{{NavChap|[[Chapter IX - Solitude]]|[[Chronicles of the First Crusade#Table of contents|Table of contents]]|[[Chapter XI - The Generation of Miracles]]}}

|EN=Chapter X - Heroes|ENs=2

<center><span style="color:purple;font-weight:bold"><big><big>'''Jena Year 2463'''</big></big></span></center>

{{Quotation|''Bélénor Nébius, narrator''|

:''"Um... One more death. A rockslide, once again."

It all began in 2432, during the reign of Sharükos Abylus, Emperor of the Fyros, when miners accidentally discovered mysterious ruins in the Prime Roots. Encouraged by this discovery, the Fyros began archaeological digs throughout the Desert, and deeper and deeper. Unfortunately, two years later, a huge fire broke out in the Coriolis Amber Mines and set the surrounding dry lands ablaze. The fire quickly spread to the homin territories, ravaging the city of Coriolis, and forming a burning trail to the great forests of the Matis. The fire raged for weeks, cutting off the huge wind-powered aqueduct that connected the Desert to the Lakes. The Aqueduct, which had been under construction since 2289, symbolized the commercial and military alliance between the two peoples: the Empire pledged to protect the Trykoth Federation, which in turn provided abundant water to the Fyros people ''via'' the Water Route. The rise of the Fyros Empire owed much to the Aqueduct and its trade route. Blaming the Fyros miners for the disaster, the Emperor took the opportunity to place the mining guilds under imperial jurisdiction and to draw up the Mining Code, which was supposed to strengthen the rights of miners and the duties of guild leaders. Unfortunately, many guilds were forced to close down as too much impacted by the implacable new laws. Most of them complied, however, even though it was no longer possible to finance ambitious digs because they were considered too risky. The crisis reached its climax when Pyto succeeded his father Abylus, who had died of illness. During this sad period, the tyrannical Sharükos Pyto squandered the Empire's savings, which had already been damaged by the enforcement of the Mining Code. Aware of the risks Pyto was putting his people at, his younger brother Thesop tried to talk some sense into him, and guide him back to the right path. Unfortunately, the proud Emperor Pyto would not listen. Thus passed two difficult years, when many saw the end of the Empire approaching. But just when it was thought hope was lost forever, Thesop challenged to a duel his brother, who accepted and there lost his life. And so, in keeping with imperial tradition, Thesop took power in 2440. In the years that followed, the new Shaurükos strove to replenish the imperial coffers and to repeal the liberticidal laws enacted by his late father. Thus began the reign of Thesop the Builder. And so it was at this time that Tiralion Nebius' father founded the guild of the Pickheads, taking advantage of the abolition of the Mining Code to launch a gigantic mining project and to respond to the desire for Truth buried in the heart of every Fyros, and which his predecessors had not managed to quell.

Indeed, since the beginning of time, the Fyros people was obsessed with the depths of Atys. Digging continuously despite the prohibitions of the Karavan, the Fyros were in search of Fyrak the Great Dragon, the evil entity who, according to the myth, would have brought the homins on Atys to reduce them to slavery. Defeated by the goddess Jena, Fyrak took refuge in the depths of Atys. The greatest ambition of the Fyros people was to find and exterminate the Great Dragon, whom they knew to be at the origin of the great fires that ravaged the Desert, the premise of its apocalyptic return. Of course, Tiralion did not believe in the Dragon Myth. He simply knew how to sniff out lucrative investments and play the patriotic game. After all, he had also become a clever politician over the years, advised and taught by his wife.

Deep in thought, and busy playing with his long, braided red beard, Tiralion was finishing the second reading of the report. One more death, one less... After all, such were the risks of the job! Satisfied with his conclusion, he grabbed his igara quill, a blank parchment, and wrote a succinct reply to his foreman: the victim's family would be generously compensated. The Fyros leaned on his desk to get up and stretched. Thus ended his long and difficult working day. Caressing his belly, already well rounded for his age, he wondered what the cook had planned for dinner. At the same time, the door opened and his wife entered the room. About thirty years old, she was dressed in the red linen robe traditionally worn by senators, and her golden hair was tied back in a bun.

