The caravan smelled like ten kitchens trying to out-perfume each other.
Smoke, spice, a whisper of caramelized sugar—Marron inhaled all of it and felt her pulse settle. After weeks of wilderness and ash, the scent of cooking was its own kind of prayer.
Mokko's head turned left and right, eyes huge. "Smells like we walked into heaven's pantry."
Lucy burbled happily from the jar Marron carried at her hip. "Means they have fresh water!"
"Behave, you two," Marron said, grinning despite herself. "If they let us stay, we're guests."
The camp ahead buzzed with motion: pots bubbling, knives flashing, chefs arguing about salt levels like philosophers debating truth. A banner snapped in the wind—Lumerian Culinary Guild: Road Division.
One of the cooks, a wiry half-elf named Ress, spotted her. "Traveler! You cook?"
"Only when breathing," Marron answered.
