The trip to Rosequartz Town by train had been neither long nor short, but it was surely just pleasant enough. With the train ride making the journey smoother than any carriage could have managed alone.

Aya stepped off alongside the rest of the culinary team, holding her small travel bag close, ears flicking at the distant sound of chimes and foot traffic.

Just ahead, Professor Barlowe was already speaking with someone: a tall, well-groomed horse-folk man in a navy waistcoat, his hair neatly tied back.

Once everyone gathered near, Professor Barlowe turned to address the group. “Everyone, this fine gentleman is Mr. Michael Smithson—assistant to the Concorde Summit’s logistics director, and the one you’ll thank when your cookware arrives where it’s supposed to.”

Mr. Smithson gave them a courteous bow and a small smile. And the team greeted him politely, introducing their selves to him one by one.

Once introductions wrapped up, Mr. Smithson straightened and addressed the group. “Welcome to Rosequartz. We’re happy to have you all here as part of the summit’s culinary team,” then he turned toward Professor Barlowe. “Shall we head to the lodging, sir?”

Professor Barlowe gave a small nod. “Yes. Sightseeing and other activities will come after everyone’s unpacked and properly horizontal for at least an hour.”

“Very well,” Mr. Smithson replied. “I’ll guide you now to The Briarrest Cabin—it’s within walking distance of the main venue and fully stocked with what was requested.”

He gestured forward, and the group began to move with bags in hand, toward the elegant streets of Rosequartz.

Aya looked around as they walked, soaking in every detail that her eyes could spot. The glass-pane windows, the carefully trimmed ivy along the walls of the buildings. And as she walked, she couldn’t help but think about the tasks ahead. “This is truly going to be a busy week.”

The walk to The Briarrest Cabin surprisingly turned out to be less of a boring commute and more of a guided meander—thanks to Mr. Smithson, who seemed utterly delighted to act as both escort and casual town ambassador.

As they followed the stone-brick paths and pale-bricked townhouses, the horse-folk kept up a steady, pleasant stream of commentary.

“Ah, that café over there? Merriander’s Loaf—excellent hazelnut bread. Perfect for a light breakfast.”

Then he gestured towards another shop. “Now over on your left, that’s Marrow & Quill, the secondhand bookshop with the glass door. Do browse the attic level if you like old culinary tomes—they’ve got a shelf dedicated to many traditional dishes and their many varieties.”

Once more, he pointed at yet another store. “Oh, and if you find yourself needing thread or buttons, Miss Elbry’s Notions is three turns down that way. Don’t be fooled by the goose-folk statue out front. It does honk.”

The culinary students chuckled and murmured among themselves, a few already noting spots they wanted to visit after their shifts.

And then—at the turn of a sycamore-lined lane—they arrived.

The Briarrest Cabin stood nestled at the corner of a split-lane curve, where the hills dipped just right into the view of the summit’s distant venue. The cabin itself was… not really a cabin, not in the rustic, tiny sense. More like a manor’s cottage cousin.

It had tall windows with lace curtains, a wraparound porch with wicker chairs, and a front garden blooming with herbs and various flowers. There was even a cobblestone path winding around back toward what looked like a small greenhouse and a fenced-off garden patch for vegetables.

As the group collectively slowed down to take in the sight, Professor Barlowe commented with a nod. “Well-kept. I appreciate that.”

Mr. Smithson clasped his hands behind his back, visibly pleased. “Indeed. The Briarrest Cabin has… quite the history.”

He turned to face the team fully. “Originally, this place was built to shelter wandering scholars and tradesfolk. Simple, sturdy, with only a few rooms. It served well for nearly a century. But that changed when the fifteenth king of the Wonderforest, Wynsleif Mercis, stayed here for a short academic congress.”

There were small murmurs of surprise at that coming from the students.

“Yes, yes. His Majesty was never fond of the grand halls or velvet drapery of the high lodges. Said they were too stifling. Preferred places with air. Peaceful surroundings. It was easier for him to think. Back then, The Briarrest wasn’t nearly as roomy. But after his visit—and with the crown’s endorsement—it received upgrades and funding to better serve as an official guest lodge for visiting dignitaries, scholars, or collaborative groups such as yourselves.”

Orin, the fox-folk among the team, raised a brow. “So, we’re sleeping where a king slept?”

Mr. Smithson smiled faintly. “You’re walking through a little legacy, yes.”

Juniper elbowed Richard lightly. “Well, guess we better not burn the kitchen down.”

“Hey, why me?” Richard responded.

Juniper shrugged with a smug grin. “I dunno, probably because you had history?”

