The morning after Silas Thorne's arrival came quietly, though nothing in the Sanctum was ever truly silent. The mountain sighed in its sleep; the clouds rolled like slow rivers of breath; the world below murmured in some forgotten dialect of life.
In the high chamber, three figures gathered beneath the light of suspended crystals. The walls breathed faint radiance, diffused through stone etched with countless sigils of aeon-old geometry. A table of hewn obsidian sat at the center, its surface polished to such clarity that it reflected the sky itself—grey and trembling with early mist.
Barachas poured from a vessel that glowed faintly red. The liquid shimmered as it left the jug, turning to wine only when it touched the cups—some transmutation of mineral and essence known only to the old Malakors. The scent was rich, not of fruit, but of stars: burnt, distant, and oddly sweet.
Alatar sat quietly across from him, his posture precise, his third eye closed yet faintly pulsing. Silas lounged beside them, his robes a quiet constellation in motion. When he lifted his cup, the wine refracted through the starlight of his eyes—miniature galaxies caught in glass.
> "I had forgotten this taste," Silas said softly, smiling into his cup. "The last time I drank it, the world was still learning to cool itself from birth. Tell me, Barachas—did you brew this one yourself, or steal it from your mountain's blood again?"
Barachas grunted, his grin shadowed beneath the beard of white crystal filaments that hung from his chin.
> "The mountain lends itself willingly, old friend. I take nothing that is not offered."
> "Ah," Silas replied, laughing lightly, "and yet here we are, drinking its generosity without thanks. How very divine of us."
Alatar's gaze lifted, a quiet amusement glinting in the corner of his human eyes.
> "Divine or not, it's potent," he murmured. "And rare."
Barachas leaned back. "Rare, yes. But everything is rare to one who's forgotten what commonness feels like."
The three sat for a time without speaking further. Wind moved through the open arches, carrying with it the scent of lightning and frost. From this height, the world below was hidden beneath the blanket of clouds that had always surrounded the Sanctum. None of them could see what lay beneath—but all could feel the subtle unrest lingering in the depths.
Silas was the first to break the stillness.
> "There's something... off, down there," he said, his voice turning thoughtful. "When I arrived, the air carried a vibration I did not recognize. It was faint, fleeting—but it was there, humming against the bones of reality."
Barachas glanced toward him. "You felt it too?"
> "I feel many things," Silas replied with a half-smile. "But this one was peculiar. It was as though something vast exhaled after a very long sleep."
Alatar said nothing, his mind turning inward at the echo of those words. He had felt the same—an invisible weight pressing against the walls of his chamber, something the ash had sensed before he did.
Barachas seemed to read his thoughts. He set his cup down and folded his hands atop the table.
> "You remember the stone-bird I fashioned—the one I used to watch the lowlands?"
Alatar nodded. "The one you sent beyond the storm belt."
> "Yes. It has shown me something worth seeing."
Silas's eyes gleamed like two shifting nebulae. "Ah, so you've been spying again."
> "Observing," Barachas corrected. "The world changes whether or not we watch. But it humbles me to see how the lesser still persist. While you've been meditating, Alatar, I've been… reacquainting myself with the living."
He lifted a hand. The air between them shimmered, and the small stone-bird appeared upon the table—a construct of cloud and dust, its eyes bright with fragments of reflected sky. It gave a faint mechanical chirp, spreading wings made of calcified mist.
> "Below the Sanctum," Barachas continued, "there lies a civilization—a people of vigor and design. Cities of glass and spire, built along rivers of molten ore. They know nothing of us, of the mountain above their skies. But they build, they war, they sing. I've watched them for a hundred years now."
Alatar tilted his head, studying the bird's flickering eyes.
> "A civilization beneath us," he repeated slowly. "And you've only now chosen to tell me this?"
Barachas chuckled, a sound like gravel shifting.
> "You were occupied with the Ash, and I saw no wisdom in distraction. But I see now—you've grown restless. Perhaps this discovery will serve you better than endless meditation."
Silas leaned forward, his expression brightening. "He's right, you know. You've spent ages bound to stillness. A being that refines forever risks turning to ash himself."
