ROLEPLAY

The wind blows its icy whisper through the trees of the Green Continent. The soft light of dusk transforms the forest into a moving tableau, where the shadows of intertwined trees and roots dance across the moss- and fern-covered ground, like an ever-changing living network. In the far east of the region, perched atop a cliff, stands Fort-le-Phare, a solitary leaning tower and indispensable beacon between the forest and the Mer de Bois. Built from an ancient giant canopy root that has fallen to the ground, the tower seems to defy the laws of gravity, ready to collapse under the weight of the ages. It leans, like a tired sentinel, struggling against the inexorable pull of Atys, which sucks everything into ruin. Yet the thick moss that covers its walls gives it an illusion of immortality amid the lush vegetation that surrounds it.

To the east of Fort-le-Phare, the devastated Mer de Bois stretches out in seemingly endless desolation. A veil of mist envelops the ground, masking all but a few emerging buttes, which seem to float on the surface of the fog of unfathomable whiteness. These isolated islands, lost in the immensity, reinforce the feeling of absolute solitude that pervades this place. The mooing of an armadai, a kind of giant arma whose footsteps vibrate the ground, mingles with the sound of the wind. Its ghostly lament could terrify anyone unfamiliar with these surroundings.

The landscape around the tower, almost unreal in this end-of-day light, testifies to the fragility of a world suspended between life on one side and death on the other. And yet, the lighthouse continues to shine, its persistent glow casting powerful beams over the forest and the Mer de Bois, like a last hope in a decaying world.

There, leaning against the wall at the very top of this tower where the wind is even more violent, lies Azazor. The old fyros, fleeing an Empire that now rejects him, patiently rereads his writings. For two weeks, he has waited here, bravely welcomed by the Rangers occupying Fort-le-Phare. Two weeks postponing the moment when he will enter the Sea of Wood to reach the Oflovak halt. Two weeks of nightmares about eyes and roaring beasts in the mist.

"Dexton was born in Fyre and was able to sire an Emperor. But Lykos was born in Pyr, far from our ancestral lands. And he will die without descendants. Perhaps this is just a coincidence. But perhaps that's all? The birth rate is also falling among all fyros. What is it about the New Lands that makes us so sterile? I think the permanent presence of the Powers is slowly destroying us. It's as if our bodies know, from not dying, that it's no longer necessary to perpetuate our race. Unless the Powers That Be, by resurrecting us, change our ability to reproduce. So I say it with all my might: the secret of fertility is to let death lurk. "

The old Fyros pouted. More pure speculation. And it's badly written too. But then, who's going to judge it now? Who'll even read it anymore? He only writes for himself now. It's bad enough that back then, very few people read it...

A call from the bottom of the tower snaps him out of his thoughts.

"AZAZOR! YOU BIG BODOC! GET DOWN!"

He'd recognize that voice a thousand times over. It was that of his old friend, the marauder Krapoutos, whom he had met many years ago at the Diplomatic Outpost on Cloudy Cliff. This alcoholic Krapoutos, who had joined him in the New Lands to enjoy a less harsh and, above all, more binge-drinking life.

With a smile on his face, Azazor climbed down the tower steps four by four and came face to face with the scoundrel, who slapped him on the back.

"So you bodoc, you're leaving without saying goodbye?
- Hahaha! Sorry Krapoutos, but I had the Trykoth authorities on my ass, so I couldn't linger too long.
- ramèch, but he's going to end up a bastard!"

Azazor laughed outright. It's true that the idea has crossed his mind before.

"So, what are you doing here, you old drunk? Weren't you happy with your marauding buddies and your shooki?
- For shooki, yes. In fact, I've got a whole barrel of it in the toub behind me. But the Akilia business was starting to get on my nerves. And then there was one who was desperate to leave for the Old Lands.
- Ah? Do I know him?

Smiling with all his yellow teeth, Krapoutos steps aside to make way for a young homin, emerging from behind the mektoub.

"oren pyr 'pa, ça va?"

Azazor's face breaks down at the sight of that laughing face and red mane. He wants to kill him. Yet, stepping towards him, he embraces him. His eyes fill with tears of joy, as his son begs him to hold him looser.

In a breath, Azazor manages to say in his ear:

"I told you to stay with Lyren, you toub head!
- Like mother, like son," replies Uzykos with a smile."