Mr. Smithson chuckled at their exchanged, before turning to the front door with a sweep of his arm. “Shall we go in, then?”

And in they went.

The group followed him through the doorway, stepping into the soft-lit interior of The Briarrest Cabin.

Inside, the place was all wood and wonder. Honey-stained beams crossed the ceiling overhead, and floral-motif wallpapers wrapped the walls cozily. Rugs were sprawled across the creaky hardwood floors, while the same lace curtains they saw from the outside complimented the atmosphere perfectly.

A well-polished sitting room greeted them first, complete with tufted chairs, a small upright piano, and an impressive tea shelf packed with labeled jars from all corners of the Wonderforest.

“Welcome to the inside of The Briarrest Cabin,” Mr. Smithson happily announced.

“Stars,” Petra whispered, clutching her travel bag. “It’s perfect.”

Even Ciela let out a simple “hmm” of approval, and Orin didn’t have anything to critique immediately, which said a lot.

Mr. Smithson gestured them onward through a second doorway. “And this,” he declared, “brings us to what may be your favorite room.”

He stepped aside and let them in—revealing the cabin’s kitchen.

The team practically leaned forward at once.

It wasn’t grand, but it was clever. A wide central island, stone countertops, multiple stovetops, a long rack of hanging pans above the prep area, and two polished ovens set neatly into the back wall. The pantry doors stood slightly ajar, revealing well-stocked shelves lined with jars, tins, and wrapped bundles.

“We’ve taken care to outfit it with more tools than usual,” Mr. Smithson explained. “Expanded the pantry, stocked more herbs, oils, basic proteins—just about anything your group might need during your stay.”

Richard whistled under his breath. “Not bad for a cottage kitchen.”

“So wait—” Juniper raised her hand halfway. “Does this mean we can, like… actually cook in here?”

Mr. Smithson smiled. “Within reason, yes. As long as there are no incidents, you’re all more than welcome to use the kitchen during your free hours. So do enjoy it while you can. Once the Concorde Summit begins tomorrow, you’ll be stationed mostly at the venue’s kitchen.”

At that, Professor Barlowe raised a hand slightly. “That reminds me, Mr. Smithson—do we have a timeline for when we can begin staging the venue’s kitchen?”

Mr. Smithson nodded. “Ah, yes. The logistics team is still making final adjustments—same process we did for this kitchen. We’re ensuring it’s tailored for both your team’s workflow, the town’s chefs included, and guest expectations.”

Then he pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket and flipped a page. “Orientation and first walkthrough are scheduled for six o’clock this evening. You’ll receive your access passes and station designations then.”

Professor Barlowe nodded. “Very good. That’ll give us time to settle in.”

Aya, meanwhile, stood near the pantry doorway, taking it all in with wide, gleaming eyes.

And while the voices of her teammates continued chatting behind her, she stepped quietly into the pantry.

She ran her fingers lightly along the jars and labeled tins of what looked like sun-dried tomatoes, clover honey, smoked paprika, preserved lemons. Even the salt was sorted into types: sea, flake, and rose-dusted.

“They really went all out…” she thought.

Her eyes sparkled with growing ideas. She wanted to cook something with these ingredients right away. Maybe something savory and warming. A light stew? Or hand pies with a herb glaze? Something nice she could make for the others. A little thank-you for letting her be part of the team.

She crouched a bit to inspect a lower row—oils and stocks and spice jars that were just as well organized as the rest of the pantry’s shelves.

“Looks like Saint Maribelle’s sweetheart is already thinking about how to feed everyone.”

Aya turned around at the voice, her ears twitched a bit as she felt slightly startled.

It was Richard Calloway, the sixth-year dog-folk student, already leaning casually in the pantry doorway with a friendly grin. In his hand, he was turning a jar of dried thyme between his fingers.

“Oh! Mister Calloway—!”

“Just Richard is fine,” he chuckled. “Unless you want me to feel like I’m grading your work.”

“I’m sorry! It’s a habit. It’s not every day I get to talk to one of my seniors during events like this.”

“Well, you’re on the team now,” Richard said, setting the jar back. “No need for formalities.”

Aya nodded, brushing her skirt lightly. “Of course!”

“So… this your first time working in a pantry this well-stocked?”

“Oh, no, not really,” Aya said. “But… it’s amazing how the Concorde Summit prepared all this for us. It feels like a dream kitchen.”

