The air within the temple grew still, though the countless shifting walls whispered and groaned like the hushed breaths of giants. The chains that had once bound Barachas to the altar now lay shattered, curling like brittle serpents upon the floor. He stood free, though his immense form seemed to weigh down the very foundation of the chamber. His molten eyes lingered on Alatar—not with scorn, not with superiority, but with something rarer: pride.
"Alatar," Barachas rumbled, his voice a deep current that carried the timbre of forgotten ages, "you have marked yourself in this moment. You are no longer the one who first entered these halls in fear, nor the one who trembled before the weight of my presence. You are something… else. A new existence. But do not mistake me." His gaze sharpened. "For all the grandeur that coils in your veins, for all the light and shadow that bow before your steps—you are still weak. Not in potential. Not in stature. But in command. You do not yet wield what is yours."
Alatar's eyes narrowed, the blue fire within his gaze flickering with thought. "Command…" he echoed softly, tasting the word as though it were foreign. "I have watched others—Sangui shaping blood as one bends rivers, Malakim speaking and the stars themselves listening, even mortals commanding the simplest flame or water. But I…" His voice faltered, not in uncertainty, but in dawning realization. "I have never commanded anything—not elements, not laws, not the truths that gnaw at my soul. Not because I could not… but because I did not know how."
He drew in a slow breath, his expression darkening. "I thought myself cursed by what I bore. But perhaps the curse was only ignorance."
Barachas inclined his head, heavy chains still clinking faintly from his form as he moved, though no longer binding him. "Ignorance is no small curse," he intoned. "It has slain more empires than fire and blade. But you see it now. And that is the first step."
Alatar's lips curved faintly, neither smile nor grimace. "Then the first step is taken."
The primordial studied him for a long moment, silence stretching between them, heavy yet unbroken. At last Barachas spoke, his voice lowering to something nearly human, almost conspiratorial.
"Then let me offer this: if you would shed the skin of weakness, if you would learn not merely to bear your power but to wield it, then I will teach you. I, who have walked as lord among the Malakors, who have spoken as equal to the Primarchs, who once commanded legions vast enough to darken galaxies—I will train you."
His words hung like a verdict in the stillness. The temple seemed to pause, its breathing walls falling quiet, as though waiting for the next beat in this unfolding rhythm.
But Alatar gave no answer. He stood in silence, the fire of decision smoldering in his chest, the weight of the offer pressing against the marrow of his soul.
And so the dialogue ended there—Barachas's promise lingering in the chamber like a seed cast into deep, uncertain soil.
The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the silence of recognition, of two beings acknowledging something unspoken. Finally, Barachas's voice broke through, low and resonant, carrying both the weight of his age and the rare warmth of pride.
"You have chosen," he said. "Not with words, but with the marrow of your being. I see it in your eyes, Alatar. That fire. That refusal." His gaze softened, though it still carried the dignity of a primordial lord. "Few beings I have known would step willingly into the abyss of themselves. You do so without trembling. That… I respect."
Alatar's heart stirred at those words, not as comfort, but as affirmation. His hands flexed at his sides, the faint shimmer beneath his skin pulsing once, then settling.
Barachas continued, rising now from where he sat chained, his presence still vast though the altar bound him in subtle ways. "Then let us begin. You have within you strength raw and untamed. A blade unsharpened cuts nothing, no matter how sharp it should be. We will hone you. Slowly. Carefully. Until you may call forth your own nature as easily as you breathe."
Alatar lifted his chin. "Where do we begin?"
Barachas's eyes narrowed, molten gold settling on him. "The ash."
Alatar blinked. For a moment, the memories returned unbidden—the torment of his first arrival in the sanctum, the choking clouds, the sting in his lungs, the way the ash had not merely surrounded him but flowed into him, as if choosing him. Since then, it had lingered. Always at the edges of his perception, drifting faintly around him, never quite under his command.
"Yes," Barachas said, as if plucking the thought from him. "You feel it even now, don't you? The cinders that stalk your shadow. The remnants of flame that never die, yet never burn. They are yours, Alatar. They belong to you because they chose to belong. Yet you do not command them. They haunt you like ghosts."
Alatar's brow furrowed, his eyes unfocusing slightly as he extended his senses inward. And indeed, he felt it: the faintest shimmer in the air, like flecks of grey drifting in invisible currents. Always there. Always circling. Never still.
Barachas raised a hand, gesturing. "The first lesson is not to summon them by force, but to call them by will. You are not master and they servant—you are one. The ash is the echo of fire that has already consumed. The essence of endings. It does not answer to fear, or rage. Only to will. Call it, Alatar. Not from your voice, but from the seat of your being. Draw it near."
Alatar inhaled, slow and steady. He closed his eyes, reaching with a focus he had never before attempted. His thoughts quieted, narrowing to that faint presence. His heart quickened, but not with panic—with something else. Resolve.
He willed.
And faintly, as though stirred by a breeze, the ash thickened. Wisps of grey rose from the stone floor, slow at first, then gathering in drifting tendrils. They circled him lazily, like uncertain animals sniffing at his call.
Alatar's eyes opened, the faintest glow catching in their depths. "I feel them…"
Barachas inclined his head, a shadow of approval crossing his features. "Good. Now command them. Will them to shape, not scatter. Begin with the simplest form. A circle, tight and controlled, around your arm. The circle is the root of command. The unbroken bond. Hold it there until it obeys you."
Alatar extended his right arm, palm open, fingers slightly curled. The ash hung in the air, swirling erratically, resisting his intent. He focused harder, jaw tight, brow creased.
Circle… circle…
The particles trembled, some aligning, others scattering. For a moment, it seemed hopeless—chaos refusing order.
Barachas's voice rumbled from behind him. "You press too hard. The ash is not a beast to be broken. It is memory given form. It seeks harmony, not chains. Do not crush it with command. Guide it. Let it become what you will, not what you force."
Alatar drew in a sharp breath, adjusting. He softened his will—not weak, but steady, like a hand guiding rather than dragging. Slowly, the drifting flecks began to settle. One strand curled, then another, linking, bending, until the faint shimmer of a circle took shape just above his forearm. It was ragged, imperfect, but it was there.
Alatar's chest tightened, both from strain and wonder. "It listens…"
Barachas's molten eyes burned brighter, pride gleaming in their depths. "Yes. And it will listen more, if you learn to speak in silence. Hold it. Do not falter. Let the circle remain until the ash knows your will as its own."
The circle wavered, threads of ash fraying, trying to scatter again. Sweat gathered at Alatar's brow, but he steadied himself, anchoring his focus. He willed it whole. The ash shuddered, resisted—and then obeyed.
For the first time, the circle held.
Alatar's lips parted, his heart pounding with exhilaration. Not triumph, not yet, but the taste of it.
Barachas let the silence linger, then said simply, with respect that carried like thunder:
"Good. The first step is taken."