:''"Good evening Tiralion," she said as she came to kiss her husband's swarthy skull.

:''"Ah, that's good news!" the Fyros gloated. Thank you, my wife!"

:''"Of course," said Eutis, before letting go of her husband's hand to go down another corridor.

Tiralion went down a few steps and sat down at the living room table. The table was already set. The Nebius family home, which Tiralion had also inherited from his father, was one of the largest dwellings in Fyre, the capital of the Fyros Empire. Carved out of the bark of the Desert, like most of the city's dwellings, it had been built more than a century earlier, a stone's throw from the Imperial Palace. The house, which spanned several floors, was organized around a central fireplace, which provided both oxygen and firewood for the rooms. Tiralion rang his servants and asked for a glass of shooki liquor, a fermented drink popular with the Fyros. And just as he was about to enjoy the delicious beverage, he heard someone running down the stairs. Eutis appeared in the living room. She seemed particularly cheerful.

Tiralion reluctantly put down his glass and stood up. He sighed. He really didn't understand the attraction some people had for newborns. Belenor was only a few months old, and his life consisted of sleeping, eating and defecating. Until he learned to calculate, his father didn't see how the child could have interested him. Unable to contain his impatience, his wife grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards upper floors. An investment. He had to consider it an investment... A few stairs later, the corpulent Fyros arrived near his son's room, out of breath. Eutis grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a stern look.

:''"If you had warned me that one of these terrifying creatures had infiltrated the home of my ancestors, I might have reacted otherwise!" the Fyros railed as he painfully stood up.

Tiralion looked at his son for a few seconds, then smiled. Then an eerie liturgical chant emerged from the abyss of darkness over which they were flying. And in rhythm, the shadows began to dance.

Belenor woke up with a start. His face was tense and his jaw clenched. His thoughts were completely clouded by the strange dream he had just had, and it took him a few seconds to understand where he was. Looking at his hands, then passing them over his forehead, he checked the color of his skin and the texture of his face. Facing him, flat on the writing table of the previous row and legs wagging, Brandille looked at him with an amused air.

:''"Hey my Belenice ! You beledoze ?"

 

 

 

Belenor closed her eyes and massaged her temples. Talking with Brandille was not going to make her headache go away. Brandille, like all Tryker people, was a small, light-skinned being with particularly childlike features. Of course, at nine years old, it was not uncommon to still have a baby face. But Trykers, unlike the Fyros, retained a childlike appearance once they became adults. Only the secondary sexual characteristics, such as hair, voice, hips or chest, were evidence of maturity. Belenor opened his eyes and looked at the youthful face still facing him, which had not lost its amused look. He couldn't help but smile in turn to Brandille. She was his only friend. Or HE was, for that matter. For Brandille had no defined gender. As she often said it herself, her gender identity changed with the wind. If Belenor had taken the habit, with her agreement, of gendering her in the feminine, the Trykere accepted completely that one genders her in the masculine. Brandille straightened up in turn and sat cross-legged on the writing desk. Her body swayed from right to left.

Now standing, Belenor tried to comb his red hair, disheveled by her unexpected nap, and put back her beautiful beige linen tunic. Her vertigo was passing.

:''"I had a strange dream, yes. It involved our last History class, my young parents, a Kami visiting me in my infant bed, and the Black Mask!"

Brandille abruptly jumped up on the table and raised her arms to the sky. For a few moments, her loose purple clothes and multicolored braids seemed to float.

:''"Anyway, don't worry, you didn't miss anything at the end of the propaganda… er, History class. Nothing, except the endless praises to the Sharükos!"

:''"One day, some ill-intentioned person will hear your remarks, and word will get out that you are outraging the Sharükos. Then an imperial patrol will catch you, and you will be sent back to Trykoth. You are well aware of this, aren't you? I know as well as you do what is told about Emperor Thesop. However, I remain discreet and careful."

:''"Great news, Brandille. And with great pleasure," replied Belenor, smiling.

