The silence in the kitchen stretches thin, brittle enough to shatter.
An onion sizzles softly in the pan. The air is thick with the sweet smell of alliums, the absurdity of two pink cat aprons, and the monumental weight of Lucien Argent's wounded pride.
Lucien stands there, a prince in exile, offering a bag of bruised produce like a penitent pilgrim laying a sacrifice at a strange new altar.
Nyra stares at him, her knife frozen mid-chop. Her rival. The embodiment of pedigree and entitlement. And he's here, asking to learn the same lesson she is, a lesson that requires them both to wear the uniform of a five-year-old's birthday party.
Her world has officially tilted off its axis.
Caelan, however, is unflappable. He takes the bag from Lucien's hand and looks inside. The potatoes are gnarled, the apples slightly mealy. They are perfectly imperfect. They have character.
"Okay," Caelan says.
He nudges a cutting board and a peeler toward the silver-haired scion.
"Peel these."
Lucien blinks. It's the same command Caelan gave Nyra. The first step in this strange new education is the humblest task of all. A job for a machine, or an unpaid intern.
For a moment, Lucien Argent's mask of aristocratic breeding reappears. A flicker of his old disdain. But then he remembers the taste of that ramen—the feeling of a warmth so profound it had dismantled him from the inside out. He wants that. He needs that more than he needs his pride.
Wordlessly, he nods. He takes the peeler and a gnarled potato and moves to a small, clear space at the end of the counter.
The kitchen falls into a new, tentative rhythm.
The soft sizzle of the onions. Nyra's slow, deliberate, heartbeat chop. And now, the rhythmic shhhhht of Lucien's peeler, each stroke shaving away not just potato skin, but a layer of his own arrogance.
Caelan turns back to the stove. He adds the ground beef to the onions, breaking it apart with a wooden spoon. The pan hisses, the rich scent of browning meat blooming in the air, weaving through the sweetness of the onion.
Nyra watches him. He seasons the meat with salt and pepper, but then he pauses, closing his eyes for a second. It's that look again. He's listening. He adds another pinch of salt, a tiny dash of sugar from a nearby canister, and then a nearly microscopic drop of rice vinegar he finds in the back of the pantry.
She has to ask. "Why the sugar? And the vinegar? This isn't a classical mirepoix base for a bolognese."
"Taste Resonance," Caelan says, the words simple but the meaning vast. He's naming another piece of his secret world. "The beef is sad. It's from a factory. It has no story. The salt brings out its basic flavor, but it's a lonely flavor."
He gestures with the spoon. "The sugar isn't for sweetness. It's a counter-harmony. It makes the beef's natural umami taste more… meaty. The vinegar is the same. A tiny bit of acid doesn't make it sour. It makes all the other flavors brighter. It's not about what you add. It's about waking up what's already there."
He scrapes the canned tomatoes into the pot, their scent sharp and tinny. He adds a splash of water. He turns the heat down low, until the sauce is barely trembling. Another application of his Silence of Simmer.
Nyra looks from the gently bubbling pot to Lucien.
Lucien isn't just peeling. He is performing surgery. His movements are precise, reverent. Each potato is stripped bare with an economy of motion that would make a master sculptor weep. He isn't peeling them because he was told to. He's peeling them because it is the only thing in the world that matters right now. This simple, repetitive act is his meditation. His penance.
This, she realizes, is the true lesson. It's not a secret technique you can write down. It's a state of being.
Humility. Focus. Respect. Not for the audience, or the judges, or the history of French cuisine. But for a sad, gnarled potato. For a lonely pound of ground beef.
They work for an hour. No one speaks. Caelan orchestrates the simple meal with a quiet nod here, a gentle gesture there. They are no longer rivals or oddballs. They are just three cooks, in two ridiculous aprons, making dinner. It's the most normal Caelan has felt since he arrived.
Finally, the sauce is rich and thick, the pasta is boiled, and the smell wafting from the kitchen is pure, uncomplicated comfort. They plate it in cheap dorm bowls, a simple mountain of pasta topped with the dark, fragrant sauce.
The first residents of Emberwood Hall begin to trickle in, drawn by the aroma. They see the unlikely trio—the Crimson Flash and Lucien Argent flanking the Vest Boy—and they hesitate. But the smell is too good. They take their bowls, mutter their thanks, and retreat to the common room.
Then the silence is broken by a chorus of soft, satisfied sighs.
Caelan, Nyra, and Lucien watch from the kitchen doorway. No one is crying. No one is having a life-altering epiphany. They are just… eating. Content. For a few minutes, the stress of exams, of duels, of academy politics, has vanished. The simple boon of the Family Meal is peace.
It is a small, quiet miracle. The kind Caelan actually wanted.
Lucien is looking at a bowl of the pasta he helped create, a look of awe on his face. "I… understand," he whispers.
Nyra finds herself smiling. A real, genuine smile. "It smells like rest."
The kitchen door opens one more time.
Mira Solstice stands there, her datapad held at her side. Her expression is as neutral as ever, but there's something different in her eyes. Respect.
But she is not alone.
Standing just behind her, his formidable presence seeming to shrink the entire kitchen, is Chef Barthol Maillard. The legendary head of Gastronomic Theory. The man who had wept at Caelan's dish.
His gaze sweeps over the scene, taking in the empty pots, the happy students, and the two top-ranked prodigies standing beside Caelan in matching cat aprons. He says nothing.
He just steps forward and places a single, perfect object on the clean steel counter.
It's a tomato. An heirloom varietal, flawlessly round, blood-red, with a vibrant green stem still attached. It is an ingredient of absolute, unimpeachable purity. A stark contrast to the bruised, humble things they just redeemed.
Chef Maillard looks directly at Caelan, his eyes old and impossibly deep.
"Provost Holt believes your gift is a threat to the foundations of this academy," the old master says, his voice a low rumble.
"I believe," he continues, tapping a single finger on the perfect tomato, "it may be its salvation."