Time seems suspended at the bottom of the tower as father and son embrace. Like a pas de deux between life and death. The old fyros, having sunk so low after reaching such heights, tells himself that all hope is not lost as he holds his son close.

After all, hadn't they planned all along to travel together to the Old Lands? Wasn't it their destiny?

The desert heat was still enveloping the Cloudy Cliff diplomatic outpost in the early evening. In the camp's only tavern, various homins of all races were chatting, playing dice or drinking in an atmosphere vibrating with a mixture of sweat, sawdust and alcohol. The dancing light of the torches cast unstable shadows on the glowing walls, and the smell of roasted armadillo wafted through the air. Azazor, wearing a shabby tunic covered in dried blood, was emptying his glass of glork with a pensive look. He watched his son Uzykos swallow his meat with difficulty, looking sulky. At their table, unconcerned as to whether he was being listened to, Krapoutos recounted, with gestures, how he had finally convinced O'Tello, the owner and manager of the Outpost, to let him make shooki liqueur. It was the fifth time in the three months since their arrival that he had told them.

"When I made her drink a glass of the shooki I'd brought back, you should have seen her face. I thought she was going to kiss me!"

At a table at the far end of the room, members of the Atakorum tribe were drinking in silence, their blue eyes piercing beneath the turban that enveloped their faces.

Azazor stood up suddenly, as Krapoutos attacked, for the second time this month, the anecdote about the pierced barrel and the drunken yubo.

"I've got to go and say a few words to them," he said simply, heading towards Atakorum's group.

Uzykos grumbled, his eyes fixed on his glass.

"What's wrong with your father? I hadn't finished my story yet!" growled Krapoutos.

Uzykos huffed and grumbled.

"He wants us out of here. He wants to go live with those damn turbans!"

The young fyros was not in the least pleased by this prospect. Having arrived here three months ago, he had quickly settled in, assisting his father in the kitchen and Krapoutos in making shooki liqueur, the first to be brewed on the road to Oflovak. Life in the camp was certainly hard, with almost no rest except in the evenings, when most homins gathered at the tavern to eat and drink. But there was this young homin, Akerna, who caught his eye. She worked at the tavern too, and they took advantage of their shared break to fool around in the scullery. Leaving the outpost to live with a nomadic tribe adept at potions and mysticism didn't appeal to him, and he decided to give his father a hard time in return. Not that he had the slightest hope of changing his father's mind. But at least he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing him accept without flinching.

Almost half an hour later, just as Krapoutos had decided to leave the table to tell his anecdotes to other homins at the bar, Azazor returned with a smile on his face. Uzykos knew that his slim hope that the Atakorum would refuse to welcome them had vanished.

"They're leaving in two days to join the tribe. They've agreed to let us join them while they test us, to see if we're fit to join them permanently.
- Oh, because you're planning to end your life there? And you think I want to end up with those lunatics?" Uzykos insisted.
- They're not crazy, but they're carriers of great secrets. And no, I don't want to end my life with them. I just want to spend some time with them. We have a lot to learn from them."

Azazor paused for a moment, then added with a jaded look.

"After that, you don't have to follow me. If you think it's your destiny to stay here, spending every evening at the tavern, drinking and banging your fyrette...

Uzykos leapt to his feet, pushing the table away with a furious gesture.

"You're such a creep!"

He left the tavern, his face red with anger and shame. He wouldn't have admitted it to his father, but his father was right. Was this the routine life he'd been dreaming of, when the unknown opened up east of the desert? Raising his eyes to the sky, he spotted the star of the day, shining faintly in the east. Indeed, it was a little higher in the sky than when he had left the New Lands. His mind wandered as he imagined what might lie just below the luminary...

The Cybele nebula rose high in the night sky in late spring. In the atakorum camp, the crackle of a brazier mingled with the dry wind of the Morcelé Desert, while the scent of incense and wood fire perfumed the air. Around the hearth, the members of the tribe, dressed in their shimmering tunics resembling those of the frahars in some respects, stood and sang a strange tune, in which a rustic fyrk blended with an unknown dialect that only the desert seemed to understand. The flames cast dancing shadows on faces scorched by heat and sawdust. As part of the circle, Azazor's face was painted with the ritual tattoos of the Great Journey Ceremony. His eyes closed, he sang with them. Sitting nearby in the half-light, Uzykos scrutinized the turbaned silhouettes of the atakorum with suspicion. Their dark eyes shone with a strange brilliance, as if this people perceived more than the world showed.

