The kitchen was no longer a place of creation; it was a furnace. He navigated by memory—six paces to the prep island, turn forty-five degrees to avoid the butcher’s block. He used his boning knife, the narrowest blade he owned, to slice through a fallen tapestry that blocked his path, the razor-sharp edge parting the heavy fabric like smoke. The Aftermath

He dove toward the heat. His fingers found the cold, pebbled leather of the knife roll. The metal was already hot enough to blister. He felt the singe against his palms as he yanked the set toward his chest.

The fire was licking the edge of his workstation. In the chaos, a panicked student tripped, sending a heavy rack of cast-iron skillets crashing down. The exit was a wall of orange. To save himself, he had to move now. To save the knives, he had to reach through the veil of flame.

When Julian stumbled out into the cool evening air of the courtyard, he was soot-streaked and gasping. His coat was ruined, and his eyebrows were gone.