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 of Dyros Avenue 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 sometimes referred to the Storm Isles, that mysterious land to the 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 Storm Isles. 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.

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.

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.