Morning in Lumeria didn't feel like morning anywhere else. The city didn't sleep so much as change color. It was soft amber at dawn, fading into coral pink as light refracted through enchanted glass towers.
Marron leaned on the windowsill of her dorm room, a steaming mug of black coffee in hand. Below, the streets were already alive with movement. Delivery carts glided silently on magnetic rails; pastry drones carried trays through the air like trained birds.
She'd spent half the night turning the judges' words over in her mind. Show us that warmth can be beautiful. What did that even mean? Her food didn't need jewelry. It needed heart.
But here, heart wasn't enough.
The thought sat uncomfortably in her chest. For years now—since the diner closed, since her mother's hands grew too tired to knead dough—Marron had cooked with the efficiency of someone clocking in. Orders filled, bills paid, nothing wasted. She'd learned not to pour herself into the work. It hurt less that way.
