Julian didn't run for the door. He stripped off his heavy chef’s coat, soaked it in a bucket of ice water meant for blanching, and draped it over his head.
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. Cooking Academy Fire and Knives
The heat was instantaneous. Julian felt the hair on his forearms curl. His signature dish, a delicate scallop crudo that required surgical precision, sat half-finished. But his eyes were on the leather roll. Julian didn't run for the door
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 His fingers found the cold, pebbled leather of
The air in the Grand Hall of the Caelum Culinary Academy didn’t smell like rosemary or roasting garlic today. It smelled of ozone, melting copper, and the sharp, metallic tang of carbon steel.
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.
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.