Chapter 1 - Through the Wall of FlameThe corridor had transformed into a tunnel of blinding orange fire by the time Evelyn staggered out of Noah’s bedroom, shielding the boy’s frail body with her own. The heat was no longer just uncomfortable; it was a physical weight that pressed against her skull, stealing the breath from her lungs and making her skin prickle with the threat of blistering.
Noah buried his face into the crook of her neck, his small frame shaking violently. “Evelyn, we’re trapped! The stairs—the main staircase is gone!”
She didn’t need him to tell her. Through the billowing clouds of toxic smoke, she could see the gaping, glowing abyss where the grand staircase used to be. The entire center of Whitmore House had caved in, sending tons of burning timber crashing down into the foyer below. They were completely cut off.
“We aren't dying here, Noah. Do you hear me?” Evelyn shouted over the roar of the flames, her voice fierce and unyielding.
She scanned the burning gallery, her mind racing. The family portraits of the Whitmore dynasty—men in stiff collars and cold, judgmental eyes—were curling into black flakes. Then, her eyes locked onto a heavy oak door at the far end of the corridor, half-hidden behind a scorched velvet tapestry.
The service balcony.
It led to the exterior stone terrace overlooking the north gardens, far away from the kitchen explosion. But the door was locked from the outside, or swollen shut by the heat.
“Hold onto me tight, Noah. Close your eyes and don't let go!”
Evelyn sprinted down the hallway, her boots crunching over burning debris. The floorboards beneath them groaned, threatening to give way at any second. With a final, desperate burst of adrenaline, she threw her entire body weight against the service door, slamming her shoulder into the center panel.
Crack.
The lock held.
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“Again!” she muttered, tasting blood from where she had bitten her lip. She backed up a step, ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder, and kicked out with the heel of her heavy work boot right beside the iron handle.
The ancient wood shattered with a deafening pop. Night air—cool, crisp, and desperately sweet—rushed into the hallway, carrying them outward just as the ceiling behind them collapsed in a storm of sparks and roaring fire.
