Alatar slept without dreams. His body, so often twisted and broken in the arena of stone, now lay still and whole upon the bed. For the first time in many weeks, his rest was uninterrupted by phantom pain or the echoes of shattering bone. His blood had done its work—his wounds were healed—but what soothed him more than flesh was the knowledge that progress had been carved into his very marrow.
When morning came, he rose with deliberate calm. Ash stirred faintly around his shoulders, frost glittering along his fingertips as if even in sleep his body had not forgotten its labors. He clothed himself and left the quarters, feet carrying him toward the familiar path of the training hall.
Barachas waited for him at the archway, a silent sentinel against the backdrop of the Sanctum's carved magnificence. The giant's eyes softened when they fell upon Alatar, though pride was veiled beneath his usual composure.
"You rest well?" Barachas asked.
"Well enough," Alatar replied. "The body mends. The mind is harder to silence."
A faint chuckle rumbled in Barachas's chest. "Good. It should be. Only the restless mind sharpens."
They walked together in silence for a time, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stone. At last, Alatar broke it, his voice quiet but firm.
"Barachas… yesterday you told me you had a realization. You still have not said what it is."
Barachas glanced at him, a rare grin ghosting across his lips. "And you still do not trust that you will see it for yourself."
"I trust," Alatar said evenly, "but I would understand. I would know the shape of the path I walk."
Another chuckle, low and gravelly, as though the stone walls themselves shared in Barachas's amusement. "Patience. You are about to find out."
---
The training hall yawned open before them, vast and hollow, the scars of countless battles etched into its floor and walls. Dust clung to the high arches, and the faint hum of old power lingered in the air. Here, the stones remembered every drop of blood, every strike, every cry.
Barachas led Alatar to the center, then turned to face him. His expression shifted, shedding its amusement for solemn gravity.
"You have done well," Barachas began. "More than I expected when you first walked into this hall. You have learned to hold, to command, to endure, to strike. You have proven you can weave ash and ice together, even if only in their simplest forms. You have survived the storm and shaped it. That is no small thing."
Alatar inclined his head. "And yet it is not enough."
The words were not bitter, but clear, steady—spoken as fact.
Barachas's lips curved into the faintest smile. "No. It is not enough. What you wield now—ash, ice—these are but beginnings. You shape them into spears, into shields, into crude forms. This is what the fledgling does when it first touches power: it mimics the world it knows. But you—" He leaned forward, voice deepening. "—you were not born to mimic."
Alatar's chest tightened. "I have felt the same," he admitted. "Even as I shaped spears, as I formed circles, some part of me whispered that there was more. That ash is not only ash, nor ice only ice. They bend, they yield, they shift. Why must I confine them to weapons any soldier could raise from steel or iron?"
Barachas's eyes gleamed, approval burning like fire beneath the stone. "Yes. That is the realization. You begin to understand. Ash is not a spear—it is decay, it is residue, it is the memory of fire. Ice is not a shard—it is stillness, stasis, the death of motion. And when you weave them together…"
"…They can become anything," Alatar finished softly, wonder lacing his words.
The silence between them was thick, heavy not with emptiness but with promise.
---
At last, Barachas straightened, towering in his full height. His voice carried the weight of command.
"Then this is your next step. Not survival. Not endurance. Not crude command. Refinement. Creation. The true test of power is not whether you can withstand an enemy, but whether you can reshape reality in the image of your will. You must learn to see beyond the surface of your elements—to envision them not as matter, but as concepts, forces, principles. Only then will you begin to wield them as your own."
Alatar's heart thundered at the words. For weeks he had been bent, broken, pressed against stone, his lessons carved in blood. But this—this was something new, something greater. Not reaction, but creation. Not defense, but evolution.
"And how," he asked, voice steady though fire burned beneath, "am I to begin?"
Barachas extended a massive hand toward the walls of the hall. With a single gesture, the stone rumbled, the great doors sliding shut with a thunderous boom. Dust rained from the ceiling as the chamber sealed itself, the echoes of the outside world fading to silence.
"You will not begin with me," Barachas said. "You will begin with yourself. Here. Alone."
Alatar blinked, surprise flashing across his face. "Alone?"
"Yes." Barachas's gaze bore into him. "I can test you. I can strike you. I can force you to endure. But I cannot teach you to create. That must come from within. It is not forged under my blows, but in the silence of your own mind. You must lock yourself here. Confront your power without distraction, without guidance, without my hand catching you when you fall. Only then will you learn what your ash and ice truly are."
The words struck Alatar with the weight of truth. He felt it in his bones. He had relied on Barachas's presence, his pressure, his trials. Alone, the silence would strip him bare. Alone, there would be no enemy to fight, only himself—and the power that slept within.
A slow smile spread across his face. "Yes. I see it. Not survival… but evolution."
Barachas inclined his head. "Just so. You will be locked within this hall until you have begun to understand. There is no measure of time, no set trial. You will know when the moment arrives. And so will I."
Alatar's pulse quickened. "Then let it be so. Lock me in."
Barachas chuckled, a deep rumble of satisfaction. "You accept too quickly. Good. That eagerness is the spark you will need."
He stepped forward, placing one massive hand upon Alatar's shoulder. His grip was steady, heavy, not crushing but grounding. "Remember this: you are not here to force ash into a spear, nor ice into a blade. You are here to listen to them. To hear what they wish to become, and then to command them with that understanding. Do not mimic the world. Shape your own."
Alatar's eyes burned with light. The ash stirred around him, frost threading through it like veins of silver. His voice came low, certain, carrying the weight of a vow.
"I will."
Barachas studied him for a moment longer, then released him. The giant turned toward the sealed doors, his presence a looming shadow in the dim hall.
"Then the training begins now. Alone. In silence. Until you have cultivated what is yours."
The doors shuddered closed behind him, leaving Alatar in the vast chamber of stone and shadow.
For a moment, he stood still, listening to the silence. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. Not grim. Not weary. Excited.
This was not survival. This was not endurance. This was the first step into creation.
And for the first time, Alatar felt not the weight of chains, but the thrill of freedom.