Ashen stood in the garden of Caldor's house, his hands trembling above a small fire. The flames crackled softly, but no warmth seemed to reach his fingers. He stared at the fire without seeing it.
— You're somewhere else, Caldor noted, hunched over an old grimoire open to a dog-eared page. A thought you'd like to share, perhaps?
Ashen didn't answer right away. He eventually murmured, still staring:
— It feels like my body came back... but not me.
Caldor gently closed the book. He walked over and sat beside him, on the cold stone edging the fire.
— Tell me about that feeling.
Ashen hesitated. He clenched his fists.
— Everything's too calm here. Too... clean. I feel like a poison poured into a golden cup. I know I'm going to stain everything.
— And what if that cup was made to hold poison? What if, sometimes, it's the poison that reveals the true nature of the crystal?
Ashen shrugged. He didn't believe in metaphors. He didn't believe in much anymore. But Caldor's voice had that tone... that calm he had never known.
— You know, he said, lifting his head slightly, there comes a point when pain becomes a floor. Something solid. The more you suffer, the more you lean on it. And when there's nothing left... no more blows, no more screams... you fall into the void. Like there's nothing to stand on anymore.
— And you prefer pain to the void?
Ashen gave a short, joyless laugh.
— The void doesn't speak to you. Pain does. It says: "You don't have the right to forget." And me... I don't have the right.
He looked up at the sky, cloudy, gray.
— I remember everything. Every blow. Every word. The taste of iron in my mouth, the smell of the cage... I remember the hand that struck me... the voice that humiliated me... And yet... I'm still here.
Caldor looked at him for a long moment, then slowly stood.
— You're still here, yes. But maybe the challenge isn't surviving pain... Maybe the real challenge, Ashen, is allowing yourself, one day, to exist without it.
Ashen didn't answer. He remained still, jaw clenched, eyes wet but no tears falling.
In the days that followed, the lessons began.
Caldor showed him how to read the lines of a spell, how to feel the flow of energy in objects, how to touch magic with the tip of consciousness. Ashen learned quickly. Too quickly. As if some part of him already knew the workings of that ancient science.
But he showed nothing. No spark. No gift. Nothing.
And yet... the black stone Caldor kept by his bed vibrated gently each time Ashen entered the room.
One evening, after a day of study, Caldor asked a simple question.
— Tell me, Ashen... if you had the power to erase your past... would you?
The boy, sitting cross-legged on the rug, slowly looked up.
— No.
— Why?
Ashen closed his eyes. A silence. Then he said:
— Because if I erase the pain... I erase the one who carries it too. And me... I need to remember. So I don't become what they wanted me to be.
Caldor nodded.
— Then remember. But choose what you'll make of those ashes.
Ashen turned his gaze toward the window. There was a word in his throat. A word he had never said.
Thank you.
But he wasn't ready.
One night, he dreamed. A dream too real. A circular room. A black table. Forty-three chairs, and his own, empty.
The reflections stared at him.
— You're moving forward, said the Judge. But you haven't chosen yet.
— You still wear hate like armor, said the Martyr.
— You have the right to want revenge, murmured the Tyrant. But vengeance, little brother... it devours faster than the blade.
Ashen looked at his own chair. Red. Worn. Cracked.
— I'm still him, he said. The Fool. But maybe I can... learn to speak without screaming. To live without burning.
The Poet smiled.
— Then write, brother. Write your own play. And make them cry.
He woke with a start, breath short. Morning hadn't yet risen. A bluish, almost magical light filled the room. He looked at his hands.
They were trembling. But for the first time... not from fear.
From change.