For the friendship between the two children, both nine years old, was based above all on their common taste for art and their overflowing creativity. Bélénor drew and wrote fiction. Brandille drew, composed songs, wrote poetry, staged plays, and knew how to juggle and dance. And like two muses, both supported and inspired each other.

Finally, after a few minutes of walking through the hollowed-out and nicely decorated corridors of the Academy, the two comrades passed through the great archway and found daylight again. Going down the imposing staircase, they reached the streets of Fyre, the incredible capital of the Fyros Empire. The foundations of what would later become the flagship city of the Desert had been laid two centuries earlier, when the previously nomadic Fyros began to settle down. And the location was not chosen at random. The cave city was built in a broken section of the Dragon's Ridge, the gigantic continental shelf that separated the southern part of the Desert, administered by the Fyros Empire, from the hostile and infinite ocean of dunes to the north. The crack in which the Fyros set up their city, covering several dozen square kilometers, was the probable remnant of a prehistoric catastrophe. In this place, the network of crevasses of the plateau offered multiple advantages: protection against predators, a slight but appreciable coolness, and even a little water, produced by condensation in its deepest caves. If the majority of the city's dwellings were dug directly into the high bark walls, some of which could reach a hundred meters, many buildings had been built in a more traditional way, and were bathed with light every day. For despite its semi-underground construction, the city was never short of light, as the daystar never left the zenith, but simply lost of its radiance once night came. Combined with the relative coolness of the streets of Fyre, the sunshine also allowed for the practice of a rudimentary agriculture of drought-resistant vegetables. Finally, a large wall and guard towers had been built further down the plateau, where the crevices overlooked the desert of dunes. But in truth, few were Fyros tribes not subject to the Fyros Empire daring to approach Fyre, and never before had the armies of the Matis Kingdom penetrated so deeply into the desert west.

Brandille kissed her friend on the cheek, winked at him, and gambolled gracefully toward the residential areas. Belenor stared at his sandals for a moment. As he had already noticed, his muse sometimes seemed to float. In fact, he would have sworn that, once airborne, it took Brandille longer to hit the ground than other Trykers or Fyros. But more than his apparent lightness, it was his constant agitation that fascinated Belenor. For Brandille was never inert, physically or intellectually. Belenor had no memory of an immobile Brandille. No memory of an idle Brandille. Brandille was the very definition of Movement. Of Vitality. And even when her muse slept, she wriggled and hummed. Belenor took advantage of the moment and waited to see her disappear into the crowd. Then he went to the opposite side, to the beautiful districts.

Plunged in his thoughts, Belenor mechanically moved towards the imperial palace. After several months of battling against this damn blank page, he was perhaps finally going to be able to resume writing his story. He felt happy and excited. Totally elsewhere, the child did not realize that he was being followed when he turned the corner of the main avenue to take the small alley that would allow him to reach the family home more quickly. It was only when he looked up that he understood he had fallen into a trap. At the end of the alley, two Fyros were walking in his direction: a young girl with platinum-blond hair and a pronounced musculature, and a gigantic boy with a shaved head, both wearing an outfit made from strips of poor quality leather. This outfit, very popular among the city's inhabitants, was crafted at low cost from scrap leather and offered great durability. Belenor turned around, thinking he could quickly get back to the crowded avenue, but in doing so, he bumped into the torso of another boy, identical in every way to the one now at his back. He didn't know the girl, but he recognized the two boys: the twins Varran and Garius Decos, with whom he had shared many classes at the Academy. He knew what they had to reproach him with, and he could imagine how their "discussion" would end. For, unfortunately, Belenor was used to this kind of situation. Varran placed his large, dusty hands on the amber spaulders of Belenor's beautiful tunic.

