Alatar sat in stillness, the familiar chill of stone beneath him grounding the endless hours of practice. Ash curled softly around him, not in wild plumes but in controlled streams, ribbons of muted gray gliding across the chamber air. Each tendril bent to subtle intent, some stiffening as though hardened by will, others dissolving into drifting dust, patient and quiet. His breathing had become a rhythm, synchronized with the tide of ash he summoned and recalled. The years had passed in this ritual—quiet failures, minute adjustments, slow, deliberate victories.
But on this day, the silence shifted.
The door to his chamber opened with a groan of stone, and Alatar lifted his gaze. Barachas stood at the threshold, his frame broad as ever, his presence carrying the weight of calm authority. For a moment, neither spoke; the master simply studied the student, taking in the glow of discipline that seemed to cling to the air around him. Then Barachas gave a low nod, the faintest smile breaking his otherwise stern face.
"You've buried yourself long enough in this tomb of dust," Barachas said, his voice deep, weathered by centuries. "Come. Step outside the chamber. A man must not forget the world beyond his own breath."
Alatar hesitated. The training chamber had been his world for so long that leaving it felt like interrupting a sacred rhythm. But Barachas' words carried a kind of authority he could not deny. Slowly, he dispelled the ash, letting the last threads sink back into his body. With measured steps, he rose and followed his teacher.
They walked together through the halls of the sanctum. High ceilings arched above them, etched with inscriptions that caught the faint light of braziers, casting shifting shadows across the stone. Their footsteps echoed, a steady cadence that filled the silence. For Alatar, the world outside the chamber felt strangely wide, each corridor reminding him that time had moved even while he sat locked within his own stillness.
Eventually, they came to one of the inner halls, a broad space with long benches carved into the stone and tall windows that peered into the darkened sky beyond. Barachas motioned for him to sit, and the two settled into the quiet. For a while, there was only silence, save for the hum of distant air within the sanctum's depths.
Barachas turned his gaze on him, sharp but not unkind. "Tell me," he said, "what progress have you made in these years? Not the surface answers. Speak as one who has wrestled with his own essence."
Alatar drew in a slow breath, gathering his thoughts. He had rehearsed his control endlessly but had not put his journey into words before. Now, with Barachas' expectant eyes upon him, he began.
"At first," he said, voice low, "I sought only smoothness. The ash flowed like unruly blood through me, and my aim was to refine it—to let it move without tearing at me, without resistance. For years I closed my eyes, watching it flow within, as though tracing veins that were not flesh but smoke. That became the rhythm of my days: feeling it inside me, then calling it into the chamber, and studying how the inner stream shifted when the outer was summoned."
He paused, remembering the endless repetitions, the failures that had once seemed unbearable but now felt like necessary stones upon the path.
"With time," he continued, "the volume grew. The ash that once sputtered out in pitiful wisps began to swell, filling the chamber. I thought then that I was strong. But when I tried to impress my will upon it, to bind it not only with command but with intention, it resisted me. It scattered, broke apart, as though mocking my attempts. Countless nights I tried and failed, again and again."
His eyes lowered, his voice taking a quieter tone. "I learned then that the ash could not be treated as something foreign. It was no beast to be beaten into obedience. It was part of me, as much as breath or thought. The more I pushed it like an enemy, the more it rejected me. Only when I began to regard it as an extension of my own hand did it start to respond. Slowly, reluctantly, it began to take on the shape of my will."
Barachas listened intently, his eyes never leaving Alatar's face. His silence urged the younger man to continue.
"I began with the simplest shaping," Alatar said. "Threads. Lines in the air, steady and unbroken. Then circles, spirals, forms that could hold themselves for more than a heartbeat. At first, everything collapsed quickly. I lacked patience—I wanted the ash to leap to perfection. But the ash answered only to persistence. So I slowed myself. For years, I shaped and failed, shaped and failed, until one day the forms no longer dissolved but lingered. They did not just exist; they carried my will within them. That was when I understood. The ash was no tool—it was my voice, my breath, my thought, given substance."
He leaned back slightly, exhaling. Speaking the years aloud laid their weight upon him, yet also gave him clarity. "And so, the failures taught me more than the fleeting triumphs. My will is still not perfect. But the ash moves smoother than ever, and in it, I see not a servant but an extension of myself. That is what I have learned."
Barachas let the words settle into the air before answering. His smile was faint but genuine. "You have done well, Alatar. You speak not as a child chasing power, but as one who has begun to understand what mastery requires. Many would have broken under the weight of such failure. But you endured. That endurance alone sets you apart."
Alatar felt a strange warmth at the words. Praise from Barachas was rare, and more precious for its rarity. Yet even in that moment of pride, his gaze drifted inward. "And still, I know I am far from finished," he said. "The ash listens better now, yes. But it is only the beginning. There must be more I can do. More I must do."
Barachas chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Ambition burns in you, that much is clear. But remember: power does not bloom all at once. You have learned the value of patience. Hold to it. Do not rush into the next trial thinking the ash owes you obedience. Let it grow with you. Treat it as you would a limb you are only learning to use. You would not expect a newborn hand to wield a sword."
Alatar nodded slowly, turning the words over in his mind. "Then the next step," he said, "must be to test what I can shape more deliberately. Not merely threads or circles. But forms that live, forms that endure, carrying my intent with clarity. I will begin again tomorrow."
Barachas studied him for a moment longer, then inclined his head. "Good. That determination will serve you well. I will not tell you what forms to make—your own instincts must guide you there. But I will say this: let each creation teach you something. Do not only build. Listen. The ash will reveal more than you expect if you allow it."
A silence followed, comfortable this time. The two sat in the great hall, teacher and student, the weight of years between them but also the quiet bond of shared purpose. For Alatar, the pause was welcome. He had lived so long in solitude that simply sitting beside Barachas, speaking openly of his path, felt like a release.
At length, Barachas rose. "Rest for tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, you return to your chamber with new eyes. I will watch from afar. Show me how you grow from here."
Alatar stood as well, bowing his head in gratitude. "I will not disappoint you."
Barachas gave a single nod, then turned, his heavy steps echoing as he left the hall. Alatar remained a moment longer, staring into the shadows that clung to the corners of the sanctum. His heart was steady, his resolve sharpened. The years of slow discipline had brought him here, but he knew now that they were only the foundation. The path stretched onward, demanding more of him still.
When at last he returned to his chamber, the air seemed charged, waiting. He sat once more upon the cold stone ground, legs folded, hands resting upon his knees. He closed his eyes, reaching inward.
Tomorrow, he thought, he would try something new.
And the ash, stirred by his will, swirled faintly within him, as though listening.