At first, each sphere had felt alien, a foreign knot of ash and flame pressing against him. But as he held them, as he forced them into obedience, he began to feel a strange recognition in them. Not kinship, not yet—but reflection. They were not separate things. They were fragments of him, shards of torment and defiance given shape.
They were mine from the beginning, he thought. I only needed to claim them.
"Now move them," Barachas instructed. "Individually, not as a herd. Command each by name."
Alatar frowned. "They have no names."
Barachas's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "Then give them names. What you cannot name, you cannot own."
Alatar swallowed, his throat dry. He turned his gaze to the first sphere, hovering above his left shoulder. Its light flickered redder than the others, heat shimmering around it like a brand.
"I call you Ember," he said softly.
The sphere flared, as if in answer.
He turned to the next, one that drifted more sluggishly, heavy with dark ash clinging to its surface. "You, Cinder."
One by one, he gave them names. Ember, Cinder, Veil, Scour, Whisper, Hollow, Brand, Shard, Gloom, Pyre. With each name, the strain lessened. With each name, the bond tightened.
Barachas's eyes gleamed. "Good. You feel it now. Naming is claiming. Claiming is command."
Alatar spread his arms again, sweat stinging his eyes. "Ember—rise."
One sphere broke from the orbit, jerking upward like a startled bird. It wobbled, nearly collapsing, but Alatar tightened his will, steadying it.
"Cinder—fall."
Another dipped lower, hovering near the floor. His skull throbbed with the effort, but he forced the rhythm.
"Whisper—circle me."
The third sphere peeled away and began to orbit tightly around his torso. His concentration split like glass under strain, but he endured.
Three obeyed. The other seven trembled in protest, threatening to unravel the whole structure. Alatar snarled, teeth bared, sweat dripping down his chin. His mind screamed at him to release. He refused.
Barachas stepped forward, voice steady but firm. "Do not cling to fear. Do not hold them as a drowning man clings to wood. You are not clinging—you are commanding. They are not driftwood. They are your chains to bind."
Alatar's lips curled into a grin, ragged and wild. "Then bind!"
The spheres steadied, one by one, as if cowed by his fury. His pulse thundered in his ears, but the chaos bent beneath him.
For a moment—brief, fragile—he commanded all ten. Individually. Named. Obedient.
His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, the spheres flickering, wavering—but not breaking. They hovered close, as though waiting for him to rise again.
Barachas strode forward, looming over him, eyes glowing faintly with pride. "You see now. The toll will always be heavy, but the more you command, the easier it will become. The ash yields to you because you name it, because you claim it. Each breath you take with them obeying makes the next breath lighter. This is the path."
Alatar's chest heaved. His lips curled into a fierce smile, though blood trickled from his nose. "I thought they were torment. They are not. They are mine. They were always mine."
The ten spheres pulsed once, in unison, as if to affirm his words.
For the first time, Alatar felt not crushed by their weight but steadied by it. The ash no longer felt like an enemy bound in chains, but a part of him learning its master's voice.
And deep within, beyond the exhaustion, beyond the blood and strain, something else stirred—something darker, something hungrier. The taste of command. The realization that control was not a gift, nor a burden, but a right.
He would never give it back.
The silence of the Sanctum pressed against Alatar's ears as he sat alone in his quarters. The chamber was as lavish as any royal bedchamber he had heard of, its walls of carved obsidian veined with faint blue fire, its ceiling vaulted high enough to resemble a night sky frozen in stone. Velvet curtains and silver-threaded tapestries adorned the space, but none of it distracted him.
The air still carried faint motes of ash from his training, curling about him like sluggish shadows. He had done it—ten circles. Ten burning wheels of ash spinning around him, obeying his command. Not without pain, not without strain, but he had bent them to his will.
He leaned forward at the desk of polished blackstone, palms flat, chest heaving. His reflection stared back at him from a bronze mirror on the table. His own eyes looked alien now—fierce, sharp, burning with something that had not existed before.
