The circle quivered around Alatar's forearm, fragile as a reflection caught in still water. Each heartbeat threatened to undo it, each breath risked scattering it back into nothing. His jaw ached from the pressure of holding it steady, not with muscle, but with will.
Barachas's gaze, molten and unblinking, weighed on him like the judgment of the cosmos itself. At last, the primordial spoke.
"You have done well," he said, his voice filling the chamber like the slow tolling of a bell. "But do not mistake one step for a journey. To call forth one circle is proof of touch, not command."
Alatar kept his focus, sweat gathering along his brow. "Then what is command?"
Barachas lifted a hand, his chained fingers spreading as if to draw invisible diagrams in the air. "Command is multiplicity without collapse. To hold one, you have shown discipline. To hold five, you will learn mastery. Call them. Call and bind them, as you did the first. Around your arms, around your body, wherever your will finds anchor. The first step to power is always command."
Alatar's pulse quickened. Five. The thought alone was daunting, yet it stirred something deeper: the hunger to press forward, to break past the threshold of his own ignorance.
He steadied the existing circle, willing its trembling edges to remain intact. Then, with a breath drawn sharp, he reached again into the drifting ash that lingered at the fringes of the chamber.
Another strand stirred, then another. They twisted lazily, hesitant to heed his will. His mind pulled in two directions now: one hand clutching the first circle steady, the other reaching for the next. His concentration faltered—
The first circle unraveled in an instant, dissolving like mist under wind.
The ash fell silent again.
Alatar exhaled harshly, his hands tightening into fists. The ache in his skull throbbed with frustration, but his eyes burned with resolve.
Barachas inclined his head, his voice calm, neither mocking nor comforting. "So it is. Such is the way. Command is not strength of hand—it is breadth of will. To grasp one and keep it is simple. To grasp many is to learn balance. Try again."
Alatar shut his eyes, inhaled deeply, and called once more. The ash stirred. A circle formed—this time tighter, steadier. His hand shook from the strain of holding it, but he pressed forward. His will extended like fingers groping in the dark, coaxing another thread of ash to shape.
For a moment, it worked. A second circle began to form near his shoulder. Thin, incomplete, but taking shape.
Then the first circle faltered again. His will split too far, too fast. Both shattered, dispersing in a flurry of grey dust.
Alatar cursed under his breath.
Barachas's voice came low, stern but not cruel: "You fight the ash as if it were a foe. It is not your enemy. It is your echo. You must become it, let it be an extension of yourself. Your failure is not weakness—it is misalignment."
The words struck deep, but they did not soothe him. Alatar clenched his teeth, his chest heaving. He tried again.
And again.
Each attempt brought him closer: two circles half-formed, one steady but collapsing when the other rose. Sometimes they scattered before even completing. Sometimes his mind pulled too hard in one direction and the ash lashed back, pricking at his skin with searing pinpricks.
Yet never once did he stop.
Each failure only sharpened him. Each collapse etched deeper into his resolve. His arms trembled, sweat dripping freely, his lungs burning. Hours passed in silence but for the faint rasp of his breathing and the endless stirring of ash.
At last, one moment came—a rare breath of balance. One circle spun around his arm, faint but intact. Another flickered into being at his other wrist, wobbling, thin as thread but refusing to dissolve.
Alatar gasped, his whole body taut with strain. His eyes widened, fierce and bright. For an instant, he held both.
Then, with a shuddering snap, they fell apart once more.
The chamber quieted.
Alatar sagged to his knees, dragging in air. His hands shook violently, but his eyes still burned with defiance.
Barachas's chained form shifted, a sound like stone grinding against stone. He regarded Alatar with something between solemnity and pride. "Good," he rumbled. "You fail, but you do not yield. That is the marrow of command. The ash remembers persistence more than it remembers triumph. Each failure carves a place in you where victory will one day stand."
Alatar lifted his head, hair damp with sweat, his lips curling faintly into something between a snarl and a smile. His voice was hoarse, but it carried the weight of iron:
"Then let me carve deeper."
Barachas's eyes gleamed, pride burning behind the molten glow.
And so the training continued, failure upon failure, yet each leaving Alatar unbroken—each feeding the fire of a will that refused to bend.
"Enough."
