My Food Stall Serves SSS-Grade Delicacies!

The receptionist returned, her arms full of papers. "I've confirmed its movements. The mimic-as-Balen attended two contests in Whetvale over the last week. He filed reports, shared dishes. Nothing suspicious—yet."

"Yet," Halloway repeated grimly. "That ends tonight."

He began issuing orders in a calm, practiced rhythm. "Fetch a squad of thieves from the Adventurer's Guild. They'll shadow its movements, unnoticed. Send word to the guild mages—we'll need binding wards strong enough to hold a shapeshifter. And prepare the chefs. If the mimic tries to slip away, they'll stall it until the wards are in place."

Marron hugged her arms around herself, heart pounding. She wasn't a thief or a mage. She wasn't even a proper guild chef yet. But Halloway's gaze turned toward her, steady and deliberate.

"You noticed its flaw," he said. "You saw what others could not—that the laughter sounded right, but felt wrong. That instinct matters, Marron."

Her throat went dry. "Me?"

"Yes. If we bring it to the table, if it cooks, only someone who knows flavor intimately will be able to tell the difference. The real Balen's food carries humanity. Passion. If the mimic tries to imitate him…" Halloway's lips pressed thin. "It will be soulless. And you will taste that."

Marron's pulse hammered in her ears. The responsibility pressed down on her shoulders like an iron pot. She thought of her cart, of Mokko's grin, of Lucy's laughter, of the adventurers who had smiled through bandages while eating her congee.

Flavor is power. Great cooking saves lives.

She drew in a long, shaky breath. "Alright. I'll do it."

Halloway gave a single approving nod. "We have one chance to corner it before nightfall. If it slips past us, none of us will be able to trust the face across the table."

That thought stuck with Marron, even as they left the Culinary Guild and went back to the inn to pack up.

+

"Didn't expect to see you check out so soon," the innkeeper said, a little amused. "I wanted to learn more from Guildmaster Halloway."

She didn't mention how she also hoped to find a chef that could replace Balen and herself in the future. It was definitely in the pipeline, because she also wanted to continue traveling Savoria. But she couldn't just leave the dwarves behind, or anyone else who happened to pass through.

Did I start rebuilding too soon? I was just supposed to come to Whetvale to earn money. And now...I'm in the middle of a mimic mystery.

She didn't voice her doubts, and instead just completed packing. They would spend one last night at the inn, and return to the guild in the morning.

+

The guild's marble atrium had been transformed. What should have been an ordinary afternoon now buzzed with carefully orchestrated chaos. Guild members hurried back and forth, arranging cooking stations in a wide circle around the hall's center. The air filled with the clatter of pans and the scrape of knives being sharpened.

"Remember," Charity whispered as she passed Marron with an armload of judging sheets, "act natural. This has to look like a real exhibition."

The trap was elegant in its simplicity, terrifying in its implications. A cooking showcase for new guild members—the perfect excuse to gather crowds, create noise, and draw the mimic into the open.

Officially, it was a friendly demonstration of skill. In reality, it was a carefully baited snare.

Adventurers and townsfolk began filtering into the hall, their voices creating a comfortable din of conversation. Marron spotted familiar faces among them—the merchant who sold her vegetables, the blacksmith who'd sharpened her cleaver, the healer who'd praised her congee. Normal people living normal lives, unaware they were witnesses to a hunt.

The mimic arrived precisely on time.

It wore Balen's face like a perfectly fitted mask, complete with his easy stride and flour-dusted apron. The thing moved through the crowd with practiced charm, accepting congratulations on its return from Meadowbrook, laughing at jokes with that hollow reproduction of warmth Marron now recognized.

"There," Halloway murmured beside her. "Do you see it?"

Marron's throat tightened. "I see it."

The judges' table had been positioned with military precision. Marron sat at its center, flanked by Charity and Halloway, their chairs arranged to give them a clear view of every cooking station. Behind them, two guild mages posed as scribes, their hands already tracing invisible ward lines beneath the tablecloth.

Lucy curled anxiously in Marron's lap, her gelatinous form trembling with nervous energy. "Scary," she whispered. "Smells wrong."

Even Lucy could sense it. That should have been reassuring, but it only made Marron's stomach twist tighter.

"Participants, take your stations!" Halloway called out, his voice carrying easily across the hall.

The mimic-Balen claimed the station directly in front of the judges' table. Coincidence? Marron doubted it. The creature was positioning itself for maximum impact, maximum visibility. It wanted to be seen, to be praised, to solidify its disguise.

"You have one hour to prepare your finest dish," Halloway announced. "Impress us with your skill, your creativity, and your passion for the culinary arts."

The exhibition began.

Around the circle, legitimate guild members set to work with varying degrees of nervous energy. A young elf attempted an ambitious soufflé, her hands shaking as she separated eggs. A gruff dwarf attacked a rack of lamb with professional confidence. A human woman Marron didn't recognize began layering delicate pastry for what looked like a complex tart.

But Marron's attention fixed on the mimic.

It cut ingredients precisely, with every motion smooth and economical. The mimic diced vegetables and every piece was uniform.

Even meat was seared with textbook technique, achieving ideal color and crust. It moved like a master chef distilled into pure technique, stripped of everything human.

"Beautiful form," Charity murmured. She acted like an impressed judge, not the way she did when Marron was in the marketplace.

"Look at that knife control."

The crowd murmured appreciative agreement, but Marron saw things in a different light.

She saw the absence of instinct, the lack of tiny adjustments that marked a cook who truly understood their ingredients. The mimic followed perfect technique because it copied Balen's techniques, down to the way he twirled his knife to impress the audience.

What it couldn't replicate was the intuition. That was born from years of burning sauces, over-salting soups, and other culinary mistakes that resulted in calloused hands and food-obsessed hearts.

The dish taking shape at the mimic's station was a work of art. Perfectly seared fish atop a bed of precisely julienned vegetables, sauce painted in elegant swooshes across the plate.

It looked like something from a culinary textbook.

"Fifteen minutes remaining," Halloway called.