« Laisse-moi Varran. Si des soldats apprennent que…

— Oh la ! Je t’arrête tout de suite Bélénaze. Tu crois que j’en ai quelque chose à foutre de la garde impériale ? Qu’est ce qu’elle va me faire ? Me mettre au trou parce que j’ai bousculé un fils de bourge ? Ça se voit que t’as jamais mis les pieds dans les bas-quartiers, toi. On vit déjà dans un trou, là-bas. »

Bélénor baissa la tête et fixa ses sandales en silence. Dans son dos, les deux autres adolescents étaient arrivés à leur niveau.

« Alors Bélénaze, t’as perdu ta langue ? Pourtant t’étais bien bavard ce matin, à l’Académie. Tu te rappelles ce que t’as dis ?

— Varran, écoute…

— Tu t’es foutu de moi. Car j’ai pas réussi à lire ce texte en matéis. »

Pris d’un coup de sang, Bélénor releva finalement la tête. Varran le regardait d’un air mauvais. Sur son menton, il aperçut quelques poils bruns. Il se demanda à quoi ressembleraient les jumeaux Décos, déjà si massifs, une fois leur puberté terminée. Et bien qu’il sût qu’il allait à nouveau regretter ses paroles, il riposta.

« Je ne me suis pas moqué de toi, Varran. J’ai simplement dit qu’il était consternant que tu ne saches pas lire un minimum le matéis à quatorze ans. C’est la langue écrite et parlée à l’international. Sans elle, jamais tu ne sortiras de ton trou. Parler le fyrk ne suffit pas. »

Pour toute réponse, l’imprudent sentit ses côtes exploser : derrière lui, Garius venait d'asséner un violent coup de poing à son flanc droit. Le souffle coupé, incapable de crier, Bélénor s’effondra sur le sol. Sa sacoche se renversa et de nombreuses feuilles se répandirent dans la sciure. À moitié conscient, la vision obscurcie par la douleur, il devina la voix de la fille.

« Tu ne crois pas que tu y as été un peu fort, Garius ? J’ai entendu sa cage thoracique craquer.

— Oh, c’est bon ! Il est doué en magie curative, il va même pas en garder une trace. Et puis il méritait une bonne leçon, c’était pas la première fois qu’il se foutait de nous. Tu ne peux pas savoir toi, Xynala. Il n’est pas dans ta section à l’Académie. Il prend tout le monde de haut, je te promets ! Et tout le temps ! Tout ça parce que son père est le patron de certains de nos parents, et parce qu’on est rentré à l’Académie quelques années après lui. Tu sais, il a quasiment pas d’amis. Au moins, maintenant, il comprendra qu’il ne faut pas nous chercher ! »

Varran soutint le plaidoyer de son frère puis tous trois finirent par s'éloigner. Lorsque Bélénor rouvrit les yeux, ses agresseurs étaient arrivés au bout de la ruelle. Au moment de tourner à l’angle, la dénommée Xynala pivota légèrement et croisa son regard. Elle semblait peinée. Et alors que les trois adolescents disparaissaient sur l’avenue, Bélénor sentit instantanément la tension retomber. Il avait extrêmement mal. Mais comme l’avait souligné Garius, il lui faudrait moins de dix minutes pour ressouder ses côtes. L’enfant se releva péniblement et appliqua ses mains sur son flanc. Sa belle tenue était toute poussiéreuse. Infusant de la Sève au niveau de sa blessure, il pesta à la vue de ses précieux manuscrits étalés dans la sciure. Bélénor était en colère. Autant contre les jumeaux que contre lui-même. Quand apprendrait-il à se taire ? À l’Académie ou en dehors, d’ailleurs. Car il passait son temps à faire des remarques aux autres, et à chaque fois, cela se retournait contre lui. Mais pire que tout, le mépris qu’on l’accusait d’exprimer était celui-là même qu’il reprochait à ses parents. À cet instant, le jeune Fyros se haïssait.

L’inconnu, particulièrement agile, n'eut aucun mal à l’esquiver.

« Oh là ! Calme-toi, je ne vais pas te l'abîmer. »

Toujours écarlate, Bélénor ne réussit pas à soutenir son regard. Il bredouilla.

« C… Ce texte est à moi ! Et puis il est écrit en matéis. Tu ne vas pas réussir à le lire.»

