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

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

{{Quotation|''Belenor Nebius, narrator''|:''"Um... One more death. A rockslide, once again."

Deep in thought, and busy playing with his long, braided mahogany 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 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.

 

 

 

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.

:''"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!"

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.

:''"Um... The Sacred War. Interesting. Are you the author of this fiction?"

:''"G... Give me that back!"

:''"T... This text is mine! And it's written in Matéis. You won't be able to read it.

:''"Oh yes? And why is that?" guffawed the teenager."

:''"From... From my dreams," Belenor managed to answer.

:''"When I grow up, I plan to bring all the tribes to the West of the Desert, where I was born. Life there is much harder than here. No regular army, no aqueduct… I would like to found a great city there, equal to Fyre. Of course, waging war on the rebellious tribes to force their cooperation might be enough. But that's does'nt fit my values. I promise myself to do it my way: to prove my bravery, to perform feats, to gain their trust. But to do that, someone will have to tell my story. Someone will have to make me the hero they need. I like to surround myself with talent, Belenor Nebius. And one day, I'll need someone like you."

:''"W... What's your name?"

:''"My name is Melkiar. Remember that name well, Belenor Nebius, and sharpen your pen. For in a few years, you and I will have things to talk about. I am certain of it."}}

{{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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