The wait felt endless.
Marron sat on a bench in the hallway, her tools packed away but still humming faintly with anxiety that matched her own. The Champion stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the closed chamber doors with an unreadable expression. Mokko paced. Jenny and the others had gathered in a small cluster, speaking in low voices.
"How long does it take to vote?" Mokko muttered. "It's been over an hour."
"Means they're debating," Jenny said. "That's actually good. If Edmund had the votes locked in, this would be over already."
"Or it means they're arguing about how severely to punish her," Dren countered.
"Not helping," Mokko said.
Marron barely heard them. She was replaying the demonstration in her mind—every cut, every temperature adjustment, every moment where she'd relied on the tools versus trusting her own skill. The burned chicken. The overcooked rice. The perfect soup that had required almost no thought.