— Ah oui ? Et pourquoi cela ? s'esclaffa l’adolescent.

— Je… Je connais les types de ton genre. Ceux qui ne savent pas aligner deux mots en matéis.

— Les types de mon genre ? Alors c’est donc vrai : tu es un pédant, Bélénor Nébius. »

En entendant prononcer son nom, Bélénor leva la tête. L’adolescent lui souriait malicieusement. L’enfant rougit une seconde fois et regarda le sol.

« Oui, je te connais. Varran et Garius m’ont parlé de toi. Si on ne prend pas en compte les disciplines physiques, tu es le meilleur élève de votre section, à l’Académie. Mais c’est surtout ton arrogance qui te fait remarquer, n’est-ce pas ? À vrai dire, je ne sais même pas si tu t’entends parler… Tu sais, à ce rythme là, tu risques de perdre les quelques amis qu’il te reste. »

Instantanément, Bélénor pensa à Brandille. Il se demanda s’il l’avait déjà vexée, avant de se demander s’il était possible de la vexer. L’inconnu posa ses yeux sur la feuille qu’il tenait en main.

« Enfin, bref. Ton texte est superbe. C’est toi qui a inventé ce personnage ? Le héros Zoraï au masque noir ? »

— De… De mes rêves, réussit à répondre Bélénor.

— Franchement, bravo. Au-delà d’être très bien écrit, c’est aussi particulièrement inventif. Tu sais, je manque totalement d’imagination. Alors les personnes comme toi me fascinent. »

À ces mots, l’inconnu lui tendit la feuille. Bélénor récupéra son bien, toujours silencieux, et osa cette fois-ci le regarder. L’adolescent lui fit un clin d'œil puis se dirigea tranquillement vers la grande avenue. Bélénor le suivait des yeux, comme hypnotisé, lorsqu'à mi-chemin, il s’arrêta net et se retourna. Sur son visage, l’air malicieux avait laissé place à une puissante détermination.

« Quand je serais grand, j’ai pour projet de réunir toutes les tribus à l’Ouest du Désert, où je suis né. Là bas, la vie est bien plus difficile qu’ici. Ni armée régulière, ni aqueduc… J'aimerais pouvoir y fonder une grande cité, égale à Fyre. Bien sûr, faire la guerre aux tribus insoumises pour forcer leur coopération pourrait suffire. Mais là ne sont pas mes valeurs. Je me promets d’y arriver à ma manière : prouver ma bravoure, réaliser des exploits, gagner leur confiance. Mais pour ce faire, quelqu’un devra raconter mon histoire. Quelqu’un devra faire de moi le héros dont ils ont besoin. J’aime m’entourer de talents, Bélénor Nébius. Et un jour, j’aurai besoin de quelqu’un comme toi. »

Bélénor rangea sa feuille en tremblotant. Son cœur battait la chamade. Pourquoi était-il autant perturbé par ce Fyros ? Lui qui, d’ordinaire, ne perdait jamais la face ?

« … Tu n’es pas très bavard, hein ? Ce n’est pourtant pas ce que Varran et Garius m’ont dit. Enfin, bref, je te laisse. Je vais demander aux trois autres de ne plus te chahuter. Quant à toi, cesse de mépriser tes camarades, et sors un peu la tête de tes cours. Ouvre-toi au monde, ouvre-toi à ceux qui ne te ressemblent pas. Sinon, tu risques de t’enliser dans la solitude. Sinon, tu risques de perdre en créativité. »

Alors que l’adolescent arrivait à l’angle de la ruelle, Bélénor, jusqu'alors mutique, bafouilla quelques mots.

« Je m’appelle Melkiar. Retiens bien ce nom, Bélénor Nébius, et aiguise bien ta plume. Car d’ici quelques années, toi et moi aurons des choses à raconter. J’en ai la certitude. »}}

{{NavChap|[[Chapter IX - Solitude]]|[[Chronicles of the First Crusade#Table of contents|Table of contents]]|[[Chapter XI - The Generation of Miracles]]}}

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