The chamber was still, save for the low hum of ash swirling faintly in the air. Alatar stood at its center, chest heaving, the residue of another long session clinging to his skin like a second weight. Before him, the circle—great, broad enough that he could have stepped through it—held steady. It pulsed with faint light, a wreath of grey embers swirling in perfect rotation.
Alatar's lips twitched into the smallest smile. For the first time in weeks, he could hold the circle without shaking.
Barachas's voice cut through the silence, deep and resonant.
"You stand. You command. Good. But tell me, Alatar—what happens when command is challenged? When your will is not left alone to reign?"
Alatar's brows knit. "If I am master, then none can take it from me."
A chuckle reverberated through the chamber, low and rumbling like stone cracking. "Then let us see if those words hold weight."
Before Alatar could question further, Barachas raised a hand. The motion was simple—fingers curling slightly—but the chains that still bound him rattled like thunder. A ripple of force surged outward, invisible but undeniable. It struck Alatar's circle like a storm wind striking a fragile glass, sending the ash quivering, trembling violently, threatening to scatter.
Alatar staggered back a half-step, his teeth clenched. His first instinct was panic—the circle wavered, the edges frayed, particles beginning to break free.
Hold it. Hold it.
He thrust his will into the ash, feeling it slip and twist beneath him, like trying to grip water. Sweat sprang instantly across his brow. His arms rose, palms open, as though his body could reinforce what only his mind controlled.
"Do not flail!" Barachas barked, his tone sharp, commanding. "Still yourself. Still the ash!"
"I—" Alatar's breath caught as another ripple slammed into the circle. The formation buckled, half its body scattering like smoke, before reforming under his desperate pull. His knees trembled, but his jaw locked with fury. "It will not break."
"Then show me," Barachas thundered.
Another wave. Stronger. The ash screamed, tendrils tearing free, the circle nearly shattering. Alatar's vision blurred. His arms shook violently, muscles straining to hold against nothing tangible. Why do you resist me now, when you obeyed me moments before?
And then the thought pierced him: Because I am not resisting Barachas's will. I am resisting my own doubt.
He forced a breath through his teeth. His body stilled. His heart slowed. The chaos around him became background noise. The ash was his—not because he held it with strength, but because he called it to be his.
His hands lowered slowly. He did not fight the ripple this time. He commanded.
"Circle. Hold."
And it did. The ash that had begun to scatter drew back in, reforming into perfect rotation, as though leashed. The ripple broke upon it like waves upon an unyielding stone.
Barachas's chains rattled as the old being leaned forward, eyes gleaming with pride. "Good. Now again."
Another ripple. Stronger still. The chamber groaned under the force, loose dust raining from the ceiling. Alatar's legs bent, his body screamed, but his mind did not falter. He anchored himself in silence, his breath measured, his will absolute.
Three ripples. Four. Five. Each time the ash faltered, but it returned. Each time the circle wavered, but it held. Alatar roared once, not in desperation but in defiance, a sound that shook the chamber nearly as much as Barachas's force.
Finally, the elder lowered his hand. The pressure ceased. The chamber fell into heavy silence, broken only by Alatar's ragged breaths. The circle still spun, whole and unbroken.
Slowly, Alatar released it. The ash dissipated, fading back into the air, leaving him swaying on his feet, drenched in sweat but upright. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, proud and fierce.
Barachas's voice came like iron laid upon velvet.
"Now you begin to understand. Command is not given freely. It must be held even as the world seeks to rip it away. What you faced now was but my hand. One day, it will be the malice of worlds."
Alatar's lips curved into a thin, weary smile. "Then let the worlds come."
Barachas regarded him in silence for a long moment, before nodding once. A rare gesture, but one that carried the weight of respect.
"Rest," Barachas said. "Tomorrow, we begin again. You will not master command in a day. But today—you did not break. And that, Alatar, is the first victory."
Alatar exhaled slowly, chest burning, but deep inside, something had shifted. The ash had tested him, Barachas had tested him, and he had stood. It was not triumph, not yet—but it was a foothold on the path.
And for the first time since his torment began, he felt the faint whisper of something he dared not name—control.
The days blurred into one another, each marked by the same rhythm: the sanctum's endless silence, the harsh command of Barachas's voice, the ash swirling, breaking, reforming. Alatar rose each morning with a heaviness in his bones, not the fatigue of body alone, but the strain of will stretched to its limits. Yet each morning he returned to the chamber, and each night he left it a little different.
The first time Barachas disrupted his circle, Alatar thought it would destroy him. Now, days later, he stood within the tempest without flinching, the ash bending under his command even as the ancient titan's will hammered against it.
He had begun to understand. Control was not a matter of grasping tighter. It was a matter of becoming the stillness the ash could orbit.
When the ripples came now, Alatar no longer shook. His breath anchored him. His blood hummed with strange familiarity to the ash, as though it recognized something ancient within him. When it threatened to scatter, he did not force it back—he called it back. It obeyed, as though he had become not its captor but its axis.
