The chamber smelled of dust and ancient stone, of sweat and blood old and new.
Barachas stood at the far end of the hall, his towering figure shadowed beneath the Sanctum's firelit arches. His eyes, those twin coals that seemed to glow with their own slow-burning eternity, fixed upon Alatar. The Malakor lord's lips curled in something between amusement and respect.
"You've come dressed in fire," Barachas said, his deep voice rolling like stone grating against stone. "Ash on your breath. Ice in your veins. Let us see if it's more than decoration."
Alatar inhaled. His chest rose and fell as he reached inward. The call came easier now—like pulling breath into lungs rather than wrenching chains from the earth. Ash spilled forth at his command, a storm of black motes whirling around him in widening arcs. They shimmered faintly in the torchlight, circling as though eager to obey.
Then came the frost. Cold prickled against his skin, spreading from his fingertips, his breath misting in the air. Veins of ice crawled across the stone floor, winding toward the ash and intertwining with its shadowy swirls. Where soot and frost touched, steam hissed—a brief protest before his will forced them to dance together.
Alatar held out his hand. Ten woven orbs formed around him, half smoke, half crystalline frost, orbiting like moons. A smile flickered at the edge of his lips, but he crushed it down. Pride could wait. First came proof.
"I am ready," he said, voice steady.
Barachas inclined his head once. "Then endure."
The floor cracked.
From the stone beneath Barachas's feet, spears rose—thin, sharp, dozens of them, glinting with edges honed by sheer will. With a casual flick of his wrist, the Malakor lord launched them forward. They cut the air in a storm of death, shrieking toward Alatar.
Alatar moved.
His orbs surged, reshaping into a curved wall—half ash, half ice. The first volley struck, stone splintering against frost, while ash absorbed the shrapnel. The impact shook his bones, but the wall held.
A fierce grin broke across his face. "It works!"
But Barachas did not pause. Another wave of spears erupted, faster, sharper, weaving through the first volley.
"Then prove it!" the old warrior roared.
Alatar spread his arms, the wall splitting into blades. Five lances of woven ash and ice shot forward, intercepting the incoming spears. Some shattered on impact, others skewered the stone projectiles mid-flight.
Yet gaps remained. A shard grazed his shoulder, slicing through flesh before his blood sealed it shut. Another slammed into his thigh, staggering him. He nearly fell.
His control wavered—the blades stuttered, half collapsing back into smoke. For a heartbeat, he felt everything unravel.
No, he thought, grit scraping through his teeth. I will not fail here.
He clenched his fists, forcing the orbs to reform. Ash roared like a storm, frost crackled like thunder. He pulled them tighter, weaving harder, feeling his veins scream at the strain.
"Yield!" he shouted.
And the elements bent.
New shapes leapt from his command: jagged spears of frost wrapped in spirals of ash, spinning toward Barachas. They flew with the sound of rushing storms, aimed straight at the ancient being's chest.
Barachas smiled.
With a lazy sweep of his arm, stone walls rose to meet the attack. Alatar's spears crashed into them, exploding into steam and soot. The walls shattered, but Barachas remained unscathed, stepping through the debris as though it were mist.
"You have teeth now," Barachas said, his voice carrying both approval and challenge. "But teeth alone do not slay lions."
Another storm of spears erupted, this time from every side—walls, ceiling, floor. They came like rain, an inescapable flood.
Alatar's heart thundered. He spread his arms wide. The orbs around him multiplied, splitting into twenty smaller shapes. He wove them into a dome, half ash, half ice, sealing himself within.
The barrage struck.
Stone screamed. The dome trembled. Shards of ice splintered, ash billowed, steam hissed. Alatar's mind shook with the strain of holding it all together—twenty shapes, twenty wills to command, every one clawing at his concentration.
Blood ran from his nose. His vision blurred.
Still he held.
I am no slave to chains. I command. I endure.
The dome cracked, fissures spreading like veins of lightning. Spears pierced through, grazing his arm, slashing across his cheek. Pain seared him, his body screaming for release.
But beneath the agony, he felt something else—flow. The ash flowed like river currents, the frost anchored like stone. Together they formed a rhythm, not discord but harmony.
He seized it.
With a roar, Alatar unleashed the dome outward, exploding it into a storm. Blades of frost and clouds of ash erupted, intercepting the final wave of spears in a thunderous clash. Steam filled the chamber, choking the air, clouding all sight.
When it cleared, Alatar stood panting, drenched in sweat and blood, but still upright. Around him hovered five spears of woven ash and frost, steady and sharp.
Barachas stared at him, silence stretching. Then, slowly, he clapped once. The sound echoed like a bell in the vast chamber.
"You live," he said. "Not because I spared you, but because you commanded. That is the first taste of true power."
Alatar wiped the blood from his mouth. His legs trembled, his lungs burned, but pride surged within him like fire. "It is only the beginning," he whispered.
Barachas's grin widened. "Then let us make it so."
Alatar's Flaws
Yet even as he stood, Alatar knew the truth. His control had faltered, his dome had cracked, and more than once, failure had been a hair's breadth away. He could wield ash and frost, yes—but only at the cost of blood and strain. His shapes were crude, his defenses fragile, his assaults clumsy compared to the effortless grace of Barachas.
But for the first time, he did not despair at his flaws. Instead, he saw them for what they were: marks not of weakness, but of progress. The path was long, the chains thick, but step by step, link by link, he would break them all.
---
Barachas walked closer, resting a hand on Alatar's shoulder. The weight was immense, like a mountain pressing down, yet strangely grounding.
"You fought like a man half-drowning," Barachas said. "But you refused to sink. That refusal… is the seed of greatness."
Alatar looked into the old warrior's eyes, still glowing like coals. "Then let me grow it."
"You will," Barachas said simply. "Or you will die trying. Both are victories."
Alatar let the words settle. His body ached, his mind was raw, but inside, beneath it all, something burned steady and unyielding.
Resolve.
And for the first time, he believed—truly believed—that it was his.