Barachas's voice rolled through the chamber, final and immovable. Alatar was still on his knees, strands of ash slipping through his fingers like fading dreams. His breath tore ragged from his chest, sweat dampening his hair, but his eyes still glowed with that unyielding fire.
"I can still—" he began, dragging himself up.
"No," Barachas interrupted, the weight of his tone halting Alatar as firmly as if a hand had pressed to his chest. "The ash bends to will, not exhaustion. You seek command, yet you court ruin. Rest. That is also command—over yourself."
Alatar's jaw tightened, but he swallowed his protest. Reluctantly, he let the ash scatter back into stillness.
Together, they left the altar chamber. The Sanctum's passages stretched wide and labyrinthine, walls carved from stone that shimmered faintly as though veins of light ran beneath its surface. As they walked, the silence was not oppressive but vast, filled with the weight of unseen eyes and histories embedded into every slab.
At last, they entered the living quarters.
Alatar stopped short. He had expected barrenness, but instead the chambers unfurled like palatial halls. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, adorned with reliefs that seemed to shift in the corner of his vision—scenes of wars, of ascensions, of figures bound and unbound. Massive doors lined the corridor, each inlaid with sigils that pulsed faintly like heartbeats. Within, the rooms rivaled the grandeur of castles, their furnishings carved with impossible precision, their space breathing an air both ancient and alive.
Barachas gestured with a tilt of his head toward one of the doors. "Yours. Rest, Alatar."
The younger being hesitated, glancing once more at the older. "And you?"
Barachas's molten gaze softened, faintly. "I will rest also. Chains broken do not erase weariness. Sleep. Tomorrow we command again."
With that, they parted.
Alatar's chamber was vast, yet its magnificence did not sway him. He lay upon the bed, the stone beneath draped with silks that whispered of forgotten empires. His eyes traced the ceiling above, where constellations of light slowly shifted, mirroring the heavens outside.
But his mind would not be still.
The ash lingered in his thoughts—the way it trembled, the way it resisted, the way it seemed to await him. He replayed his failures again and again, searching for the gap, the moment where his hold faltered. I held two once. For an instant, I held them. That instant gnawed at him like a promise.
His fingers twitched restlessly on the coverlet, tracing circles he could not yet sustain. He whispered to himself, voice barely audible, "Not strength. Balance. Not grasping, but aligning…"
Sleep came not as surrender but as strategy. He drifted into it with determination seeded deep, his will already shaping paths even in dream.
---
Morning.
The Sanctum stirred with no sound, no light breaking through windows—yet somehow the air told him it was time. Alatar rose swiftly, his fatigue dulled by the ember of purpose still burning from the night before.
In the training chamber, Barachas awaited him, unbowed even in stillness. "You carry resolve in your eyes," the primordial said, studying him. "Good. Now let us see if your night's fire bears fruit."
Alatar wasted no words. He lifted his hands, exhaled, and called.
The ash moved quicker this time, answering with less resistance, as though recognizing the persistence etched into him. A circle spun into being around his arm—steady, less fragile. He clenched his will tighter, reaching for another.
The second came, thinner but clearer than the day before. His jaw tightened, his breath grew harsh, but he did not falter. A third flickered, wavering, straining against collapse. His mind stretched, balanced precariously between too many demands.
Barachas watched with that same inscrutable gaze. His chains rattled faintly as he shifted, but his voice was calm: "Hold. Let them orbit, not clash. They are not rivals—they are extensions. Breathe. Align."
Alatar obeyed, forcing his lungs to slow, to steady.
For a heartbeat, three circles spun together.
Then four flickered into being, straining the very limits of his focus. His vision blurred, his head swam with fire, but he held. He held.
The fifth began to spark, fragile and tentative, forming like smoke.
And then—collapse.
All five shattered in a storm of grey, bursting outward and dissolving into silence. Alatar stumbled forward, bracing himself on one knee. His body trembled, his breaths ragged.
But in his eyes there was no defeat. Only a deeper burn.
Barachas's lips curved into something rare: pride. "Progress. Strained, yes, but true. You tasted it. The five heard your call, even if they did not yet obey. Do not let the shatterings dissuade you. Command is not won in a single dawn."
Alatar raised his head, his sweat-drenched hair clinging to his brow. He swallowed his exhaustion, a crooked, determined smile tugging at his lips.
"Then let the dawns come."