{{NavChap|[[Chapter X - Heroes]]|[[Chronicles of the First Crusade#Table of contents|Table of contents]]|[[Chapter XII - Family]]}}

|EN=Chapter XI - The Generation of Miracles|ENs=2

{{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.

:''"Yeah, it's all very well to know how to write, but that's not what will help you survive in the real world, huh?" added Garius.

Exasperated, Belenor leaned against a doorway adjoining the bark wall of the cavernous avenue and made Sap circulate his nose. He had never expected to win this race, so after all, he could use a little rest. On the opposite wall of the tunnel, large skylights offered a view of the working-class district of Fyre, whose makeshift dwellings, linked by a network of suspension bridges, were built on the bark walls of a gigantic abyssal shaft. Deprived of daylight, the neighborhood was lit with large torches, obviously combined with the handcrafted fire-fighting systems for which the Fyros were famous. Belenor had been inspired by the working-class district of Fyre to invent the village the hero of his fiction would live in, which he imagined would be built inside a gigantic jungle tree stump, lit largely by lamps containing fireflies. Soothed by this vision, the Fyros sat down and allowed himself to reverie. Unfortunately, the pause was short-lived, for no sooner had his mind escaped than a new runner stopped at his level. In spite of the half-light, Belenor recognized without difficulty his body: muscular buttocks, traced abdominal muscles, veiny forearms, massive shoulders and little developed breast. Xynala. Dressed of a wide panties and a simple bra, the warrior put her hands on her chiseled obliques and sighed. From the top of her fifteen years, she fixed him with a severe air.

:''"I'm sorry…. You know them, they're not mean. They're just… a little stupid?"

           In their flying ships,

           Lonely and hungry,

           Led by the song of the wind,

           Found a star at feet.

           In the endless night,

           Pilgrims and orphans,

           With their ineffable powers,

           Made morning sprout.

           In their mill of ideas,

           Arrogant and impatient,

           Forgetful of the past,

           Paid the price of blood.

           In their faltering boats,

           Visionaries and torturers,

           With their bloody hands,

           Given birth to chimeras.

Belenor had caught himself closing his eyes during the song and accompanying the verses with his whispers. Yet the following was missing. Disappointed, the Fyros opened his eyes. Unsurprisingly, Brandille was now facing him, face wearing a mischievous smile. True to those of his people, the child had grown little. This was not the case with her multicolored braids, which were now floating at her buttocks.

:''"Because I stopped singing," his friend answered immediately.

Belenor frowned. If he wanted to bounce back by asking her why she had stopped singing, he knew in advance that his answer would not suit him.

Belenor nodded and the two friends set off again side by side. His friend was well ahead, but nothing in her behavior or in her body signals showed any fatigue. Brandille was not panting. Brandille was not sweating. In fact, Brandille was not running: Brandille was sliding. Minutes passed, and with them, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. For Brandille, the finish line was approaching, and for Belenor, the beginning of a new and endless lap was preparing. And as the calm darkness of the dried out vein gave way to the exhilaration of the audience and the sweltering heat outside, true to her reputation, Brandille leapt. Without even asking for his consent, the acrobat jumped with both feet on Belenor's shoulders and propelled himself in the air. One quadruple salto later, Brandille was landing in the hot sawdust under the acclamations of the crowd in jubilation, agglutinated at the doorsteps, at the windows, or on the many raised passages which made it possible to navigate between the various floors of the city. If Belenor was disconcerted by the maneuver made by his friend in the middle of a discussion, he was especially surprised to have felt almost no pressure on his shoulders. Definitely, the Sap that ran through Brandille was nothing like the one that ran through the other homins, Belenor was sure of it. The Fyros had asked himself many questions about this in the past. If his friend remained enigmatic about his early childhood, and had fun telling different stories to the different people who questioned her, one element seemed to come back regularly. Indeed, Brandille often referred to the Lands of Storms, this mysterious land located east of the Great Sea, and whose titanic and infinite storms that constantly rolled there prevented any exploration. Although exchanges between the Trykoth Federation and the Fyros Empire had been commonplace since the construction of the Aqueduct, and although he had occasionally come across Trykers in Fyre, Belenor had never heard of homins living in the Stormlands. Finally, Brandille had never clearly explained the reason for his presence in Fyre. As long as he had known his friend, he had always seen her dwelling in the orphanage in the capital. So the mystery remained, even so many years after their meeting.

Drunk with praise, Brandille continued to flit theatrically as the finish line drew near. While Belenor tried to stay focused on his own race, his friend's pirouettes allowed him to forget the feelings of pain and fatigue that were running through him. Finally, he passed Brandille, who preferred to perform acrobatic tricks, and began his new lap. The crowd exploded when his friend also crossed the finish line. By reflex, Belenor turned around. He almost lost his balance when he saw Melkiar, located only a few meters behind him. He was accompanied by Tisse Apoan, a particularly slim Fyrossa with red hair. The two runners reached his level and Melkiar slowed down. Belenor stiffened.

