The chamber breathed with silence. The air was heavy, as though it waited with him, aware that something vast and unyielding would soon unfold. Alatar sat in the hollowed space, his knees drawn beneath him, palms resting on his thighs, breathing slow and steady. His eyes shimmered faintly, touched by the light that had once tormented him—now softened, absorbed, and understood. The blue within him was no longer a stranger. It was his companion, his tormentor, his teacher.
For the first time in what felt like countless cycles, he did not tremble.
He could feel them.
The five ashes, each born of his suffering, his endurance, his hunger to seize more than what the world thought him capable of. At first they had been wild storms within him—sparks he could not hold, flames he could not command. But tonight, their movements were different. No longer fragments drifting apart. No longer fires at war with his flesh. Tonight they leaned toward him.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. He lifted his hand, and the ashes stirred as if answering his call.
"Do you feel it?" Barachas's voice cut the silence, rough yet laced with rare warmth. The old one stood at the chamber's edge, arms folded, eyes burning not with cynicism but with expectation.
Alatar did not answer immediately. His gaze remained on the subtle glow, the flecks of living ash that spiraled in the air like sparks escaping from a dying flame. He felt them within his core, five distinct presences, each throbbing like a heart. And as they moved, so did his breath, his blood, his will.
"I do," Alatar finally whispered. His voice was calm, steady, but underneath lay a tremor of something dangerous. Not fear—excitement. "They listen to me now."
Barachas stepped closer. The heavy weight of his presence filled the chamber like a mountain leaning over a valley. "Not listen. Yield. The ash yields to you because you endured what most would break beneath. You carved your own fire. That is why you will command them."
The pride in his tone was subtle but undeniable. Barachas, who mocked weakness, who sneered at failure, allowed a note of respect to slip through.
Alatar closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, feeling each ash gather at the edges of his will. They resisted faintly, testing him, whispering the memory of his suffering. His throat burned as though reliving the first time he had spoken the script. His bones ached like the night the blue light devoured him. His mind flickered with pain, despair, and the mocking laughter of his own weakness.
But he did not falter. He embraced it.
"You were right, Barachas," Alatar murmured, his smile widening faintly, bitter yet triumphant. "All my suffering came from weakness. And weakness deserves no mercy."
His eyes snapped open. They gleamed like shards of sapphire in the dark.
The five ashes stirred violently. One flared above his left palm, burning like molten glass. Another swirled at his shoulder, sharp and cold, like a winter flame. A third coiled around his chest, a serpent of cinders. The fourth vibrated in the air with a pulse like thunder. The fifth burned low, heavy, almost reluctant—yet it too bent toward him.
He extended both hands. The chamber filled with heat and light.
Barachas watched silently, though his jaw tightened. The boy had come far—further than most ever dreamed. He had crawled through agony, bled upon the script of the ancients, swallowed pain until it became marrow. And now, here he stood, no longer the frail creature who lamented his suffering but one who smiled at its memory.
The five ashes clashed and swirled. The air crackled as if the very stones of the chamber feared what was being born. They resisted final unity, pulling apart, straining against the inevitability of his will. But Alatar's voice cut through the storm, calm yet commanding.
"Enough."
The word was not shouted. It did not need to be. It carried weight beyond sound—a command born of conviction. The ashes froze, trembling in the air. Slowly, inexorably, they drew toward his outstretched hands.
Barachas's eyes narrowed. "Control them, boy. Command, don't beg. If you falter even for a heartbeat, they'll scatter and burn you hollow."
"I will not falter." Alatar's tone was regal now, the first true glimmer of the man he would become.
He brought his palms together, and the chamber exploded in brilliance. The five ashes collided. For an instant, the world became pain again—white, searing, absolute. His arms shook. His chest thundered with unbearable pressure. His teeth clenched as blood dripped from his lips.
But he did not scream.
He laughed.
The sound was sharp, defiant, echoing against the stone walls. "You are mine," he growled, forcing the ashes inward, forcing their chaos to bow. "You are my fire. My beginning."
The ashes writhed, then broke. Not apart—into unity. A single blaze formed, vast and radiant, hovering before him. It was not mere flame, but something greater. A living crown of fire and shadow, ash and light interwoven.
Barachas's lips curled into a rare smile, pride flickering openly in his gaze. "He's done it."
Alatar stood slowly, the unified ash burning above his hands. He looked down at it not with fear, not with doubt, but with something far more dangerous—joy. His chest swelled with pride, with hunger. His suffering had not been in vain. The pain had not been cruelty without purpose. It had been the forge. And now, he held the first weapon born of himself.
"Do you see, Barachas?" His voice was quiet, but it carried like thunder through the still chamber. "They said I would break. That I was nothing. That I could not endure. But look." He raised the unified ash higher, and the walls glowed with its light. "Look at what I am becoming."
Barachas nodded once, his rough features softening with a grim kind of satisfaction. "You've taken your first step. A small step in the eyes of eternity, but for you—it changes everything."
Alatar lowered the ash until it hovered just above his heart. Its warmth sank into him, threading fire through his veins, binding itself to his being. His body shook with the strain, but he welcomed it, teeth bared in something between a smile and a snarl.
"I will not stop here," he whispered, more to himself than to Barachas. "This is only the beginning. I will rise higher. I will carve my throne from ash and fire. And nothing—nothing—will chain me again."
For a long moment, silence reigned. The chamber glowed faintly, alive with the quiet hum of the unified ash. Alatar stood straighter than he ever had before, his shoulders squared, his gaze fierce. The boy who had once wept in the shadows was gone. In his place stood a figure reborn—a sovereign in the making, crowned not by birthright but by his own unyielding will.
Barachas exhaled slowly, the weight of years in his sigh, but his eyes did not leave Alatar. "Good. Very good. You are no longer weak, Alatar. Remember this moment. Etch it into your bones. For one day, you will need it when the world itself tries to break you again."
Alatar smiled, faint but unwavering. "Let the world try."
The chamber doors creaked, shifting as though stirred by the power within. Beyond them, the unknown waited. Alatar turned his gaze toward them, his unified ash still pulsing at his heart, and for the first time, he felt not fear of what lay ahead but eagerness.
The first step had been taken.
And he would never step back.