quiet wonder. "It smells… alive. Like herbs and cinnamon."

"That's Meadowbrook," Marron said softly. "Even the soil's seasoned."

Alexander walked just behind her, steady as always. Without the dim cave lighting, Marron saw his hair was actually blonde with a glint of silver. The medal over his heart gleamed with a quiet pulse.

A few of the younger mimics chose to follow them, and expressed a desire to move into Meadowbrook.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Marron said quietly. "But you can look at my home while Alexander is here."

The younger mimics followed close, silent and nervous. Marron noticed their half-formed faces, how they shrank back when a wagon rolled past on the opposite lane. She slowed her pace so they could catch up.

"They won't hurt you here," she told them. "You're with me."

One of the mimics looked barely older than a six year-old boy. He glanced up and whispered, "They'll know we're different."

"Yes, but also you're with me. If you behave, they won't be so scared of you."

+

She saw the dwarves had been busy landscaping. Before she left, Marron was sure there hadn't been a small bridge or a creek--but they were there now.

The diner sat at the corner of Main Street, and...it was now painted a pale green. The sign above the door was a little more sun-faded, and the dwarves had installed a bell over the door. As she pulled it open, the bell chimed in an ordinary way, but it brought tears to Marron's eyes.

Home.

Balen stood behind the counter, polishing a mug. He looked up, froze, and dropped it. The mug shattered, coffee splashing everywhere.

"Marron?" he breathed.

She tried to answer but ended up laughing and crying at the same time. "Surprise."

He came around the counter in two strides and wrapped her in a hug that smelled of roasted beans and soap. "You're alive."

"Mostly," she said into his shoulder. "A bit overcooked in places."

When they finally pulled apart, he took in the rest of her group—Alexander, Elena, Mokko, Lucy, and the mimics huddled near the door. His expression tightened, just for a heartbeat. Marron caught it.

"They're friends," she said quickly. "They helped me. We're… all free of the dungeon now."

Balen nodded slowly. Then his shoulders dropped, and the corners of his mouth softened. "Then you're all welcome. Sit down before I faint."

The group filled the diner's tables, the wooden benches creaking under Mokko's weight. Balen moved like a man possessed, brewing coffee, cracking eggs, slicing bread. Marron tried to protest but he waved her off. "Sit, for once. I can handle a breakfast."

When the plates arrived, she nearly wept. Real food—eggs fried until the edges curled, toast glistening with butter, hash browns crisp and golden. No glowing moss, no dungeon essence, no strange aftertaste of mana.

Marron ate and savored each bite until her body was fully relaxed, her heart full.

The mimics watched the others before attempting to eat, mimicking every motion: cutting, chewing, sipping. One of them swallowed a bite of toast and looked startled. "It tastes warm."

"That's the butter," Elena said, smiling. "It's supposed to."

The table filled with small laughter—the kind that didn't echo off stone. Marron leaned back, letting herself listen. The clatter of utensils, the low hum of voices, the smell of frying potatoes. For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she had to watch every door.

Later, after the plates were cleared and the mimics had gone to explore the market under Alexander's watch, Marron found herself in the kitchen beside Balen. The morning rush had ended, and sunlight slanted through the window, catching the flour dust in the air.

Without needing to speak, they fell into rhythm—she stirred batter while he flipped pancakes, the sounds of the griddle grounding her. It was the same kitchen she'd grown up in, but her hands felt different now—steadier, stronger, used to stirring potions and wielding knives that sang with magic.

"You burn the butter, I'll dock your pay," Balen teased.

"I don't even work here anymore."

He arched an eyebrow. "You always work here. That's the curse."

Marron smiled faintly, but her thoughts wandered. Her magic buzzed under her skin, restless. Even here, the bond to her cart hummed—a faint vibration against her hip, like a heartbeat she couldn't ignore.

Balen must've noticed her faraway look. "Still cooking two dishes at once?"

"Feels like ten." She sighed, setting down the whisk. "Everything's too quiet. My magic keeps… reaching for something."

"Oh?" he asked.

"Yeah. My cart's a Legendary Tool, apparently. And...there are more out there."

