Alatar inhaled slowly, letting the air burn his lungs as if he were drawing in embers. The ash answered him like a restless storm. He felt it stirring within, a thousand whispers clawing at the edges of his mind, eager to scatter, eager to consume.
Ten circles had once been a storm too great to bear. But now, after a night of reflection, he faced something far greater.
He spread his hands apart, envisioning not small loops of smoke but vast arcs, towering rings through which he could walk. The moment the thought took shape, the ash convulsed.
Bigger, his will commanded. Expand. Stretch. Yield.
The air around him warped. Ash thickened, coiling together into smoky tendrils. It shivered, resisting, as if mocking his audacity. He gritted his teeth, sweat springing to his brow. Slowly, painfully, a great arc began to emerge before him, like a circle of fire carved from shadow.
But the moment it neared half-formed, it fractured.
The ash exploded outward, collapsing in a storm of sparks that struck his chest like blows. Alatar staggered back, choking, his arms trembling violently.
"Again," Barachas's voice cut through the haze, calm, merciless.
Alatar spat blood, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His body screamed to stop. But his will refused. "Again," he echoed, voice hoarse.
This time he closed his eyes, steadying himself. The strain of the ash was not something to fight against blindly. Barachas's warning echoed—not just strength, refinement. If he hurled his will at it without form, it would scatter.
So he pictured the circle in his mind. Not a wild ring of ash, but a shape carved in precision, as though traced by an unbreakable hand. His will sharpened, pressing the ash into that mold.
The arc reformed, larger, clearer, trembling less. His chest tightened as if his ribs were being crushed. His heart pounded with such ferocity he feared it might burst.
"Yield," he growled, his whole body trembling. "I command you."
For one moment, impossibly, the circle stood. A towering ring, taller than himself, burning faintly blue in the dim chamber. He gasped, the sight searing itself into his memory. Triumph welled in his chest—
Then it shattered.
The ash detonated again, the collapse tearing through his concentration. He collapsed to one knee, coughing violently. The taste of iron flooded his mouth.
Barachas's laughter echoed, not cruel but sharp with approval. "Better. You nearly touched it. Again."
Alatar forced himself upright, legs trembling beneath him. His body begged for rest, yet his eyes burned brighter. Each failure only stoked his will. Each collapse brought him closer to the shape he sought.
Hours passed. Again and again he tried. Sometimes the circles broke instantly, scattering into nothing before they formed. Sometimes they took shape only to disintegrate after a breath. Each attempt drained him further, sweat pouring, breath ragged, mind fraying. His vision blurred at the edges, the world spinning.
Yet with each collapse, something shifted within him. The ash's resistance felt… different. Where once it was a wild storm beyond him, now it grew familiar. The weight of it did not lessen—but his body, his mind, acclimated. The pain, though brutal, no longer felt foreign. He was learning its rhythm.
By the time he finally collapsed to the ground, chest heaving, he realized the truth.
He had not failed. Not truly. For the ash no longer fought him as an enemy. It yielded, little by little, to his command. The circles had not lasted—but they had formed. And that meant the seed of mastery had already taken root.
Barachas loomed above him, chained but vast, his voice like the grinding of mountains. "You bleed. You break. Yet still you rise. Good. This is the beginning. The ash learns you as much as you learn it. Do not mistake collapse for failure. Each fall teaches the circle to obey."
Alatar forced himself onto his elbows, panting, but with a smile cracked across his bruised lips. "Then tomorrow," he rasped, "I'll make them stand. And the day after, I'll walk through them."
Barachas's chains rattled faintly, his hollow laughter rolling through the chamber like thunder. "That is the resolve of one who seeks the path above shackles. Do not forget this moment, Alatar. For every circle you break is another step toward command."
Alatar lay back against the cold stone, body broken but spirit unyielding. His limbs ached, his lungs burned, his mind felt like shattered glass. Yet beneath it all, he knew with a certainty that no chain could touch:
He was closer than he had ever been.