:''"E... trying and boring."

The first blows were delivered by the Fyrossa. No sooner had the fight begun than Xynala infused Sap into her legs and leapt four meters forward, clubs in the air. With a deafening crash, both weapons struck Melkiar's roundhouse. Under the shock, his boots sank into the sawdust. Taking advantage of her momentum, the Fyrossa carried a multitude of blows to her adversary, who nimbly parried them while retreating. And then, taking advantage of the ascendancy that he had granted to Xynala, Melkiar suddenly opened his guard. Pushing back one of the clubs of a powerful movement of shield, he struck a precise blow of hatchet to his rival. Skillfully, Xynala tilted her other weapon so that the blade of the hatchet was caught between two discs of her club. With a powerful flick of her wrist, the warrior swung her weapon, hoping to disarm or unbalance her opponent. Not willing to give up so quickly, Melkiar vigorously grabbed the handle of his hatchet and accompanied the spinning movement generated by Xynala. The Fyros pretended to tip over to the side and then performed a side cartwheel while leaning on the ground. He repeated the move a second time and dodged the blow that his rival tried to strike him using her second club. Having regained some distance, Melkiar spread his arms in provocation. In the stands, the crowd exploded, dazzled by this first spar.

Melkiar let out a sincere laugh and closed his guard. And again, Xynala leapt, ready to bring down her clubs. It was only when she was in the air that she realized her stupidity, at the very moment when her rival picked her up with a devastating back kick: facing such an opponent, innovating was essential. The tip of the boot sank into her right kidney, and she was propelled several meters backwards. Advantaged, Melkiar rushed towards the Fyrossa, now lying in the sawdust. Infusing Sap into her broken ribs, Xynala got up as quickly as she could. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to anticipate Melkiar's rondache throw. The projectile hit her right arm hard and her club flew off. The warrior arrived at hand-to-hand combat and a long sparring began, during which Melkiar gradually gained the upper hand. Several minutes passed, and finally, the warrior struck a crucial blow to his opponent: his hatchet went deep into Xynala's left thigh, whose leg collapsed instantly. Drawing a dagger from his belt, determined to slit his rival's throat to force a healer to intervene, Melkiar thought victory was within reach. But against all odds, the Fyrossa pushed on her valid leg and her club that had become a crutch to get up. If that did nothing but accentuate the gravity of its wound, it took advantage of the effect to strike a violent blow of head to its rival who missed to lose its balance. And even before the warrior could understand what had just happened, the club of Xynala crashed on the grid of his helmet, which sank deeply into his face.

« On échange, Xynala ? »

La Fyrosse soupira puis rendit la hachette à Melkiar. Décidément, ce combat allait être long.

 Et effectivement, le duel s’éternisa. Plus encore que celui qui les avait opposés l'année précédente. Si Melkiar dominait toujours son adversaire techniquement et physiquement, Xynala faisait preuve d’une rage et d’une audace à toute épreuve. Une audace qui donnait souvent lieu à de grands moments de bravoure, dont le public raffolait. C’est ainsi que, environ trente minutes après le début du combat, la Fyrosse réussit à arracher la main gauche de son rival tombé au sol. Il faut dire que les deux combattants semblaient atteindre leurs limites. Leurs armures avaient depuis longtemps volé en éclats et leurs blessures étaient à peine refermées. Là était la limite des homins : leur incapacité à canaliser sans relâche la Sève qui les irriguait. Si Xynala crut quelques secondes que cette blessure infligée allait signer la défaite de son rival, c’était mal connaître l'opiniâtreté de Melkiar. Faisant fi de toute douleur, le Fyros profita de sa position pour planter sa main valide dans la plaie béante qui balafrait l’abdomen de Xynala. Au bout de ses forces, la Fyros poussa un cri et lâcha sa massue. Sentant sa rivale sur le point de défaillir, Melkiar infusa tout ce qu’il put de Sève dans ses jambes et bondit en l’air. Atterrissant à genoux sur les épaules de Xynala, il assena de violents coups de coude sur son crâne ensanglanté. La Fyrosse tituba et mordit le sexe de son adversaire, qui poussa un hurlement. Pourtant, il ne s'interrompit pas, et continua de lui défoncer le crâne. Finalement, sentant la Fyrosse lâcher prise, il lui assena un dernier coup de coude et fit pivoter son bassin d’un coup sec. Un craquement sourd retentit dans le Colisée. Si Melkiar chuta avec Xynala, il fut le seul des duellistes à se relever. À moitié conscient, il chancela en direction des soigneurs pour les pousser à intervenir. Il avait brisé la nuque de son adversaire : paralysée ou inconsciente, elle perdrait cette finale dans moins de dix secondes, il en était certain. Amplificateurs de magie enfilés, les soigneurs accoururent. Melkiar sourit, et sous les acclamations de la foule, leva son moignon vers le ciel. Et au même moment, un éclair lui transperça l’échine. Transi de douleur, le Fyros se retourna et passa ses mains dans son dos. Au sol, à quelques mètres de lui, Xynala était toujours couchée sur le ventre. Couchée sur le ventre, le bras tendu vers l’avant. Elle lui avait lancé une dague dans le dos. La même dague qu’il avait dégainée et perdue au début du duel. Melkiar tomba à genoux et essaya de retirer la lame assassine. En vain. Un voile noir brouilla sa vue et le guerrier s’évanouit.