When the melody ended, Azazor opened his eyes and stared at the old sage, standing on the other side of the fire, a black cup in his hands. The old atakorum, draped in a cloak adorned with varinx bones, slowly raised his head.

"The time has come, Azazor," he said in a throaty voice. You have shown over the last few months that your search for Truth is pure. The spirits of the desert are ready to open their eyes to you... if you are worthy. Are you still willing to complete the Ceremony of the Great Journey?
- ney," he said.
- So drink up!"

The cup passed from hand to hand, each spitting into it after a few chanted words, ending up in Azazor's. A greenish liquid rippled inside, thick and vibrant as if alive. A greenish liquid rippled inside, thick and vibrant as if alive. It was more than a poison. It was a test. Those refused by the desert died without further ado. Those it accepted... were never quite the same again. According to the tribe, this rite was indeed risky. You could fall asleep for days, sometimes weeks on end, and never wake up at all. You needed a strong constitution to even survive ingesting the poison. But awakening depended solely on the goodwill of the desert spirits. While awaiting the awakening, the tribe took care of the traveler, hydrating him regularly. For this was indeed a journey. Not everyone saw the same thing. Most floated at ground level or saw through the eyes of an animal. A few could sink into the ground and explore the depths. A handful even claimed to have seen Fyrak himself. That was all it took to convince Azazor to drink the potion. For him, this potion was the equivalent of what he had experienced when he fell into the Nexus rift all those years ago. It was to induce a state between life and death, the only state capable of seeing through the eyes of Kamis. For Azazor, this was what the tribe meant when they spoke of desert spirits. It could not be otherwise. If the Kamis had chosen him during his fall to the Nexus, if they had saved him during his confrontation with the flaming kipesta, they would spare him again tonight. This was his destiny. Everything had led him here, to live this moment. The kamis wanted to show him something. All he had to do was jump again.

Uzykos leapt to his feet.

"Daddy, no! Don't listen to those freaks! It'll kill you!"

His rage turned his face scarlet. He had never wanted to come here. But he had followed his father, out of love for him. There was no way he was going to let him die like an idiot and swallow this poison. The atakorum didn't react, content to stare at the flames of the campfire, which had suddenly become agitated. Azazor looked at his son. Fear shone in his eyes. What if he didn't wake up? What would become of his son, lost here in the middle of the Morcelé Desert. But there was no time for such questions. He stared intently at the young fyros.

"There are some things you can't learn with a retch, Son. There are truths only spirits know."

Eventually, Uzykos sat back down with a frown on his face. Silence fell over the circle. All eyes were on Azazor.
He raised the cup to his lips.

"Let the spirits decide!"

Azazor, still standing around the fire, felt the cup slip from his hands, spilling the few remaining drops into the sawdust. Looking up at the night sky, the stars seem to flicker and the heat becomes more intense. From the depths he hears a breath, a voice, an incandescent call. His eyelids grow heavy and, unable to resist any longer, his body sinks like a lump to the ground. Yet he sees. He sees the sawdust, as close as possible to his closed, translucent eyes.

He feels himself becoming liquid, like a puddle, and intruding into the smallest cracks. He dives, dives into the depths of Atys. He is the sap, flowing through a network of roots, ever deeper.

At the end of a journey that seemed interminable, he emerged in a vast hall. A sea of fire stretches out beneath him. Not a wood fire, not even the blaze of a fyros drilling rig gone awry. No, it's a living, liquid, moving fire. An ocean of flame, its pulsating waves rolling like those of the Great Puddle in which they bathed with Eeri an eternity ago. Waves of bubbling blood, spewing from the heart of Atys. It's the fire of the Great Dragon, the fire of fyrak!

Then he sees it emerge, an indistinct silhouette in the inferno, its eyes like two glowing luminaries. Its open throat, showing shiny black teeth, is the source of all its flames. Liquid fire gushes from its gaping maw, feeding the sea of burning blood. These flames rise to the surface, boiling the sap that bursts the roots. The ground shrieks, twists and gnaws. Atys groans like a wounded beast, his bark cracking under the thrust of the subterranean inferno. Fire invades the surface, sending animals scurrying across the dunes and through the flaming forests. The walls of Zora, the inhabited trees of Yrkanis, the pontoons of Fairheaven, the city of Pyr itself - everything writhes and crumbles under the bite of the blazing inferno from the depths. He even thinks he hears the kamis screaming.