Barachas watched from his altar, the chains that bound him glowing faintly with their ceaseless pulse. His voice rumbled low.
"You begin to resemble a master. Not yet of the ash, but of yourself. That is where it always begins."
Alatar exhaled, sweat dripping from his brow. "I feel… less like I am commanding it, and more like I am reminding it of what it already is."
"Good," Barachas replied. "Because that is truth. Ash remembers. It is memory of what was, fragments of things broken. Command is not invention—it is remembrance. Now… let us see if you can shape memory."
The ash that had formed into a wide circle trembled at Barachas's gesture.
"Make it more. Not only circles. Call it into a blade, a staff, a weapon that is yours to wield. Ash must obey shape as much as motion."
Alatar frowned, lifting his hand. He summoned the ash into a circle again, then stared at it with narrowed eyes. Shape. He imagined a blade—a long sword, silver-grey, edges honed like thought itself.
The ash resisted. It swirled, thickened, but when he forced it into the outline of a weapon, it broke apart like sand slipping between fingers.
"Do not rush," Barachas warned, the weight of command in his tone. "You cannot carve steel from smoke by will alone. Do not force it. Invite it."
Alatar closed his eyes. He breathed, steady and deep. Again he called the ash. Again he pictured the blade, but this time he did not demand it. He let the ash move, let it lean into his thought. Slowly, reluctantly, it elongated, a shaft forming, then an edge. The lines wavered, the body uneven, but it held shape long enough for Alatar to clutch it in his hand.
It felt fragile. But it was there.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a weapon of shimmering grey, imperfect but real. His lips curled into a sharp smile.
Barachas's eyes gleamed faintly. "Better. Again."
The hours stretched. Alatar called the ash into a blade again and again, each time firmer, clearer, until at last he could summon it in a single breath. But the elder was not satisfied.
"Now a spear. Longer. Denser. Let the ash yield not only to sharpness, but to reach."
Alatar groaned, lifting his hands again, sweat dripping freely. Each new form demanded not just control but adaptability. The ash resisted new shapes as though clinging to its formlessness. His first attempts crumbled instantly, the spear collapsing back into dust.
But he persisted. For hours he labored, each failure driving him deeper into determination. Finally, a long haft appeared, tipped with a jagged point, glowing faintly with embers. When he thrust it forward experimentally, the weapon did not dissolve. It answered his motion like an extension of his own arm.
A laugh escaped him, sharp and wild. For the first time in days, he felt not strain but exhilaration.
Barachas rumbled low approval. "You begin to understand: power is not only to call, but to shape. Yet weapons are crude if all you can fashion are swords and spears. Make the ash what you need. A shield. A floor. A tower if you must."
Alatar's smile faded, replaced with fierce resolve. He extended both hands. The ash spiraled wider, thicker, until he willed it downward, beneath his feet. At first it scattered. He nearly fell as the floor dissolved beneath him.
But he tried again. He demanded a platform, a surface solid enough to bear his weight. Slowly, a flat disc of ash condensed, hardened, and as his boots pressed upon it, it held.
He stood upon the ash itself.
For a long moment, silence filled the chamber. Alatar looked down at what he had wrought, his chest heaving. A wave of pride surged through him—pure, burning pride. He had taken what once tormented him and made it his foundation.
Barachas's voice rolled like distant thunder.
"Yes… That is command. Not survival. Not resistance. Dominion. The ash is yours, and through it, you will build."
Alatar's grin widened, fierce and almost boyish. "I never thought to feel joy in this. But it feels as though—every shape I call is a truth I had forgotten."
Barachas inclined his massive head, chains groaning faintly. "That is the nature of power, Alatar. It is not won. It is remembered."
For days more, they labored. Alatar shaped ash into weapons, surfaces, even simple objects: a staff, a chair, once even a crude cup that dissolved when he tried to lift it to his lips. Each form drained him less than the last. Each day his mind grew sharper, his will more precise.
The disruptions continued. Barachas sent wave after wave of pressure against him, yet Alatar no longer panicked. He stood within the storm as if born to it. Even when the ash shook and cracked, he held it together with calm authority.
At night in his quarters, he reflected. He no longer thought of command as domination. It was partnership. The ash was not his slave but his companion. It yielded because he listened, because he understood.
And with each night, his pride grew. Not arrogance, but the quiet recognition of progress. He had begun as a boy crushed by torment, uncertain of his own blood. Now he was shaping memory into matter, turning torment into weapon.
The breakthrough came not with fanfare, but with silence. One morning, as Barachas unleashed his strongest ripple yet, Alatar held three weapons of ash at once: a blade in his right hand, a spear in his left, and a platform beneath his feet. They wavered, but they did not break.
Barachas's rumbling laughter filled the chamber. "You walk the first path of mastery, Alatar. Ash bends to you. Soon… worlds will."
Alatar breathed heavily, eyes bright, sweat dripping down his face. He looked upon the elder titan, his chest swelling not with pride alone but with certainty.
"This is only the beginning."