{{Quotation|''Bélénor Nébius, narrator''|Panting and sweating, Belenor ran laboriously through the streets of Fyre. It was early, he had slept badly and his body was aching. In short, he was in a bad mood. But why had he had the misfortune to qualify, he who hated to make the least physical effort? His honor as a Fyros, no doubt. Every year, the Fyros Empire held the Academy Games, a national event with a multitude of events open to every student between the ages of ten and eighteen. The age mix was an important part of the event, allowing each youngster to learn from the older ones, and each older to learn humility. After several days of qualifying, the long-awaited day of the finals had arrived. The quarter-coriolis was one of them. It consisted of a long distance race of about 125 kilometers, corresponding to a quarter of the distance between Coriolis and Fyre. Divided into five 25-kilometer laps, the race went through the different districts of the city. This trial, one of the most recent ones, had been inaugurated thirty-five years earlier by the Emperor Abylus the Erudite. It was a tribute to the Fyrossa Aporalion Deps, who undertook a twenty-four hour race between the two cities to warn the Sharükos of the impending cataclysmic fire, and who died like a number of Fyros fighting the fire at the gates of Fyre. This was the first time that Belenor, now thirteen years old, had qualified to run in the quarter-coriolis. The previous three years he had narrowly failed to qualify. Today, feeling as bad as he had ever felt, he bitterly regretted his achievement. It is thus with relief that, crushed by the heat of the daystar and drowned under the cries of the crowd, he saw in the distance the famous saving tunnel. Several kilometers long, this ancient vein of sap ran under the city and through the poorest district of the capital. If, caught up in the effort, Belenor had already forgotten how many laps he was at, he had not forgotten the freshness and priceless calm of the depths of the Bark. And as he swallowed the last few strides, he dived into the only non-hostile segment of the course. Taking advantage of this moment of respite, the Fyros slowed his pace and infused his legs with Sap to ease his muscles and joints. While several runners passed him on this occasion, he had long ago put aside any idea of ranking. The last place suited him perfectly. He would distinguish himself otherwise at the end of the morning, during his preferred trial: military strategy. The past three years, Melkiar had won this event. If he had an advantage due to his age, and therefore his experience, Belenor still expected to succeed in defeating him sooner or later. Ah, how good it was to think of the calm and freshness of an amphitheater, the scratching of quills on paper, the rolling of dice on wood, the beauty of measuring instruments and topographical maps.... Lost in his thoughts, smiling, Belenor ran nonchalantly in the wide and cool dark tunnel, letting several of his competitors pass. Two silhouettes, in particular, passed him on his right and left. In the darkness, they looked absolutely identical: two huge rectangular blocks of bark mounted on two large wooden poles. Even before Belenor recognized the two Fyros, they joined hands and braked immediately. The dreamer's nose crashed into Varran's gnarled triceps, and the rest of his body, destabilised, slid onto the sawdust. The Decos twins burst out laughing and Belenor grabbed his face swearing. He was dripping with blood.

Respectueux, les vainqueurs commencèrent par écouter le long discours de leur Sharükos déclamé par la voix de son héraut. Puis, contre l'usage, qui imposait le silence absolu durant une allocution impériale, Melkiar interpella ses amis. Certes, personne ne pourrait l’entendre. Mais un tel manquement au code de conduite fit sursauter plusieurs des présents.

Bélénor rougit instantanément. Incapable de résister, il jeta un œil en direction de Melkiar. Alors, il croisa les regards discrets de Xynala et Tisse, qui semblaient elles aussi captivées par leur chef de bande. Le temps d'une pensée, Bélénor imagina ce que ses deux amies ressentaient pour Melkiar, et instantanément, un profond sentiment de tristesse l’envahit. Perturbé par cette émotion, il s’attarda quelques secondes sur Melkiar. Celui-ci regardait intensément en direction du héraut, et son visage affichait une certaine forme de convoitise. Melkiar lui avait déjà fait part du rêve insensé où il devenait Sharükos, et jusqu’alors, il ne l’avait jamais pris au sérieux. Après tout, le pouvoir impérial était héréditaire. Pour autant, Bélénor était convaincu que son ami deviendrait un jour un grand chef. Regardant à son tour le balcon impérial, le Fyros blêmit. Malgré la distance, l’Empereur semblait observer Melkiar. Il en était persuadé. Comme toujours, le dirigeant dégageait une aura à la fois terrifiante et attirante. Une aura surnaturelle, dont l’inflexible autorité dépendait. Paniqué, et souhaitant à tout prix ne pas croiser le regard de l’Empereur, Bélénor leva les yeux et fixa le toit de l’édifice. Il calma sa respiration, et doucement, son rythme cardiaque ralentit. Avec toutes les rumeurs qui couraient sur celui que certains nommaient « Thesop le Fratricide », Bélénor préférait se tenir éloigné de tout contact avec l’Empereur. Pour se changer les idées, le jeune Fyros se concentra longuement sur deux étoiles blanches parfaitement identiques, situées juste au-dessus du balcon impérial. Si longuement qu’il crut les voir bouger. Les voir cligner. Lorsqu’il comprit que les deux sphères scintillantes n’étaient pas des étoiles, son cœur s’emballa de plus belle. Attrapant par réflexe la main de Brandille, il bégaya.