He wants to shout back, but no sound comes out. The fire darkens, turning as black as soot. Only a few glints of embers flicker here and there. But these are not embers, they are stars. He's lying in the sawdust, eyes wide open, looking up at the sky, and a fire is crackling nearby.

"He's waking up!" he hears shouting. His son's voice. His son screaming. Many murmurs stir around him. A few words reach him. Three weeks. That's what stands out most.

He reaches out a hand and grasps Uzykos' wrist firmly. In an almost inaudible voice, he whispers:

"We are doomed... Not even kamis can save us..."

The fragmented desert stretched before them like an ocean of sawdust. The morning light illuminated the cracked plateaus, revealing a landscape of deep fissures that dotted the ground. Azazor advanced at a steady pace, closely followed by his son Uzykos, dragging a pack mektoub behind him. They had left the atakorum tribe a few days ago and were heading east, towards the city of Sentinelle, built inside a gigantic dead tree.

"Dad? Do you really think they'll accept our passage?

- I don't know. They did it the first time. They did it the first time, there's no reason for it to change.

- But didn't you say you killed a bastard to save Mom? Do you think they've forgotten?

- It doesn't have to be dead; they also have resurrection at home. Zinuaken are installed there. But like all resurrection, it's not automatic, especially since he may have been beyond their reach.

- So we risk being captured? Or even executed?

- I doubt it. They're not bandits. At worst, they'll refuse us passage.

- What will we do then?

- We'll check out the Rangers further south. They probably have a passage to the heights too. We'll just have to convince them to let us use it.

- And if not?

- You ask too many questions, Uzy.

- I anticipate.

- Okay, so if you want to know, I'll offer them information they don't have.

- Ah? What's that? What you've learned from the crados?

- Stop it, Uzy, I don't like it when you call them that. The Atakorum are a respectable and very wise people.

- Yeah... They try to kill you to make you see things worthy of your worst nightmares by making you drink a disgusting liquid into which they all spit.

- Mock me!

- Even the Fraiders are more civilized.

- What do you know about Fraiders? Didn't your mother ever teach you that they were a real source of knowledge behind their gruff exterior? She lived with them for a long time, so she knew what she was talking about.

- Mom never taught me anything, you should know that...

- She would have, if you'd given her a chance.

- But someone killed her before she could change..."



There was a heavy silence for several long minutes. Uzykos thought he might have gone too far. His father didn't like the subject much. Nevertheless, it was he who resumed the discussion.

"She could have survived.

- Really?

- The sacrificial rites of the cult's followers don't work every time.

- Do you know how it works?

- You've got to be kidding. I was never trained for this. All I had to do was cut off her head. I waited in vain for her to dematerialize, like when she got eaten by a prakker. But not this time...

- Mommy got eaten by a prakker?!

- Yep, right in front of my eyes. I had his legs in my hands and the rest of my body in the monster's mouth."

Uzykos turned pale at the image beginning to form in his mind. His father had a way of telling absolutely despicable things with the utmost detachment. The young fyros preferred to change the subject before Azazor added any more details.

"So, what's this information the Rangers don't have?

- My vision of liquid fire.

- What you learned from the cra... from the atakorum, that's what I was saying.

- If the kamis have sent it to me, it's because it's vital information.

- Even if it's true that there's liquid fire in the depths, what do the Rangers care?

- I've no idea. Maybe it'll match up with what they know. I don't know how far those guys got. Don't be fooled, the Rangers are a bunch of hypocrites who hide a lot of secrets. Do you think they'd share their knowledge of magnetic tunnels? Or the kitins of the Old Lands?

- The head of the Rangers, I don't know what his name is, he's...

- Barmie Dingle.

- Yeah, well, you're the one who told me he'd given you a briefing on flamboyants before setting off on the road to Oflovak.

- We were forced to leave despite their attempts to dissuade us. You have to shake the Rangers up and play on their hominism to get them to spill their guts. And even then, only in dribs and drabs.

- Mom was a Ranger."

As he did so, he looked down at his feet and said nothing else. Azazor saw a certain sadness in his reference to his mother. And for the fourth time in the conversation, he called her mom, not "my mother". She had had to die for him to love her at last.