For a long moment he did not move.
The triumph of the day echoed within him, but so too did the weight of what it had cost. The ten circles had pushed against his will like chained beasts, fighting to scatter into nothingness. Every fiber of his being had resisted, sweat pouring, muscles trembling, his mind pulled toward breaking. The toll had been staggering. But he had endured.
And in enduring, he had changed.
"Is this what it means to walk above shackles?" he murmured to himself, voice low, almost reverent. "To make what defies you bend, not once but again and again, until it knows your command?"
The mirror did not answer. Yet within, Alatar saw the shadow of a smile spread across his lips. Not one of arrogance, but of the strange, simmering pride that came with surviving a storm and realizing you were stronger for it.
Sleep came late. His body ached as if he had wrestled stone giants, but his mind refused to surrender its fire. He lay in the grand bed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, thoughts racing. The ash would yield again tomorrow. And more. He would master it. Command it. And in that mastery, he would climb—higher, always higher.
When dawn came, the Sanctum woke with the soundless hum of ancient wards shifting. Alatar rose with it, weary but steady, his will still unbroken.
Barachas was waiting in the training chamber, his shadow bound still by the altar's chains, though his presence seemed somehow larger than before. The spirit's hollow eyes fixed on Alatar as he stepped into the circle.
"You look different," Barachas rumbled, voice like stone grinding on stone.
Alatar's lips curved faintly. "Because I am. Yesterday I proved myself. Ten circles obeyed."
Barachas inclined his head slightly, the faintest gesture of approval. "You forced them. You endured. And they yielded. That was the first taste of command. But if you think it ends there…" He leaned forward, the chains clinking like echoes of judgment. "Then you are still blind."
Alatar stiffened, pride stirring in his chest, but he held Barachas's gaze. "Then show me. Show me what comes next."
Barachas's smile was thin, cruel, approving all at once. "Good. You learn quickly not to wait for comfort. Then hear this: why limit yourself to ten? Why to mere circles?"
The words struck Alatar harder than expected. His mind flashed back to the ten wheels orbiting him, spinning like miniature halos of smoke and flame. He had thought himself triumphant. But now… the question gnawed at him. Why only ten? Why only one form? Was it not his hand that commanded them? Was it not his will they bent to?
Barachas's voice rumbled deeper, pressing against the chamber. "The ash is endless. Shards of a greater fire broken loose from eternity. It can be as many as you dare. It can take any shape you dare command. Your training now is to expand. To stretch your control beyond what you have known. Ten is not enough. You will call forth more—more than you think possible. And you will not bind them to small forms circling your arm. No. You will swell them, expand them, until each is large enough for you to step through."
Alatar's breath caught. "Step through?"
"Gateways," Barachas said, eyes glinting.
"Circles of ash so vast they stand taller than you, wide enough for you to walk through as if entering another world. You will shape them, hold them, and not falter. That is your next challenge."
Alatar's pulse quickened, the weight of the task settling over him like iron. To simply command ten small circles had nearly broken him. And now he was to hold massive forms, stable, coherent, unyielding. The thought was daunting. But even as doubt flickered, resolve burned hotter.
He raised his chin. "Then I'll do it. I will make them yield."
Barachas's chains rattled with a low laugh. "Yes. That is the way. But be warned, Alatar—this step will demand more than strength. It will demand refinement. Discipline. You cannot simply grit your teeth and force these forms into being. You must shape them with precision. If your will falters, the ash will devour you from within."
The words should have chilled him. Yet Alatar only clenched his fists tighter. "Then let it try. I will not bend."
The spirit's hollow smile widened. "Good. Then begin. Show me if your resolve is more than words."
Alatar closed his eyes, drawing the ash toward him again. It surged like a tide, resisting, writhing, yet already familiar. He felt the strain of it press into his mind, the toll beginning again—but he welcomed it. This was no longer just struggle. This was the path. And he would walk it, no matter the cost.