The next morning, Caelan discovers he can no longer walk across campus.
He attempts it, a simple ten-minute journey from his dorm to the refectory for a cup of black coffee. He doesn't even make it past the main quad before the whispers start, coalescing into a low hum of attention that follows him like his own shadow.
People don't laugh at the vest anymore. They stare at it with a kind of terrified reverence.
A group of first-years practically dives into a hedge to clear a path for him. An upperclassman, one of Lucien's friends from the day before, makes eye contact, turns pale, and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like an apology before power-walking in the opposite direction.
This is worse. So, so much worse. Mockery was a shield. Awe is a cage.
He abandons the quest for coffee and retreats to Emberwood Hall. His destination: the third-floor communal kitchen, the designated site for his culinary collaboration with the most terrifying girl he's ever met.
The kitchen is a symphony of mundane reality. It has exactly one sputtering fluorescent light, a faint, lingering smell of burnt popcorn, and a refrigerator that hums a mournful B-flat.
It's perfect.
The ingredients for the Wednesday Family Meal are already laid out on the scuffed counter. They are a portrait of humility: a net of yellow onions, a bag of slightly bendy carrots, a few pounds of generic ground beef, a large can of tomatoes. Simple, honest, soulful food waiting to happen. This is the normal he's been craving.
He starts laying out his tools—a dull house knife, a battered cutting board—when the kitchen door swings open.
Nyra stands there.
She isn't wearing her pristine white coat. She's in plain black leggings and a grey t-shirt, her fiery hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Without the armor of her uniform, she looks younger, more vulnerable, and somehow even more intense.
Her eyes scan the sad little kitchen, then land on the humble ingredients. A flicker of profound disdain crosses her face.
"This is what we're working with?" she asks, her voice tight. "There's no prime cut? No imported produce?"
"It's a dorm meal, not a coronation banquet," Caelan replies. He picks up an object from the counter and holds it out to her.
It is the spare apron.
This one is a pastel shade of baby pink, decorated with a cartoon cat wearing a tiny, felt bow tie. It is, if possible, ten times more humiliating than his own.
The silence in the kitchen is absolute. Nyra stares at the apron like he has just presented her with a live grenade. Her entire body is coiled with resistance. Every fiber of her being, honed by years of discipline and ambition, screams in protest. This is a surrender. An act of profound, public ego death.
She looks from the apron to his calm, expectant face. This is the toll. The price of admission into his world.
With a sharp, angry exhale that is almost a growl, she snatches the apron from his hand. She whips it around her waist and ties the strings in a viciously tight knot, as if she's strangling the very concept of dignity itself.
The apron settles against her grey shirt. The bow-tied cat stares out from her midsection, a beacon of pure, unadulterated absurdity. She looks magnificent and utterly ridiculous.
Caelan offers no praise, no teasing smile. That would be an insult. Instead, he accepts her sacrifice with a simple gesture of work. He slides an onion and the dull house knife across the counter to her.
"Small dice," he says.
Nyra's eyes narrow. "You want me… to dice an onion? That's the first lesson?" It is the most basic task in any kitchen, a job for the lowest apprentice.
"Yes," he says.
Her jaw tightens. But she made a promise. She takes the knife. The cheap, unbalanced handle feels alien in her hand, which is used to custom-forged steel.
With a scoff, she begins to chop.
And she is a machine. A blur of pure motion. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. The sound is a machine gun rattle, a percussive assault. In seconds, a pile of geometrically perfect, translucent dice lies on the board. A flawless execution.
"No," Caelan says quietly.
He stops her hand.
"You're punishing it," he says.
He takes another onion half. He picks up an identical knife. And he begins to chop.
His rhythm is completely different. It's slow. Deliberate. Thump-thump… thump-thump… The sound isn't angry. It's steady. Calm. Like a resting heartbeat.
"The Heartbeat Chop," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. "When you cut with anger, the cells tear. They bleed more sulfur. The onion tastes sharp, aggressive. A family meal shouldn't taste like a fight. It should taste like rest."
He pushes his pile of diced onion next to hers. Visually, they are almost identical. But he gestures for her to lean in. His pile smells sweet, vegetal. Hers has the sharp, tear-inducing bite of a raw, angry onion. The intent of the chef, a simple emotion, is now physically present in the ingredient itself.
The lesson hits her like a lightning strike. It is so simple. So fundamental. And in all her years of training, no one has ever mentioned it. Technique was king. Speed was a god. But intent? Intent was a new language.
She takes a deep, steadying breath. She pushes her own perfect dice aside and pulls a new onion toward her. She closes her eyes for a moment, forcing her racing mind to slow down, her muscles to unclench.
She tries to match his rhythm. Thump-thump… thump-thump… It feels agonizingly slow, like moving through molasses. But she does it.
The sound of their two knives, working in a slightly clumsy, unpracticed harmony, is the only sound in the kitchen.
Caelan takes the first pan and puts it on the electric stovetop. A drizzle of oil. He sweeps their combined onions into the pan. A gentle sizzle fills the air. It's not a violent sear. It's a soft sigh. The smell that rises isn't the smell of a duel. It's not the smell of competition.
It's the smell of dinner. Of a truce being cooked into existence.
A glimmer of true, profound understanding shines in Nyra's eyes.
The kitchen door creaks open.
They both look up.
Standing in the doorway, looking entirely out of place, is Lucien Argent. His silver hair is slightly disheveled. His pristine uniform is rumpled. He is holding a small, paper grocery bag.
He stares at the scene before him—Caelan, the transfer student, and Nyra Emberveil, the Crimson Flash, both wearing absurd cat aprons, chopping onions in a sad dorm kitchen. His mind visibly fails to process the input.
He swallows hard, his pride a ghost haunting his features. He steps forward, offering the bag to Caelan. Inside are bruised apples and misshapen potatoes—leftovers he bought from a street market.
Lucien looks at Caelan, his voice a low, humbled plea.
"The memory… the warmth I felt from that bowl of ramen… It's the only thing I can think about."
His gaze is desperate.
"I don't want to just taste it," he says. "Please. Teach me how to make it for myself."