"Trytonnist my son. Trytonist. And mercenary. Like much of the Tears Guild."



They walked on for some time, saying nothing. Eventually, however, Uzykos asked the burning question.

"Dad, really, why do you want to go back there? Okay, there's stuff to discover, all that stuff. But then what? Do you think the Emperor will forgive you if you bring back another amber cube?

- I don't care about forgiveness. Just as I don't care about the Empire. What I care about is the future of my people.

- And why does his future require us to go to the Old Lands?

- The Empire exists for a single purpose. It's not the best system for living in peace. The Trykers are very happy in their federation. Much happier than we are. But for our quest, that of the fyros, the Empire is the most effective.

- Let me guess... fyrak?

- Yes, we must unlock the secret behind the myth of the Great Dragon. Our entire existence is dedicated to this quest. And for that, we need an Empire and an Emperor at its head. Someone to guide us and remind us of our duty every day. Our hope that this quest will reach its goal. If Lykos dies without descendants, it's because he has forgotten this. An Emperor is a merchant of hope.

- And what about you? Do you think you'll find the end of the quest in the Old Lands?

- Some of it. Enough to rekindle hope and the thirst for research. For without this quest, we might as well become federalists and live carefree.

- Like trykers?

- Yeah, like those damn trykers. But you know, they'll outlive us all.

- What do you mean?

- I'm convinced that each people has its uses. For the Matis, it's to get closer to the Karavan in order to better betray them. They will recover from them certain secrets that will be useful for our independence from the Powers. They may even help protect us from them. For while karavan seeks to save homins, it also keeps them in the dark. And I doubt she'll appreciate it if we emancipate ourselves from her.

- Zoraïs are the same, but with kamis?

- Almost. Without kamis, I don't think we can exist. They are life. But there is, I hope, a fine line between emancipating ourselves from kamis and becoming their slaves.

- Slave?

- Yes. Having been a devotee of kamis for decades, I can tell you that too much veneration is a straitjacket. So it's up to the Zoraïs to get to know the kamis, to know what they want. It's up to them to become slaves. The better to help us live not as part of Ma-Duk, but alongside the kamis, as equals.

- Trykers?

- Wait, I'll get to it. To the fyros first. To them belongs the ultimate quest, to strike down the Great Dragon once they've found it. They'll need the knowledge of the matis and zoraïs. But they'll also need allies in battle. Resourceful allies.

- Those damn trykers!

- That's right, those damn trykers and their stupid inventions. Those damn Trykers and their camaraderie. But also, their fickleness. Because when the final battle against fyrak takes place, I'm sure the trykers will do something stupid that will save their lives and result in the sacrifice of fyros. All fyros.

- Huh?

- The matis will also die, or make a pact with what's left of the karavan to save their skins. The Zoraïs will be saved, but swallowed up in Ma-duk. The fyros, the bravest people, will burn in the liquid fire of fyrak. And the trykers, freed from the Powers and fyrak, will be able to enjoy Atys in their usual carefree way."

Uzykos laughed heartily. It was the first time his father had told him this tall tale. He'd heard some crazy theories from him, but never to this extent. He knew his father had a tendency to exaggerate. But in this case, he was overdoing it.

"This vision of the future for all the peoples of Atys, did your trip to the Crados bring it to you?

- Under normal circumstances, you'd have picked up for your lack of respect."

Uzykos swallowed, expecting the bellows.

"But not this time. It's true I'm going a bit too far for someone your age, who hasn't seen anything yet."

The coldness of his tone and the words his father used almost made him wish he'd taken one. As some guy had said, words sometimes hurt more than blows. He didn't say another word until the evening, pondering everything he'd told him, even though he knew it was a load of crap. After all, so far, his father had rarely been wrong.

