That scent.
For a hundredth of a second, it derails her. Nyra Emberveil's entire world is built on the sensory language of the kitchen. She knows the smell of a perfect sear, the perfume of clarified butter, the sharp, herbal promise of fresh thyme. Her craft is a symphony of powerful, deliberate aromas.
Caelan's aroma is none of those things. It's a whisper. It smells like memory. It's clean, pure, and speaks of a quiet depth that her aggressive, fiery techniques can't replicate.
A trick, she tells herself, her grip tightening on her pan. It has to be.
She turns away, refocusing with ferocious intensity. Her sea bream is resting, its skin a flawless, crispy gold. Now for the sauce. A splash of Riesling hits the hot pan, instantly deglazing it with an aromatic hiss of steam. Shallots, butter, a sprig of dill. It's classic. It's perfect. It smells like victory.
She will drown his sad little whisper with a roar.
With forty-five minutes left on the clock, Caelan finally turns from his gently simmering pot. The crowd, now leaning forward with a strange, unwilling curiosity, watches him move to the bruised tomatoes.
These aren't just imperfect; they're failures. Split-skinned, misshapen, leaking juice. They are the epitome of ingredients you throw away without a second thought.
Caelan handles them like they're Fabergé eggs.
He doesn't chop them. He doesn't blend them. He procures a small, simple paring knife. With surgical delicacy, he begins to peel them, letting the thin skins fall away. But he's not trying to create a perfect shape. He is performing an act of liberation.
He places the peeled tomato flesh into a fine-mesh sieve set over a bowl. Then, with the back of a spoon, he gently presses. He isn't mashing them into a pulp; he's merely encouraging them to give up their essence.
A liquid begins to drip into the bowl below. It's not the thick, opaque red of tomato sauce. It's a clear, faintly rose-colored liquid. It's the tomato's soul. Its water. Sweetened by the stress of its imperfect life.
"Is… is he making tomato tea?" Zadie sputters over the broadcast, her professional composure finally cracking. "What is going on down there? Nyra is building a Michelin-star plate, and Caelan is brewing ghost water from broken vegetables!"
Milo's voice is filled with reverence. "It's a consommé, Zadie. But made without heat. He's clarifying it through pressure alone. Preserving the raw, bright flavor that heat would destroy."
Caelan adds a single grain of salt to the collected liquid, swirling it once. He sets the bowl aside.
Now, for the final, most baffling component: the stale bread heels. They are rock-hard, fossilized. Useless.
He takes one and grates it against the side of a box grater, producing a small pile of fine, dry breadcrumbs. This, the audience understands. A topping, perhaps. For texture.
But then he takes the other heel—a thick, ugly end-piece—and does nothing to it at all. He just sets it on his clean prep surface. A brick of stale bread.
Nyra's dish is nearing completion. It's a work of art. The perfect sea bream is nestled on a verdant bed of sautéed asparagus and the jewel-like brunoise. Her creamy white wine sauce is held in a small silver saucier, ready for the final drizzle. It's a plate that screams 'I am expensive, I am perfect, I am untouchable.'
With fifteen minutes left on the clock, Caelan moves to strain his broth. He ladles the clear, shimmering liquid from the pot, leaving the spent bones behind. The broth is the color of pale afternoon sunlight. It looks impossibly pure.
Zadie is quiet for a long moment. "Okay," she says finally, her voice hushed. "That… that is a beautiful broth. I can't deny it. But… a broth, some tomato water, and bread dust? What is the dish? What is he even making?"
Caelan doesn't look at the clock. He doesn't look at Nyra's masterpiece.
He takes the one thing that will serve as his plate: a deep, earthenware bowl. Simple, humble, and dark.
He reaches for his components. He doesn't reach for the broth. He doesn't reach for the crumbs.
He picks up the whole, uncut, ugly heel of stale bread.
And he places it in the center of the empty bowl.
A wave of confused, angry murmuring ripples through the arena. Students who were on the verge of being converted feel betrayed. It is a mockery. An insult. Presenting a piece of stale bread in the finals of a sanctioned duel?
Provost Holt's face is a thundercloud. This is the ultimate humiliation for his academy.
Nyra glances over and sees it. The bread in the bowl. For a moment, she feels a surge of triumphant pity. He really is just a fraud with a few good tricks.
But then she sees Caelan's face. The serene focus. The utter lack of doubt. He isn't mocking the process. He is following it to a conclusion she is simply too blind to see. A shiver of true, cold fear runs down her spine.
The clock hits ten minutes.
The great holoscreens split. On one side is Nyra's immaculate, nearly finished plate of haute cuisine.
On the other is Caelan's bowl. Stark. Empty, save for a single, desolate-looking piece of stale bread.