The oven in Meadowbrook Commons was stubborn. Its brick mouth had been cold for months, maybe years, and when Marron pulled open the iron door, the hinges squealed like something unused to visitors.
"Charming," she muttered, brushing out cobwebs with a stiff bristle broom.
Mokko crouched nearby, arranging a neat stack of kindling with the precision of a jeweler setting stones. "We'll start with a slow burn. Let the bricks remember what heat feels like."
Lucy hovered over the jar of starter like an overprotective parent. "She's not used to new houses yet. Don't rush her."
"She's dough, Lucy. She doesn't have feelings," Marron said, smirking.
Lucy made a scandalized ripple. "You absolutely do not deserve custody."
The laugh that followed was the first easy one they'd had in days. Marron dusted the counter with flour and pressed the dough into it, folding, turning, folding again. Her forearms ached pleasantly, the rhythm of it calming her. The air filled with the faint tang of fermentation — that deep, almost fruity scent that said this will be worth it.
"Feels weird," Marron admitted, "making bread in a kitchen that still smells like sawdust and plaster."
"Better than the other way around," Mokko said. "Sawdust in bread doesn't sell well."
Lucy made a small tchk tchk tchk sound like a disappointed teacher. "You haven't seen the right marketing pitch."
The kneading took longer than she remembered. A bubble in the dough would suddenly hiss against her palms, the gluten stretching, tightening, almost resisting her. She let her mind wander — not to the loaf, but to the looks she'd been getting since the Feast.
Some were admiration. Others… skepticism.
She'd overheard more than one comment suggesting she must have used a trick — some kind of enchantment or fluke — to get the Snake Queen and the Jackal Lord at the same table. As if her cooking couldn't possibly be enough. As if her cart, with its secondhand wheels and chipped enamel pots, somehow proved she didn't belong.
She didn't notice her jaw had tightened until Mokko said softly, "You're kneading like you want the dough to confess to something."
Marron forced her hands to relax. "Sorry. Just… thinking."
"You always think you're 'just' cooking, Marron. But in Savoria, flavor is power. You convinced two rival clans to share a table. Do you know how many have tried and failed?"
She shrugged. "It was just a dinner."
"No," he said firmly, "it wasn't. You put something in front of them they couldn't refuse. That's more dangerous and more valuable than you think."
Marron turned the dough one last time and set it in the proofing bowl. "Maybe. Or maybe I was just lucky."
"Luck doesn't smell like that," Mokko said, nodding toward the dough.
They tended the fire until Mokko tested the oven heat with a practiced hand just inside the mouth. "Perfect for a loaf."
"Perfect for a nap," Lucy added, oozing toward a sunny patch of countertop.
When the loaf slid into the oven, the air shifted almost immediately. That smell — warm yeast, browning crust — rolled out into the room and beyond, curling through the open windows and into the square outside.
Marron leaned against the counter, elbows dusted white, trying to keep her voice casual. "If this loaf comes out halfway decent, I might start thinking we actually can do this."
"You're already doing it," Mokko replied, feeding the fire.
They didn't have the oven running for more than twenty minutes before footsteps sounded outside. Marron peeked out the doorway to find three young carpenters in the square, tool belts and saws slung over their shoulders.
"Uh, hi," she called. "Looking for someone?"
The tallest — a snakekin with sawdust in his scales — smiled sheepishly. "Leftover wood, actually. We heard there might be some from the roof repairs before we cut new trees."
She started to point toward the shed when he squinted. "Wait… you're Marron. The chef from the Feast."
Her stomach tensed. "That's… me."
Instead of the judgment she'd braced for, his smile widened. "I wanted to thank you. That night… seeing you serve the Jackal Lord and the Snake Queen at the same table — it made me realize I didn't have to stick to what people expected of me. I've always wanted to be a carpenter. So… here I am."
The goatkin beside him grinned. "We're his first crew. Or, well, his only crew. But we'll make it big one day."
The third, a quiet foxkin, added, "We're here because he wouldn't shut up about that Feast. Said if one chef could change her whole life in one night, he could too."
The words hit Marron like a second heat wave from the oven. Without thinking, she pulled the loaf free, ignoring the fact that it wasn't fully cooled yet, and cut into it. Steam curled from the torn crust.
She handed the first slice to the snakekin. "For courage."
He took it reverently. "Smells like a place worth staying in."
The goatkin bit his slice immediately, eyes widening. "You weren't kidding. If you keep baking like this, you'll never get rid of me."
The foxkin wrapped his piece in a napkin like treasure. "I'll save mine for later. Good things should last."
They helped her shift a few planks in the shed, picking the straightest and smoothest ones. The snakekin ran his hand along one of them, nodding like it was exactly the kind he needed. "You've already given us more than wood today."
By the time the carpenters left, Marron was still standing in the square, loaf in hand, watching people slow their steps as they passed, noses lifting, eyes curious.
It wasn't just a smell. It was proof something was happening here.
Mokko came to stand beside her. "Told you. Flavor's power."
She shook her head, smiling faintly. "Maybe… bread can build walls stronger than wood."
Lucy bobbed proudly, still clutching the starter jar. "I think we just made Meadowbrook smell alive again."
"Smell alive?" Mokko asked.
"Alive smells like bread. Bread smells like home. Therefore, we fixed Meadowbrook."
"Logic as flawless as your kneading technique," Marron said. Lucy rippled happily.
Inside, Marron cleared a shelf just for the starter and the loaf. She placed the jar like she was setting a crown in its case.
The rest of the day, that smell lingered — not overpowering, just enough to make the air feel warmer. Children who passed by would slow, glancing inside like maybe the bread would be offered to them too. Someone left a bunch of wildflowers on the doorstep without a note.
That evening, she sat on the stoop, the square stretching quiet before her. Somewhere down the road, a hammer tapped in a steady rhythm — maybe the carpenters, already at work.
She realized she didn't need applause or titles. Home wasn't something you built all at once. Maybe it was something you noticed when you smelled it, when you heard life start to fill the silence.
And for the first time since arriving in Savoria, she thought… they were getting close.