On Quarta, Floris 16, 2nd AC of the year 2634, they reached Sentinelle, the city built into a gigantic dead tree and serving as the gateway to Citadelle, the nerve center of the marauding lands protecting hominity from kitins. As Uzykos had feared, the marauders remembered the incident that had caused the loss of one of their own. With his burned and scarred face, Azazor could have passed himself off as someone else, after all his years, but he had decided to play it straight. With aplomb, he had explained to them that he intended to travel to Fyre with his son, and that if they wouldn't let him pass, he would understand and try his luck elsewhere, even if it meant dying in the process. He'd even told them about Eeri's death, how he'd been killed by his own hand among the followers of the Fyrak cult. The marauders had not doubted his sincerity, nor when the fyros had justified cutting the rope of the izam bridge to defend the mother of his son. As a result, they had kept them in jail for two days before delivering their verdict. Azazor would be released, but forbidden to cross Sentinelle on pain of death. He was banned for life from marauding lands, but his son would be allowed to pass. He would also have to succeed in a high-risk mission in the heights to wash away the affront. A team of climbers was sent to repair the ropes. As the mission involved great risk, Azazor would be responsible for the most dangerous moments. His son would be held on bail until the job was done. After a lively discussion between father and son, Uzykos convinced Azazor to let him carry out the mission for him.

Two months later, Uzykos returned from his mission. It had been a success. He had never climbed such high walls before. Fortunately, he was one of those rare homins who didn't suffer from vertigo. Even as a child, he'd enjoyed suspending himself in a gondola linking Pyr to the Horst Etincellant. He'd built it with some friends during one of their many truant school excursions. So this mission, dangerous though it was, had delighted him to no end, and the marauders even wanted him to stay with them for a while on other missions. But what pleased Uzykos the most was to have convinced his father to take his place. The latter had had far too many bad memories of climbing these very walls years ago, and so it was with shameful relief that he agreed to let his son take charge of the mission.

Azazor was released and Uzykos declined the offer to stay with the marauders and stay with his father. To get to Fyre, they had no choice but to head for the Ranger camp south of Sentinelle. But according to a prisoner with whom Azazor had shared a cell, even that wouldn't make much difference. From there, Ranger expeditions would head south through the southern cordillera of the former Empire. It was a chain of very steep reliefs, but with fewer kitins than the plateaus of the Dragon's Ridge. The rangers passed through here to reach the Matis forests and their strange leafy kitins at war with the desert kitins. At the end of the cordillera, they would have had to head due north across the kitin-ridden imperial desert to reach Fyre. His makeshift companion then added with a laugh that he stood a better chance of reaching Fyre via the wilds north of the Dragon's Ridge. Even in the heyday of the Fyros Empire, these lands were not part of it. There were few kitins, but they were inhabited, it is said, by wild fyros who refused all alliances, and to enter them was tantamount to suicide. Even marauders hardly ever ventured there. In any case, the raw materials that could be extracted there were of little interest.

He camped with Uzykos for a few days not far from Sentinelle, not knowing what decision to make. Go south with the Rangers and face the kitins? At least he'd die on the land of his ancestors, fighting kitins. Go north and try to find a way around the ridge? He'd die fighting other fyros, unless he could convince them. What about his son? Would he agree to follow his father in death?

In the early hours of Holeth, Harvestor 30, 2nd AC 2634, a small group of Rangers came across their makeshift camp. They were heading for the Cloudy Cliff Outpost. Meanwhile, Azazor had made his decision. He would head north... without Uzykos, who would follow the group of Rangers. Uzykos had not insisted, only as a matter of form. He too had been thinking for a few days. He had three choices. Join the marauders and experience the great adventures of kitin fighting, high-risk climbing and intensive training. Follow his father, north or south, to Fyre or death. Or return home to his loved ones. The first choice was the most attractive. But the other two appealed to him. What was there in the south for the Rangers to send expeditions? He had heard his father speak of kitins called the Hardwoods. The name alone intrigued him. But the north, with its wild fyros, didn't appeal to him. He'd had enough with the atakorum and their backward rituals, whatever his father thought. And then to go home? Sure, he missed Thesos. He missed his friends too. But most of all, he missed his half-sister. He regretted leaving like a thief. Even though they bickered a lot, he adored Lyren. With Wixarika, she was a surrogate mother. It was finally his father who convinced him to return during a discussion a few days earlier.

_____________


"Dad, are you sure you'd rather go alone?

- ney, I'll be more reassured. Anyway, you told me you wanted to come home, didn't you?

- ney... dey, I don't know... I do miss Lyren. In fact, I miss everything. Thesos, my friends... I even miss that damn calculus teacher.

- Do you realize that you'll probably never go back to school? You're not old enough to go to school anymore, and there's nothing left in the financial world for you to study. Just a musty-smelling apartment and an old trunk full of useless stuff.