Melkiar et Xynala furent les derniers à arriver dans la loge de la tribune des champions. Totalement soignés, ils étaient désormais vêtus, comme ces derniers, d’une belle tunique de lin vert. À peine eut-il passé le seuil de la porte que Melkiar s’arrêta. Se massant fermement la main gauche, il scruta longuement chacun et chacune de ses camarades : Tisse, Garius, Varran, Brandille, Xynala, Bélénor. Comme tous les Fyros présents dans cette pièce, toutes et tous avaient gagné une épreuve des Jeux de l’Académie. Et hormis Brandille, qui soutenait le regard du guerrier en souriant, personne ne semblait en supporter l’intensité. Le malaise contamina ceux qui ne faisaient pas partie du groupe d’amis et s'installa bientôt dans la pièce un silence gêné qui perdura de longues minutes. Puis, tel un sauveur, un costumier surgit et brisa la glace.

« En ligne, s’il vous plaît ! Oui, voilà, tenez vous droits. Varran, sors ta tunique de tes braies. Mais, Brandille, tes cheveux !

— Comme d’ordinaire, mes tresses n’en font qu'à leur tête. Et je crois que ma tête ne veut pas être coiffée. Vous avez passé vingt minutes à essayer l’an dernier, sans succès, vous en souvenez-vous ? »

Le costumier afficha une grimace dramatique puis se ressaisit.

« Bon, tant pis. De toute façon, nous n’avons plus le temps. N’oubliez pas de bien vous serrer. Les ex æquo font que vous êtes plus nombreux que l’an dernier… Bien, tout est en ordre. Vous pouvez y aller ! »

Un à un, les vainqueurs sortirent de la loge et empruntèrent un escalier menant droit vers la tribune. À chaque marche, le brouhaha de la foule gagnait en intensité. Toujours silencieux, Bélénor observait Melkiar. Il se demandait ce qu’il ressentait à l’idée de partager son titre avec Xynala. Lorsque le premier vainqueur accéda à la tribune, la force des acclamations fit trembler les fondations du Colisée. Si certains accueillaient les ovations avec enthousiasme, d’autres, tels Bélénor et Xynala, semblaient particulièrement embarrassés. Le Fyros balaya des yeux l'immense marée homine et se demanda si ses parents étaient finalement venus. Certes, tous deux étaient très occupés par leur travail respectif. Mais les Jeux de l'Académie étaient un moment de partage cher au peuple Fyros, qui réussissait à attirer et à fédérer les plus lointaines tribus du Désert. Il pouvait donc espérer que sa mère et son père soient présents ce soir. En revanche, une chose était certaine : sa nourrice Penala, qui était venue le soutenir à plusieurs reprises aujourd’hui, était sans nul doute, en cet instant, en train de verser une larme en le regardant. À cette pensée, son cœur se serra d’émotion. Lorsque le dernier des vainqueurs accéda à la tribune et compléta la ligne, Euriyaseus Icaron, toujours postée au centre de l’arène, prit la parole pour calmer la foule. Alors, spontanément, quarante-mille paire d'yeux se portèrent vers l'immense balcon qui, à l'opposé de la tribune des champions, dominait le Colisée. Accompagné de son héraut, l’Empereur Thesop s’y avança. Comme à l’accoutumée, il était vêtu de son imposante armure de combat noire, de sa majestueuse cape rouge, et d’un étonnant casque constitué d’immenses cornes d’animaux aujourd’hui disparus. Le héraut, tenant en main un feuillet, prit la parole.

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.

« Je suis fier de vous. Vous avez toutes et tous été exceptionnels. »

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.

« B… Brandille. Sur le toit du balcon impérial. Il… Il y a un Kami noir.

— Oui, je sais », répondit calmement l’enfant.

Déconcerté, Bélénor regarda son amie. Brandille jouait avec ses tresses colorées. Un malicieux sourire se dessina sur ses lèvres lorsqu'elle lui rendit son regard.

« Ce Kami t’a observé toute la journée. Tu n’avais pas remarqué ? »

Interdit, Bélénor répondit par la négative d’un mouvement de tête. Et lorsqu’il chercha à nouveau les deux étoiles blanches au-dessus du balcon impérial, il ne les trouva pas.}}

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