The days in the Sanctum no longer passed as days. They stretched, melted, folded into one another until Alatar ceased counting them. Time became measured not by dawn and dusk, but by the number of circles conjured, the number broken, the number nearly held.
The training ground remained the same—a vast hollow chamber, stone ribs arching like the carcass of some buried titan, dust and faint motes of ash hanging thick in the air. The altar room, once Barachas's prison, had become Alatar's forge. Every wall bore the scars of collapsed rings, every stone stained with the residue of his sweat, his blood, his ash.
Morning began with silence. Alatar would rise from his quarters, his body stiff, bruised, every muscle reminding him of yesterday's failures. He would wash in the cold waters of the Sanctum's inner cistern, dress, and enter the chamber. There, Barachas waited, chained yet eternal, eyes glinting with pride veiled as severity.
"Begin."
And Alatar would begin.
The first week was agony. He could barely form a single great circle, each attempt ending in collapse within seconds. The ash mocked him, thrashing violently, exploding outward, battering his body. Each failure rattled his bones and spirit alike, but he did not falter. He would rest against the wall for moments, then stagger back into the center, whispering, Again.
By the second week, something subtle shifted. The circles no longer shattered instantly. They trembled, swayed, but held for longer—five breaths, sometimes ten. Enough for Alatar to feel their weight pressing into him like the gravity of another world. The ash recognized his persistence. It began to yield, grudgingly, learning his touch.
Still, the toll was immense. His body grew leaner, honed, the strain carving him down to sharpness. His palms blistered from the raw heat of conjured ash. His throat grew hoarse from the guttural commands he uttered. At night, alone in his quarters, he would collapse onto the stone bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying each failure in his mind. And yet—even in exhaustion—his lips curled into faint, quiet smiles. For each failure was progress.
By the third week, the ash became less enemy, more companion. He could summon the vast circles without struggle, but holding them remained trial. They quaked and swirled like storms bound in fragile cages, testing his resolve, breaking apart if his focus wavered. Alatar began pacing within them, daring to step closer, feeling the hum of power lick against his skin. He did not yet pass through—but he touched the threshold of possibility.
Barachas observed in silence, rarely speaking. When he did, his words fell like chisels carving truth into stone.
"You strain not to master the ash, but yourself. Remember this—command begins with command of the self. If you cannot stand unshaken, no circle will obey you."
Alatar absorbed the lesson, testing it. He steadied his breathing, his stance, his mind. He learned not to rage at collapse, but to meet it with patience. When the ash scattered, he did not roar—he inhaled, exhaled, and called it back, as if summoning a wayward beast.
By the fourth week, his body no longer trembled after each attempt. Muscles and marrow had hardened to the strain. Where once he fell gasping to his knees after two or three tries, now he stood through ten, through twenty. His spirit carved endurance into his flesh. The Sanctum no longer felt like a prison—it became a crucible.
At night, he reflected. He would sit cross-legged in his quarters, staring into the faint blue glow of the ash that now lingered around him even in rest. It pulsed faintly with his breath, no longer wild, but tethered. He wondered at it—Why do you yield? Why do you resist? What are you, to me, and what am I, to you? The ash never answered, but it did not need to. The answer lived in the struggle itself.
By the fifth week, something new emerged.
He conjured the circle, vast and trembling, and for the first time it did not collapse. It held, humming faintly, its edges shimmering with controlled violence. Alatar's arms shook, sweat streaking his brow, but his eyes widened. He had not forced it into shape—it had chosen to remain.
A laugh, ragged but triumphant, burst from his chest. "You yield."
Barachas's chains groaned as the old being leaned forward, eyes bright with approval. "Not yield," he corrected. "It answers. You called, and it answered."
The circle lasted longer than any before. A minute, then more, before at last collapsing. But Alatar did not fall with it. He remained standing, his heart racing with the thrill of victory.
That night, he did not sleep immediately. He lay in his quarters, staring into the darkness, and whispered to himself: "This is the first step. Not the last."
And for the first time since the torment of his arrival, since the chains of Barachas's altar, he felt no fear of failure. Only hunger.