{{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.

The Fyros was up to something, Xynala was convinced. Holding her weapons tightly, she spread her legs slightly and lowered her center of gravity, firming her bearings. Within two seconds, he would be in contact. Without a helmet. If she could hit him in the head with her club, her chances of winning would greatly increase. So why was he exposing himself? What trap was he trying to push her into? She was not to play his game. She should not attack him. She attacked him. With a precise strike, she forced her opponent to dodge, the Fyros not being armed enough to parry such a blow. But against all odds, instead of shifting sideways, Melkiar dropped to his knees, back bent and arms spread, and slid down on the sawdust, under the hatchet. Alert, Xynala angrily swung her club horizontally, hoping to hit the Fyros she suspected of trying to cut off his hocks. If Melkiar managed to move back enough to avoid being hit full in the head, the club hit his shoulder hard. His arm cracked and his dagger fell. But unfortunately, that wasn't enough. Xynala saw a smile on Melkiar's face, despite the pain of his fracture inflicted him. With a precise movement, the warrior sent a handful of sawdust right into the grilled visor of her rival, now located a few centimeters from her hand. Blinded, the Fyrossa made several jumps backwards while striking strikes in the wind, persuaded that Melkiar counted to take advantage of his blindness to attack him. However, it was not the case. And when she took off her helmet filled with sawdust, she saw him simply pick up the club and the rondache left on the ground. Once this was done, the Fyros walked quietly towards her, then handed her the weapon.

The Fyrossa sighed and then returned the hatchet to Melkiar. Decidedly, this fight was going to be long.

 And indeed, the duel dragged on. Even more than the one that had opposed them the year before. If Melkiar always dominated his opponent technically and physically, Xynala showed a rage and an audacity to any test. A boldness that often gave rise to great moments of bravery, which the public loved. Thus, about thirty minutes after the beginning of the fight, the Fyrosse succeeded in tearing off the left hand of his fallen rival. It must be said that the two fighters seemed to reach their limits. Their armors had long since shattered and their wounds had barely closed. There was the limit of the homins: their incapacity to channel without slackening the Sap which irrigated them. If Xynala thought for a few seconds that this wound would signal the defeat of her rival, it was not knowing Melkiar's obduracy. Flouting all pain, the Fyros took advantage of his position to plant his valid hand in the gaping wound that scarred Xynala's abdomen. Out of strength, the Fyrossa let out a scream and dropped her club. Sensing his rival about to collapse, Melkiar infused all the Sap he could into his legs and leapt in the air. Landing on his knees on Xynala's shoulders, struck violent blows with his elbow on her bleeding skull. The Fyrossa staggered and bit the sex of his opponent, who pushed a howl. However, he did not break off, and continued to smash her skull. Finally, feeling the Fyrossa letting go, he struck a last elbow and rotated his pelvis with a sharp blow. A dull crack resounded in the Coliseum. If Melkiar fell with Xynala, he was the only one of the duelists to get up. Half-conscious, he staggered toward the healers to push them to intervene. He had broken his opponent's neck: paralyzed or unconscious, she would lose this final in less than ten seconds, he was sure. Magic amplifiers donned, the healers came running. Melkiar smiled, and to the cheers of the crowd, raised his stump to the sky. At the same time, a bolt of lightning pierced his back. Transi of pain, the Fyros turned around and put his hands behind his back. On the ground, a few meters away from him, Xynala was still lying on her stomach. She was lying on her stomach, her arm stretched forward. She had thrown a dagger at his back. The same dagger he had drawn and lost at the beginning of the duel. Melkiar fell to his knees and tried to pull out the murderous blade. It was in vain. A black veil blurred his vision and the warrior fainted.

:''"Well, never mind. We don't have time anyway. Don't forget to pack tight. There are more of you than last year because of the ties... Well, everything is in order. You can go!"

One by one, the winners exited the dressing room and took a staircase leading straight to the grandstand. With each step, the din of the crowd grew louder. Still silent, Belenor watched Melkiar. He wondered how he felt about sharing his title with Xynala. When the first winner reached the tribune, the force of the cheers shook the foundations of the Coliseum. While some were welcoming the ovations with enthusiasm, others, like Belenor and Xynala, seemed particularly ill-at-ease. The Fyros looked around at the huge tide of hominids and wondered if his parents had finally arrived. Both were busy with their respective jobs. But the Academy Games were a special time for the Fyros people to share and attract the farthest tribes of the Desert. So he could hope that his mother and father would be present tonight. But one thing was certain: his nurse Penala, who had come to support him several times today, was probably shedding a tear as she watched him. At the thought, his heart clenched with emotion. When the last of the winners stepped onto the podium and completed the line, Euriyaseus Icaron, still standing in the center of the arena, spoke to calm the crowd. Then, spontaneously, forty thousand eyes went towards the immense balcony which, in front of the tribune of the champions, dominated the Colosseum. Accompanied by his herald, the emperor Thésop advances there. As usual, he is dressed in his imposing black combat armor, his majestic red coat and an astonishing helmet made of enormous horns of animals now disappeared. The herald, holding a leaflet in his hand, speaks.

Belenor instantly blushed. Unable to resist, he glanced in Melkiar's direction. Then he met the discreet gazes of Xynala and Tisse, who also seemed captivated by their band leader. For a moment, Belenor imagined what his two friends were feeling for Melkiar, and instantly, a deep feeling of sadness came over him. Disturbed by this emotion, he lingered a few seconds on Melkiar. This one looked intensely in the direction of the herald, and his face showed a certain form of covetousness. Melkiar had already told him about the insane dream of becoming sharükos, and until then, he had never taken it seriously. After all, imperial power was hereditary. For all that, Belenor was convinced that his friend would one day become a great leader. Looking back at the imperial balcony, the Fyros turned pale. Despite the distance, the Emperor seemed to be watching Melkiar. He was sure of it. As always, the ruler exuded an aura that was both terrifying and attractive. A supernatural aura, on which the inflexible authority depended. Panicked, and wishing at all costs not to meet the Emperor's gaze, Belenor looked up and stared at the roof of the edifice. He calmed his breathing, and slowly his heart rate slowed. With all the rumors swirling about the man some called "Thesop the Fratricide," Belenor preferred to stay away from any contact with the Emperor. To take his mind off things, the young Fyros concentrated for a long time on two perfectly identical white stars, located just above the imperial balcony. For so long a lime that he thought he saw them move. To see them blink. When he realized that the two glittering spheres were not stars, his heart raced even more. Grabbing Brandille's hand by reflex, he stammered.

:''"Yes, I know," the child replied calmly."

Bewildered, Belenor looked at his friend. Brandille was playing with her colorful braids. A mischievous smile drew on her lips when she returned him his gaze.

Interdicted, Belenor answered by the negative of a movement of head. And when he looked again for the two white stars above the imperial balcony, he did not find them.}}

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

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