Brannok had returned to his own. He sat beside his mother in a silence heavy with all the unspoken things. Then, he began to hum, very softly, the same lullabies she had sung to him when he was just a baby. His voice, still youthful, carried a strange solemnity. The other women moved around Lyra with a gentleness and delicacy they reserved for their most intimate moments, cleaning her wounds with soothing herbs.
Only a few minutes had passed when a shadow slipped into the alley. A man, on the lookout, spotted Brannok through the doorway. A nasty grin spread across his lips before he ran off to inform his master.
Soon, a commotion erupted in the street. Zarekh, the circus master, heaved his large belly out of his palanquin. He was followed by half a dozen armed men, their weapons rusty but threatening. A crowd of onlookers began to gather, whispering, sensing the inevitable drama.
One of Zarekh's men, a brute with a broken nose, approached the tavern door.
"Brannok!Bastard son! Come out and talk, or those inside will suffer the consequences!"
Inside, a shiver of terror ran through the women. Brannok stood up. Immediately, his aunts rose like a wall to stop him, their eyes pleading. But Brannok turned to them and, for the first time they could remember, smiled. It was a sad, gentle smile, a farewell. Silent tears then streamed down his aunts' cheeks, tracing paths through their makeup and the dust.
He walked through them and stepped outside.
Outside, his gaze, steel-grey, swept over the imposing group that had come for him, a mere child. The man with the broken nose, exasperated by the boy's calm, spat:
"Little bastard!Lower your eyes before Master Zarekh! Lower your eyes, I tell you!"
Brannok didn't flinch. He continued to observe, to assess, like a wildcat before a pack.
Zarekh raised a pudgy hand for silence.
"You have courage,boy, I grant you that. But you killed one of my gladiators. And that, I will not tolerate, for it costs me money. A lot of money. Do you have any idea how much it costs to train a gladiator, eh?"
Brannok's voice was clear and neutral. "What do you want, then?"
"To replace him, of course! With your own little person," Zarekh replied with a greasy smile.
Brannok knew the man's logic was twisted, but this was the law of the jungle in Shadizar: the strong survived by fist and blade. He threw one last look behind him, at the threshold where all his aunts stood, their faces marked by sadness and fear. He then perceived the fragile movement of his mother, who, staggering, was trying to drag herself to the door to see him one last time. Tears mingled with blood streamed from her bruised eyes. But in that gaze, Brannok saw not despair, only a painful pride. She knew, deep down, that her son was made to endure the unendurable.
Brannok turned back to Zarekh. "I agree to go with you, if you keep your word and leave them in peace."
Zarekh burst into a satisfied laugh. "Good! Very well, very well! Prepare the caravan, we depart!"
One of the guards approached and, with a brutality that contrasted with the child's size, clamped heavy irons onto his wrists. He then chained him to the back of a wagon.
"Let's see how long you can walk,you little bastard," the guard sneered.
The circus caravan lurched forward with a grinding of wheels and a cloud of dust. Brannok cast one final glance backward, capturing a last image of the loved ones huddled in the doorway. Then he resolutely turned his head forward, toward the dusty road stretching out before him.
A new, cruel, and uncertain adventure had begun.