“Mmhm. You’ll get used to it,” he said while grabbing a tin of smoked fennel to idly flip open and peek inside. “If you stick with this—by your fourth or fifth year, maybe even earlier if the school’s in a weirdly generous mood—you’ll be sent out for on-the-job rotations. Other regions, guest kitchens, all kinds of setups. Some of them are huge. You’ll see spice walls bigger than this whole pantry.”

“Oh dear, really?”

“Really. Trust me,” he smiled. “I’ve diced carrots in four provinces.”

“She giggled. “Mm~ I hope I can keep up.”

Richard tilted his head slightly, “You don’t think you can?”

Aya shook her head gently. “Mm-nay… it’s not that,” she said, “I just… don’t want to get overconfident. I’d rather approach things with a bit of care.”

Richard gave a small laugh, tapping the tin closed. “Oh really? Well that sounds like something someone like you would do. Quietly considerate. You probably label your baking tins with cute stickers, huh?”

“I do not! Well, maybe a few times.”

Richard chuckled at that. “So, you thinking of cooking something for everyone?”

Aya nodded, already scanning another shelf of ingredients. “Mm. Everyone’s probably a little tired after the trip. I thought it might be nice to make something simple to eat after their naps. Before we head to the kitchen orientation?”

"Well if you want, I could give you a few tips on what everyone likes. Might help you decide.”

“Really? You know that much about everyone?”

He shrugged with a modest smile. “Of course, not everything, but I’ve worked with all of ’em a few times—school events, volunteer outings, small showcases. For whatever reason, the professor loves recycling the same crew. Guess he trusts we won’t burn the building down.”

“So… you became friends through all that?”

“Yeah, more or less,” Richard said. “Some are easier to read than others. For example, Petra likes soft, sweet stuff. Orin’s picky about texture, hates anything mushy. Ciela’s all about presentation—if it looks too messy, she won’t touch it. Things like that. And me?” he tapped his chin. “I’m weak to garlic bread. Completely defenseless.”

Aya laughed a little, covering her mouth. “That’s… really helpful, actually. I don’t know them very well yet, so it’s nice to have a little head start.”

“Well, now you’ve got one,” Richard said with a wink. “Also, do let me know if you need a taste tester.”

Aya giggled again, her cheeks faintly pink. “I’ll keep that in mind, Richard.”

Before Richard could add anything else, a voice called out from beyond the pantry. “Richard? Aya?”

It was Ciela Trentin. “We’re heading to the rooms now. You two done sniffing the spices?”

Richard chuckled. “We’re on our way, Ciel!” then he turned to Aya with a shrug. “Guess it’s time to unpack.”

Aya nodded. “Right, I’ll be revisiting this kitchen later after unpacking, then!”

They stepped out of the pantry and rejoined the others, who were gathered now near the sitting room again. Mr. Smithson stood waiting with a small wooden tray in hand, neatly arranged with labeled brass keys.

“One for each of you,” he said, offering the tray forward as the students began to pick theirs up one by one. “Most of the rooms are identical in layout—single beds, personal desks, private bath attached to each. I trust no one here is fussy enough to squabble over sunlight angles or wardrobe size?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Juniper quipped, twirling her key by its ring.

Mr. Smithson gave them a pleasant nod. “Good. Now, up the staircase, left hallway. All rooms are on the same floor—follow the labeled plaques. And if anything isn’t to your liking, please direct complaints to your own reflection and carry on with your day.”

That got a few light laughs from the group, well, not all of them. Orin simply frowned at the joke, he probably intended on actually complaining about something.

Professor Barlowe then clapped his hands gently once, drawing the group’s attention. “Alright, everyone. Go unpack, rest, rehydrate, get comfortable. We will reconvene closer to six for the orientation,” then he glanced at Mr. Smithson. “In the meantime, I’ll have a few words with our generous host.”

With that, the group complied and began to disperse, keys in hand and bags in tow.

Aya followed just behind Petra and Juniper up the stairs, her travel bag at her side, and the key to her room in her palm. As soon as she found her door, she used the key and stepped inside the room.

Peeking inside, she observed that the room was overall very clean, of course, that is to be expected. The bed was perfectly made, the desk already stocked with a small writing set, and behind a second door was a quaint little bath space, tile-trimmed and stocked with fluffy towels.

Aya stepped fully inside, gently closing the door behind her. The moment it shut, she dropped her travel bag onto the neatly made bed and, without a second thought, let herself fall beside it with a soft fwhump, her pastel twin-tailed hair splaying across the pillow like ribbons.

She lay there for a few quiet seconds, staring at the sloped ceiling while letting her ears twitch freely in the calm. Then—

She smiled.

A warm, sleepy kind of smile.

“This is really happening,”