Balen leaned against the counter. "You've changed. Like you've forgotten how to rest."

"Funnily enough, I think I rested a lot more back in the dungeon."

He handed her a clean towel. "Well, let's start resting by drying our hands."

She laughed softly, obeying. "You ever been to Lumeria?"

He grimaced. "Twice. Never liked that place...too many people think they're paprika when they're just salt."

"Guildmaster Halloway told me to go there. There's a Culinary Guild that studies Legendary Tools. And they run a tournament."

Balen looked at her for a long moment. "You thinking of joining?"

"I'm thinking I should learn what I am before I break something."

He sighed, but there was pride hidden in it. "Just don't forget what flavor you started with."

By midday, Marron found Alexander near the town square. A few locals were gathered around him, wary but curious. He was explaining the treaty with quiet patience, his posture nonthreatening, his words careful.

"We're not here to replace anyone," he was saying. "Only here to visit. Then we go home."

A farmer muttered something about shapeshifters under his breath. Marron stepped forward before Alexander could answer.

"I'll make lunch," she announced. "And you'll eat with us. That's how you'll see."

The crowd blinked, and before anyone could object, she was wheeling her cart to the edge of the square. The familiar rhythm steadied her again—knife against board, oil in pan, sizzle. She mixed some of the cave mushrooms with Meadowbrook onions and a dash of cream, folding it into puff pastry from the diner's stores. The smell rose quickly, rich and earthy.

When the pies were done, she cut them into wedges and passed them around. The first farmer took a reluctant bite—and blinked.

"This is good."

"Dungeon mushrooms," Marron said lightly. "Turns out they're better when you stop trying to kill them."

Laughter rippled through the group. The mimics began eating too, slower but smiling. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

"See?" Marron said quietly to Alexander as the crowd eased. "Some ingredients just need the right mix."

He looked at her, warmth in his eyes. "You make peace sound like a recipe."

"It is," she said. "Takes time. And patience."

That evening, the sky burned orange over the meadow. Marron sat on the diner's back step, her cart parked beside her. Its copper fixtures gleamed softly in the fading light, and the hum between them had settled to a quiet purr.

Elena came out, wrapping her arms around her knees. "You're thinking about it again."

Marron didn't deny it. "It's still there. The pull. Like the scent of something simmering too long."

Elena rested her head on her arms. "Then let it. Doesn't mean you have to follow. Bread needs to rise before you bake it."

Marron looked at her hands, still faintly dusted with flour. She thought of the dungeons, the hunger, the shards, the medal over Alexander's heart. "Do you think we'll ever be done with all this?"

Elena's eyes drifted closed. "No. But maybe we can choose which hunger to feed."

That night, Marron finally slept.

At first, she dreamed of the diner again—quiet and golden, sunlight glancing off polished tables. Her mother was humming in the kitchen. Marron was at the stove, stirring a pot of soup that smelled faintly of thyme.

Steam rose, calm and steady, never boiling over. The copper pot gleamed—a perfect, round thing, its surface catching the light like a mirror.

Then the air shivered.

The diner melted away. The counter became stone, the smell of soup turning to metal and ozone. The pot was still there, sitting on a blackened stove, untouched by the change.

A whisper threaded through the silence.

Don't rush the heat.

Marron reached for the pot. Its surface was cool, but her fingers tingled as if something inside recognized her. The lid rattled once, then lifted on its own. Inside, the liquid glowed faintly gold—and from deep within it, a single bubble rose and popped.

The sound echoed like a lock turning.

She saw it clearly in her mind: a faint shimmer around her cart, one of the ethereal shackles snapping open. A new weight shifted into place—a gift, or a warning.

The copper pot's glow flared, swallowing everything.

Marron woke with a gasp, heart pounding. The diner was quiet, dark. But her cart—parked by the door—was humming.

A thin wisp of steam curled from its surface, and a single line of text blinked across her vision:

[Cart Shackle #2 Unlocked]

New Feature: Resonant Temperature Control

Linked Artifact: The Copper Pot That Never Boils Over.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the warmth radiate from the bond.

"Guess we're still cooking," she whispered.

Outside, the dawn was already rising—soft and pink, like the start of a new recipe.