"We show up," Marron said firmly. She'd been stress-cooking since six bells—Savoria Rounds, the only thing that kept her hands busy and her mind from spiraling. The apartment smelled of sausage and cheese and toasted bread rounds. "We show up, we present our case, we prove the partnerships are legitimate. That's all we can do."

"You're very calm about this," Iris observed quietly from his corner. The mousekin looked like he'd barely slept. "My three vendors are terrified. If this doesn't work—"

"It will work," Marron interrupted, with more confidence than she felt. "We followed all the regulations. We documented everything properly. The Merchant's Guild is grasping at straws, trying to scare us into backing down. But we're not backing down."

"Even if they revoke everything?" Kira's voice cracked slightly. "Even if we lose?"

Marron looked around at the twelve chefs crowded into her small apartment—young people who'd risked their reputations and resources to help strangers, who'd believed her when she said they could make a difference, who were now facing potential failure on the deadline day itself.

"Even if we lose, we tried," Marron said. "Which is more than most people do. And honestly? I don't think we're going to lose. The Merchant's Guild is playing bureaucratic games, but we have law and logic on our side. They just want to see if we'll crack under pressure."

"So we don't crack," Mokko rumbled from his position by the door. He'd been silent until now, just watching the room with sharp eyes. "We go to this hearing. We present our evidence. We make them explain exactly what they're claiming is non-compliant. And if they can't—if this is just intimidation—we call them on it."

"In front of the entire Merchant's Guild?" Thomas looked skeptical. "That's bold."

"Bold is what we've been all along," Millie said, squeezing into the apartment through the crowded doorway. She was carrying a folder stuffed with documents. "Sorry I'm late—I was at the Culinary Guild trying to get official support. Guild Master Savorin still won't commit to anything, but Chef Henrik gave me this." She held up the folder. "Precedent cases. Legal documentation. Everything we need to prove home-based establishments are legitimate under city regulations."

Marron felt something loosen in her chest. "Henrik helped?"

"Unofficially. Very unofficially. He'll deny it if asked directly." Millie distributed copies of key documents to the assembled chefs. "But he believes in what we're doing. Even if he can't say so publicly."

The mood in the apartment shifted slightly—still tense, still scared, but with a thread of renewed determination.

"Okay," Marron said. "We have two hours before the hearing. Everyone eat something—you need energy and focus. Then we go to the Merchant's Guild Hall together. Unified front. We show them we're serious."

"What are we eating?" Iris asked, eyeing the food covering Marron's small kitchen counter.

"Savoria Rounds," Marron said. "Traditional breakfast. Sausage, cheese, toasted rounds. It'll keep you going through the hearing."

She'd been making them on autopilot while waiting for everyone to arrive—a meditation in simple food. The rounds themselves were dense little breads, slightly sweet from honey, with a satisfying chew. She'd split them, toasted them until golden and crispy, then layered them with her carefully prepared sausage patties and sharp Brightstone cheese.

The sausage had been cooked in the copper pot, of course. Perfect sear on the outside, juicy inside, seasoned with sage and thyme and a touch of warmroot—that ginger-cinnamon hybrid spice that added subtle heat. The copper pot's consistent heat meant no burning, no sticking, just even cooking that brought out the meat's best qualities.

The cheese melted over the hot sausage, sharp and creamy, cutting through the richness with tang.

"Here," Marron said, handing rounds to everyone in the apartment. "Eat. Then we go face bureaucracy on full stomachs."

They ate standing, sitting on any available surface, leaning against walls. The small apartment filled with the sounds of chewing and occasional murmurs of appreciation.

"This is really good," Kira said around a mouthful. "What's in the sausage?"

"Ground boar, sage, thyme, black pepper, warmroot," Marron listed. "Traditional seasoning. Nothing fancy. Just proper balance."

"The rounds are perfect," Iris added. "Dense enough to hold everything without falling apart, but still tender. Where did you get them?"

"Made them myself this morning," Marron admitted. "Needed something to do with my hands."

Charlotte gave her a look that suggested she understood exactly what kind of stress-cooking that implied, but said nothing.

Lucy, in her jar on the counter, was given a tiny portion of cheese, which she absorbed with enthusiastic spirals.

Mokko ate three rounds and looked ready to eat more. "You always cook when you're nervous. At this rate we're going to be too well-fed to move."

"Good," Marron said. "Then you can't run away when it gets scary."

The callback to her earlier comment made several people smile, despite the tension.

By nine-thirty bells, they were ready. Twelve chefs, dressed in their Guild uniforms with pins prominently displayed, carrying documentation and determination in equal measure. Millie came as coordinator. Mokko came as support. Lucy came because Marron refused to leave her behind.

They walked through Lumeria's streets together—a small parade of resistance heading toward the upper district, toward the Merchant's Guild Hall, toward whatever judgment awaited them.

The Merchant's Guild Administrative Hall was intimidating by design.

