Crystal Omelet

In the practiced halls of the Felicitate and Plums there is an ancient tradition. As young wards are brought in among the copper pans and marble shelves, impatient eyes bounce with hasted steps. Fires blaze from slitted helmets whose depths seethe with hunger. As the stirring of metal reeds echoes within the cavernous domain, one stands above them. Peering through the turmoil, he watches waning confidence. His eyes set on the chefs that desperately search for answers as the sands of the hourglass cease to fall. A sudden snap of his fingertips echoes through the room. Eyes peer up, but the culprit already knows. Dejected, the ingredients are gathered and removed. The pots cleaned, the pans refreshed, the young chef starts again.
Hours pass as the room begins to sway with every breath. The ingredients are mixed patiently. The temperature of the egg must be precise, the soft mixture of whip swirling with layers. Fire salt lifts the mixture, creating pockets of air. Gamjuvan spices solidify the pockets, creating a convergence of textures. Water wisps awaken the spices as the crystalline heart coalesces. Finally, the breath of life. The final exhale of the young chef as he watches the master's eyes descend upon the attempt. His eyes pick apart the imperfect edges, ridged like frosted peaks of the dwarven strongholds. The glistening streaks of golden threads coil like a dragon tail around a treasured hoard. The fork sinks into the blushing structure. The heart is delicately removed, revealing the geodesics of the bubbled core. With a taste, the master instructs. His eyes unrevealing, his lips unsoliciting. The answer lies deeper. As the fork comes the rest, the prongs resting towards the bottom of the bowl. An apprentice has become a master. The remaining students, resting, defeating by the trial, are welcomed the taste the masterpiece as the chef is awarded a seat in the guild. His station will be desired for the rest of his life.