I sit again on the stone floor, legs folded, ash encircling me like quiet smoke.
The failures of the first year remain etched into me—the collapse of motes under pressure, the frustration of scattering clouds. I understand now why I failed: I tried to pour into them what I had not yet steadied in myself. I tried to make them carry weight I had not earned.
The second year taught me humility. The ash did not bend until I bent first, until I listened instead of demanded. The motes have no voice, yet they speak in silence. To hear them, I had to silence myself.
And the third year… the third year taught me union. I am not master of the ash. I am not servant to it either. We are one.
I breathe, and the ash hums in my lungs. I move, and the ash stirs in my veins.
Not perfect, not flawless. But enough. Enough to glimpse what it means to wield not with command but with will.
---
The room is unchanged. The stone walls do not know or care that three years have passed. But I have changed. The ash has changed with me.
And deep within my bones, the ice stirs faintly. Still sleeping, still patient.
Its time will come.
For now, I close my eyes once more, fold my hands upon my lap, and let the ash drift like breath around me.
This time, when I let go of thought, they do not fall.
They remain.
Time no longer has meaning here. No sun or moon to measure its passage, only the weight of breath and the persistence of effort. Still, I know years have passed. My body does not age the way others do, but my mind—my will—marks the distance.
The ash has become part of me. Where once it obeyed only in fragments, now it moves with me. Where once it collapsed at my misstep, now it endures my tremors. Yet I know this is only the beginning.
If the first years taught me union, then these next must teach me expression.
---
The Fourth Year — Will Carved Into Shape
I begin simple again, though the simplicity feels heavier than before. Circles. Lines. Columns of ash rising from the ground.
But this time, I do not merely shape them—I try to carve my will into them, not as command but as permanence.
The first circle hovers above my palm. I focus not on keeping it steady, but on whispering into it: Remain. Even if I falter, remain.
The circle holds for minutes, then wavers, collapsing back into loose dust.
Failure.
But less failure than before.
I return to find faint traces lingering in the air—thin ribbons of ash reluctant to scatter. A ghost of my will clinging still.
Encouraged, I repeat the act again and again. Not pressing, not forcing, only weaving more of myself into the forms. My thoughts, my resolve, my memory.
By the year's end, I no longer wonder if the ash is obeying. I wonder if it is remembering.
---
The Fifth Year — Complexity
With circles steady, I move to more intricate forms. Weapons first: a blade of ash, long and curved; a spear that stretches taller than me; a shield broad enough to cover my chest.
Each collapses in the early days. The weight of detail overwhelms the ash, and it breaks apart into clouds before any swing or thrust.
So I change my method. Instead of seeing them as objects to command, I see them as gestures. The ash does not need to be a sword. It only needs to carry the intention of a sword.
The breakthrough is subtle, but transformative. When I think of cutting, the ash sharpens. When I think of piercing, it gathers to a point. When I think of defense, it broadens, hardening as if bracing itself.
The shapes are crude still—blades without edges, spears without balance—but they hold.
For months, I refine them. The more I treat the ash as gesture instead of matter, the more intricate I can be. Soon the chamber is alive with shifting forms: chains slithering across the ground, hammers poised in the air, shields layered like scales.
The ash has ceased being a tool. It is a language. My will is the grammar.
---
The Sixth Year — Density
Shape is not enough. I test their strength.
I strike a wall with an ash-blade. It scatters, weak. I strike again, this time focusing not on the blade's form but on its density, condensing every mote until they press against each other like clenched teeth.
The wall cracks faintly.
Encouraged, I try again. More focus. More will. The ash compresses so tightly it hums, vibrating in my grasp. When I swing, the blade smashes against the wall and leaves a scar deeper than my arm's length.
Exhilaration floods me.
The following weeks I dedicate entirely to this art: density. A hammer that lands with weight. A spear that pierces instead of crumbling. A shield that does not just block but withstands impact.
Each attempt drains me. The more I compress, the more strain runs through my bones. My blood burns, my veins ache. But still I persist.
By year's end, the ash no longer feels weightless. It feels real.
---
The Seventh Year — Flow
Strength is one thing. Flow is another. I discover this when I attempt to wield multiple forms at once.
Two blades at either side of me—one holds steady, the other falters. A shield above, a spear below—both collapse under the pressure of divided focus.
It is not control I lack, but rhythm. Each construct demands my full will, yet I must learn to let them share.
So I turn inward once more. I sit with the ash circling around me in a slow spiral. I breathe in rhythm, letting the spiral match the cadence of my lungs.
Then I split them. One spiral becomes two. Two spirals become four. Each one follows my breath, rising and falling as though part of a single great wave.
Days of repetition, weeks of failure. But eventually, they no longer resist. The constructs shift in harmony, not as separate shapes but as parts of one greater whole.
When I swing my arm, a blade forms. When I pivot, a shield slides into place. When I thrust forward, spears arc ahead of me. All moving together, all flowing without collision.
The ash has become an orchestra. My will, the conductor.
---
The Eighth Year — Creation
With flow mastered, a new thought blooms: what if I stop mimicking what already exists?
Why limit myself to swords, spears, shields?
The idea excites me, terrifies me. But I pursue it.
I imagine something unlike any weapon or object I have seen. A lattice of ash, spinning like a wheel. A net woven of strands, wide enough to ensnare. A spiral staircase rising from the ground, each step forming as I ascend.
The first attempts are failures. The lattice breaks, the net unravels, the staircase crumbles beneath me. But I do not stop.
I refine, adjust, learn. By the year's end, I can climb an entire staircase of ash, stand atop it, and look down upon the chamber. For the first time, I feel tall within these walls.
Not merely wielding power, but creating with it.
---
Reflections After Eight Years
I sit once more in silence, ash drifting around me like a quiet storm.
It has been nearly a decade now. Ten years within this chamber. My body is unchanged, but my spirit is unrecognizable.
I began by trying to control. Then I learned to listen. Then to unite, then to shape, then to densify, then to flow. Now, to create.
The ash no longer feels like something I summon. It feels like something I reveal. As though it were always here, waiting for me to see it properly.
I wonder if this is what Barachas intended when he locked me in this room: not that I master ash, but that I come to understand myself through it.
And yet, deep within, I know this is only the beginning. My will has grown sharper, broader, heavier—but it has not yet been tested. Not truly.
That trial will come soon. I feel it.
For now, I close my eyes. The ash forms a spiral staircase again, rising into nothing. I climb it slowly, step by step, until I stand atop the highest rung, staring at walls that seem no less infinite than when I first began.
But I no longer feel trapped.
I feel ready.