All white marble and gold trim, with soaring columns and crystal windows that caught the morning light and threw it back in blinding glory. The entrance was flanked by guards in expensive uniforms, and the interior atrium was full of clerks and officials moving with bureaucratic purpose.

Marron and her coalition entered together, and every head turned.

"Registration table is to the left," a guard said, his tone professional but cold. "You'll need to sign in and wait in the hearing room."

They signed in one by one—names, home establishments, number of vendor partnerships. The clerk recording information looked bored, like this was routine paperwork rather than people's livelihoods on the line.

The hearing room was a formal space with tiered seating facing a raised platform where three officials sat: Merchant Guild Master Cornelius Thade in the center, flanked by two council members Marron didn't recognize. Behind them, the seal of the Merchant's Guild gleamed in polished brass.

The room was already partially full. Marron recognized some upper district restaurant owners, a few city officials, several people in expensive clothing who were probably Merchant's Guild members.

And in the back corner, taking notes in his leather journal, sat Edmund Erwell.

Marron's breath caught. What was he doing here?

Their eyes met across the room. Edmund adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses—that habitual gesture she'd seen before—and gave her the smallest nod. Acknowledgment. Recognition. I'm watching.

Then he returned to his notes, effectively dismissing her.

"Don't let him rattle you," Mokko murmured, following her gaze. "Focus on the hearing."

Right. The hearing. Which was about to determine whether fifty vendors would keep their businesses or lose everything.

At precisely ten bells, Guild Master Thade struck a gavel against the platform.

"This emergency regulatory hearing is now in session," he announced, his voice carrying easily across the room. "We're here to review the legitimacy of certain home-based restaurant partnerships that have been registered in response to Decree 47-B. Specifically, we need to determine whether these establishments meet the requirements for 'licensed, brick-and-mortar restaurants' as stated in the decree."

Here it was. The challenge. The loophole they'd exploited, now under scrutiny.

"The decree," one of the council members read, "requires mobile food vendors to establish partnerships with 'licensed, brick-and-mortar restaurants.' The question before us is whether home-based establishments, operated by Guild-certified chefs but located in private residences, qualify as such."

"They do," Marron said, standing before she'd consciously decided to speak. Every eye in the room turned to her. "Under city regulations, Section 14, Subsection C, home-based food establishments are explicitly recognized as legitimate commercial operations provided the operator holds proper certification and meets health and safety standards. We've met those requirements."

Thade looked at her with the expression of someone who'd expected this interruption but found it tiresome anyway. "And you are?"

"Marron Louvel. Certified Culinary Guild chef. I organized the partnership program." Marron kept her voice steady. "All twelve home-based establishments here have proper Guild certification. We've registered with the city. We've met every requirement in the regulations. The decree doesn't specify that restaurants must be traditional commercial spaces—only that they must be licensed and brick-and-mortar. Our establishments qualify on both counts."

"Private apartments are hardly 'brick-and-mortar restaurants,'" the second council member said dismissively. "The spirit of the decree clearly intended—"

"The spirit of the decree intended to eliminate street vendor competition," Marron interrupted. She heard Charlotte inhale sharply behind her—interrupting a council member was bold, possibly stupid—but she kept going. "The letter of the decree says 'licensed, brick-and-mortar.' We've provided both. If you want to reject our partnerships, you need to cite specific regulations we've violated, not vague interpretations of 'spirit.'"

The room went very quiet.

Thade's expression hardened. "Young woman, you're addressing the Merchant's Guild Council. I suggest you moderate your tone."

"I'll moderate my tone when you stop trying to destroy people's livelihoods through bureaucratic manipulation," Marron shot back. Behind her, she heard Mokko make a sound that sounded like thinly-concealed pride.

"Ms. Louvel," Thade said, his voice going dangerously soft. "This hearing is about regulatory compliance, not personal grievances. If you cannot maintain professional decorum—"

"Then cite the regulation we've violated," Marron interrupted again. "Specifically. With section numbers. Because I've read the city code. I've documented every requirement. And we've met all of them. So either you have legitimate grounds to reject our partnerships, or this hearing is political theater designed to intimidate us into backing down."

Dead silence. Someone in the audience coughed. Marron heard a pen scratching—Edmund, probably, taking notes on her confronting the Merchant's Guild directly.

Thade's jaw worked. "This hearing," he said carefully, "is about determining whether home-based establishments provide adequate supervision and oversight for mobile vendors. We have concerns about inspection capabilities, health and safety enforcement, and long-term viability."

"Then let's address those concerns specifically," Millie said, standing to join Marron. She looked utterly calm, her white fur immaculate, her voice professional. "Point by point. With evidence." She held up the folder Henrik had provided. "We have documentation for everything."

Thade looked like he wanted to refuse, but half the room was watching now, and denying them the chance to present evidence would make this obviously political.

"Very well," he said finally. "Present your documentation. The council will review and determine compliance."

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