The chamber still pulsed with heat. Alatar's chest rose and fell, sweat beading down his brow, his entire body thrumming with the fire that now lay obedient at his command. The five ashes revolved about him, hovering with patient brilliance—like small suns orbiting their sovereign. They spun in perfect unison, spheres of glowing embers, each radiating its own faint hum.
He gazed at them with a strange mixture of pride and disbelief. For so long they had defied him, scattered and violent. Now they obeyed. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles.
Barachas's voice broke through the silence, low and deliberate.
"Do you believe you only command five?"
Alatar blinked, turning toward him. The elder's eyes were narrow, his arms still folded across his chest, as though weighing a truth not yet spoken.
"What do you mean?" Alatar asked, his voice edged with caution.
Barachas tilted his head toward the floating spheres. "Do you believe the ash ends at five? That this is its limit? And tell me, boy—do you think they must remain as little circles, forever spinning about you like tame hounds?"
The words sank into Alatar's ears like stones into water. His first reaction was confusion, then irritation. He opened his mouth to argue, but paused. He looked again at the five glowing spheres, each neat and perfect, as if proud of their symmetry. For a moment, his pride faltered.
Why five? Why circles?
Because that was what had formed. Because that was what he had fought for. Because anything more had seemed impossible.
Barachas's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "You shaped them into spheres because your mind clung to the simplest form. You stopped at five because your will could not yet imagine more. Do not mistake what you see for the boundary of what exists. If you chain yourself to the thought of five, you will never rise beyond a child playing with fire."
The words cut sharper than any blade. Alatar's hands clenched unconsciously at his sides.
"I—" he began, then stopped. He could not answer.
Barachas stepped forward, his shadow falling across the five ashes. "Your next trial will be to increase them. Not five, but ten. Not tiny lights drifting by your arm, but spheres vast enough that you could step through them. When you master that, you will thicken them, compress their essence until they are not mere light and air, but weapons—dense, solidified, capable of cleaving stone and rending flesh."
The elder's voice deepened, heavy with certainty. "What you hold now is the beginning. Nothing more. Do you understand?"
Alatar's pride stung. He looked again at the five glowing spheres, once so glorious in his eyes. They still hummed with power, but suddenly they seemed… smaller. Weak. Childish, almost. He had celebrated too quickly. He had thought the summit reached when he had only set foot upon the first incline.
For a long moment, silence stretched. Then Alatar laughed—not bitterly, not cruelly, but with a spark of new hunger.
"I see," he said softly. His eyes gleamed with sharp light. "You're right. Why limit myself? If five can obey, then ten will. If they can be circles, they can be more. Why should I bind my own hand?"
Barachas's expression softened, ever so slightly. "Good. That answer pleases me."
Alatar turned back to his ashes. They floated patiently, still circling him like loyal companions. For the first time since their birth, he looked at them not with satisfaction, but with challenge.
"Five," he murmured under his breath. "You are not enough."
The ashes quivered faintly, as if aware of his thought. His will pressed harder, commanding them to multiply. He reached inward, to the same well of fire that had birthed them, straining, clawing, demanding more. His throat burned, his chest tightened. For a fleeting moment, he felt the taste of failure, the edges of collapse. His body threatened to tremble as it had in the past.
But he remembered. The suffering, the words of Auryaire, the laughter he had forged from his pain. Weakness was the only enemy. And weakness could be cut out.
His voice rang sharp in the chamber: "Yield!"
The five spheres pulsed violently. Their glow thickened, stretched, until filaments of fire split from them, curling like threads torn from cloth. One by one, new sparks formed, gathering weight, forming the faint shape of circles.
A sixth. A seventh.
Sweat poured down Alatar's face. His vision blurred at the edges, but he refused to let go. He dragged more ash into being, commanding, shaping, forcing the light to obey. The chamber groaned faintly, stone grinding against stone, as if the very walls resisted this new birth.
The eighth came, trembling, unstable. He forced his will into it, grinding his teeth until blood touched his tongue. The ninth followed, flickering like a candle in the wind.
And then, straining, breath ragged, veins burning with fire, he reached for the tenth.
The air cracked. A violent surge of heat blasted outward, shaking the chamber doors. Alatar fell to one knee, chest heaving, but above him—ten circles of ash burned. Smaller, weaker, some unstable—but ten nonetheless.
Barachas watched, silent. For the first time, a shadow of astonishment crossed his face. The boy had not hesitated, had not retreated when the strain nearly split him apart. He had demanded more—and received it.
Alatar lifted his head slowly. His lips parted into a savage smile. "Ten," he whispered hoarsely. "I said you would obey."
The spheres wobbled faintly, some threatening to collapse, but they endured, tethered by his will.
Barachas stepped forward, his voice low, steady. "Not perfect. Not stable. But they exist. That is enough for now." His gaze hardened. "Do not grow complacent again. You have doubled what was thought possible in a single night—but that is only the first step."
Alatar nodded, still panting, his eyes never leaving the ten glowing forms. His pride surged again, but this time it was sharpened, tempered by Barachas's warning.
This was not the summit. It was only the beginning.
And already, he wanted more.