The week had passed in the grimy routine of Shadizar. Brannok, now eleven years old, was helping with chores around the house. He was on the roof of the building, fixing a leak with a skill that belied his age, his already hard, calloused fingers finding easy purchase on the tiles. The relative calm of the afternoon was suddenly torn apart.
"Brannok! Brannok, quick! It's your mother!"
It was Rekk, one of the neighborhood kids, running up, his face twisted with panic.
Without a second's hesitation, Brannok leaped from the roof, landing softly on the hard-packed earth of the alley. He didn't run; he sprinted. His legs, driven by a newly conscious strength, propelled his body through the maze of alleys at a speed that made passersby turn their heads. He arrived at the nearby tavern, the usual haunt of his aunts.
The atmosphere was heavy, suffocating. The women present hung their heads, avoiding his gaze. An ominous silence reigned. Brannok pushed through the crowd and saw her.
His mother, Lyra, was sitting on a stool, her face bruised and slashed. Angry red finger marks marred her arms. Seeing her, a primitive, burning emotion exploded in Brannok's chest. It wasn't simple anger. It was a cold, savage fury, a fire of ice that made his fingertips tremble.
"Mother," he murmured, his voice eerily calm.
He knelt before her, gently cradling her face. His grey eyes, usually so impassive, were like steel blades.
"Aunt Tala," he said without turning, his voice carrying an authority that chilled the air. "Who did this?"
Tala approached, her beautiful Zingaran face marked by worry and impotent rage. "A man. From the Shamarr Circus. One of their 'fighters.' He took your mother by force... She resisted. She fought back. He was... very strong. No one could stop him."
Brannok pressed his lips to his mother's bruised forehead. A tender gesture, completely at odds with the hurricane raging within him. Then, he stood and, without another word, walked out.
Outside, he didn't take the alleys. He climbed. His agile, powerful fingers found invisible holds in the weathered stone. Within seconds, he was on the rooftops, becoming a silent shadow cavorting above the corrupt city. The Shamarr Circus? He knew its direction. A large red tent near the fighting pits.
As he approached, he did something he had never consciously tried before. He focused on the scent. The man's scent. He had smelled the residue of his presence on his mother – a stench mixed with sour sweat, leather, and violence. He breathed in deeply, filtering the olfactory clutter of the city: fried food, manure, the crowd. And he found it. A fetid trail leading straight to the big tent.
He slipped inside through an opening, blending into the shadows of the stands. Inside, it wasn't a circus, but an improvised gladiator arena. The sand was stained with rust. Brutal shouts rose from the drunken crowd. Brannok, like a ghost, weaved through the spectators, his senses on high alert.
Then he saw him. The man was tall, massive, his torso a forest of scars. He stood with other gladiators, listening to the instructions of a portly man, the fight master. The stench of violence coming from him was nauseating. It was him.
The fight master said a word. That was the signal.
Brannok erupted from the crowd like a projectile. A child appearing from nowhere to leap upon a giant. The surprise was total. Before anyone could react, Brannok was on his back, clinging to him not just with his hands, but with the pure strength of his limbs, like an enraged ape.
The man bellowed in surprise more than pain, trying to grab him, to tear him off. But Brannok didn't budge. It was like trying to dislodge a boulder. The force holding him in place was supernatural. Then, Brannok lowered his head and bit.
It wasn't a child's bite. It was a predator's bite. His jaws, reinforced by the latent power within him, clamped down on the man's shoulder with terrible force. There was a sickening, muffled crack, followed by a spray of warm blood.
Brannok released his grip. He hadn't screamed, hadn't uttered a single curse. He dropped from the back of the howling man, landed softly on the sand, and, without a glance at the chaos he had sown, vanished as quickly as he had arrived, slipping out of the tent to return to his mother.
In the arena, the fight master, first furious, watched the scene with a new interest. His anger dissipated, replaced by calculating greed. A boy so young, so savage, so strong... He had deliberately let the child escape. Such a beast, well-trained, would make a perfect replacement. And he was young. Young enough to be broken and remolded to his liking.
He turned to one of his men.
"Find him.Bring me that boy. Make sure his 'aunts' can't prevent him from... taking his revenge. Offer him an easier target. An opportunity. We will be there to steal it from him."