> "So you suggest," Alatar murmured, "that I walk among them?"
> "Why not?" Silas spread his hands. "They are part of the Starryverse, as are we. Avoiding the sentient is impossible—our existence bends their myths whether we wish it or not. Besides," he added with a smile, "it would do you good to breathe something other than your own sanctity for a while."
Barachas gave a low laugh. "You see? Even the scholar agrees. You've honed yourself against illusions and echoes of stone. But power untested against the living is brittle."
The idea hung between them, sharp and tempting. Alatar's thoughts drifted—images of people, unknown and many, filled the edges of his mind. How long had it been since he'd walked among voices, among movement not dictated by his own rhythm? He could almost taste the difference already: air alive with the noise of imperfection.
> "And if I go?" he asked softly.
> "Then you learn," Barachas said. "You observe, you adapt, you conquer your hesitation. The world below is not kind, but neither are you. It will meet you honestly."
> "Conquer," Silas repeated, rolling the word like a charm on his tongue. "That reminds me—Barachas and I have made a wager."
Alatar raised an eyebrow. "A wager?"
Barachas's grin widened. "Indeed. He believes you'll fail."
> "I said struggle," Silas interjected, feigning offense. "There's a difference. The world below is not yours yet. Its people are rooted, defiant, many. To make them kneel would take… what shall we say?"
> "Half a millennia," Barachas said at once.
The Helian's eyes flared with amusement. "Half a millennia, then. If you can claim that world as your own within five hundred years, I will forge you an artefact worthy of your legend—a relic made from the nexus of a dying galaxy."
Alatar laughed, a low, genuine sound—the first in many years. "That's a dangerous promise, Silas Thorne."
> "Dangerous promises make fine trophies," the Helian replied, lifting his cup.
Barachas leaned forward, chuckling deeply. "You may as well start crafting it now, old star-thief."
Silas grinned. "I might, if only to remind myself how humility feels."
Their laughter rose, filling the chamber, rich and strange against the timeless quiet of the Sanctum. The wine shimmered as if amused itself, reflecting constellations that no longer existed.
For a time, they simply existed together—three beings of impossible age, speaking like mortals before dawn. The air thickened with warmth and memory. Barachas told stories of forgotten empires that had once tried to scale the mountain and vanished in storms. Silas recited fragments of cosmic trivia: the scent of comet ice, the resonance of collapsing quasars. Alatar listened, his laughter joining theirs occasionally, his mind drifting between humor and the faint, persistent pull of what lay below.
Outside, the storm belts parted for a brief instant. A shaft of sunlight, golden and clean, speared through the clouds and struck the edge of the mountain. Dust motes rose like spirits, suspended in its wake.
Silas set his empty cup down, his tone turning soft.
> "Do you feel it, Barachas? The quiet below the noise?"
> "Always," Barachas replied. "But it grows louder. The balance stirs. Something is changing."
Alatar's gaze met theirs. His third eye flickered open just slightly, releasing a thread of crimson light that curled upward like smoke.
> "Then perhaps," he said, "it is time I change with it."
The mountain answered with a deep, hollow resonance—the sound of wind moving through ages-old hollows.
Barachas smiled faintly. "Then it's settled. You'll go down into the world. See it. Test it. Let it test you in return."
> "And return a conqueror," Silas added with a grin.
Alatar rose slowly, the light catching on the faint rings of his third eye. "Or something greater," he murmured.
The others rose with him, the last of their laughter echoing through the chamber as if reluctant to die.
---
When the day ended, and the stars began their slow procession around the Sanctum's peak, Barachas lingered by the balcony alone. Below, clouds churned like the sea before a storm.
> "He'll find what waits for him," Silas said from behind, voice calm, almost wistful. "Though I suspect what waits will not be what he expects."
Barachas looked to him, eyes narrowing faintly. "And you?"
Silas smiled, the galaxies in his gaze flickering. "I'll begin crafting the frame of a promise. It would be rude not to."
They both looked out into the horizon then—the world unseen, but felt in every thread of the mountain's breath.
The wind carried laughter still, fading, but not gone.
And beneath that laughter, the first low pulse of something vast began to stir again.