- Well, I'll be joining the Fyros Legions.

- I doubt they still exist. Your half-sister turned it into a pro-Kara guild before we left. If Lykos is as stupid in old age as his father, he'll have had the guild disbanded for contempt of fyros values. As if kamis and fyros necessarily went hand in hand.

- I'm sure the Legions are doing just fine, and we've even got plenty of volunteers thanks to their new ideological orientation."

Azazor laughed out loud.

"You bet, if Lyren has already managed to train even one new recruit, it'll already be a miracle.

- Are you trying to convince me to leave or stay after all?

- I just want you to look the truth in the face."

He paused, looking his son up and down. His gaze betrayed a love full of pride.

"In any case, you'll make an excellent legionnaire. Especially with what you've learned on the road. Look at you, you're bigger than I was when I was your age.

- I had a good coach... "

The young fyros shuddered to think of the tortures he had endured as a child.

"You know why I did it, don't you?

- Because you knew I'd come here with you one day, you've already told me," Uzykos chanted disdainfully.

- dey, coming here is also part of the training.

- Then why?" wondered Uzykos.

- So you can continue what I've started. And that's why I want you to come home."

Uzykos looked at his father in disbelief. Start what? Poison the Emperor? Become the most pariah family in the Empire? Faced with his son's doubtful expression, Azazor continued in a sententious tone.

"Our people are dying. They have forgotten why they tread on bark."

As he did so, he pointed east.

"Beyond these cliffs lie our ancestral lands. I think that's where it all began. It's there, in its depths, that the great dragon must lie.

- Yes, you've told me that many times.

- But our people forgot. They forgot they had to dig and search for fyrak. Again and again! Again and again! The coming of the kitins set us back. That was a mistake. We should have stayed and fought like those who would become the marauders under Melkiar. Now that was a true patriot, who knew where his duty lay! With the Emperor at our side, with an entire Empire, we could have repelled the kitins. And once the kitins were defeated or at least kept at bay, resume the quest, and dig, again! Always!"

Uzykos was as perplexed as ever. Especially since his father was clearly not a pickaxe lover.

"It still doesn't tell me why I'm training. If you want me to go with you to Fyre to dig holes, just say so," he added mockingly.

- No, it's not you or me who'll be digging. It's a whole people who have to dig. That's what the Empire was built for. And your mission will be to remind the Emperor of his duty.

- In short, you want me to go back to Pyr and tell sharükos: oren pyr, my name is Uzykos, and my dad - you know, the one who tried to assassinate you - he told me that you should send all the imperial troops to the desert of the Old Lands to take it back from the kitins. And make sure they don't forget their pickaxes, because then we'll be digging. Yeah, he'll definitely approve!

Azazor, despite Uzykos' sarcastic tone, remained serious.

"And yet you will. You are my son. And in the Miri family, we do as we please, no matter how risky, ridiculous or difficult.

- Like Mom...

- dey, you've got your mother's blood in you too. I never knew her surname, but it must be the same kind of sap as the Miri. So believe me, you'll make it. You'll convince sharükos. You've got to!

- If you say so..." concludes Uzykos, fed up with the conversation.

Most of all, he was tired of the weight his father placed on his shoulders. But for all the irony he could use to lighten that weight, it would work on him. Azazor had a hold on him, and Uzykos was aware that the seed had been planted in his brain. A seed called obsession.

_____________


So when, a few days later, the group of Rangers passed close to the two fyros' camp, Azazor wasted no time in convincing them to allow Uzykos to accompany them. This time, providence was at work. It was as if the desert spirits wanted father and son to part ways here, at the end of the road to Oflovak. The Rangers agreed, but tried in vain to persuade the old fyros to leave with them too, especially not to attempt the northern passage. But the fyros was stubborn. He would go as far as Fyre or die trying. That was how he saw it. The rangers gave up in the face of his determination.

After a few last words and a single embrace, Uzykos left to join the Rangers, who were already starting to leave. He left the mektoub to his father, while the Rangers took care of all the logistics. But as he followed in the Rangers' footsteps, he turned one last time to his father, whom he would probably never see again. His father was still there, watching him go, a slightly wistful smile on his lips.

"Pa, will you send me some news?" he hailed.

- I'll try.

- A great warrior once told me: you either do it or you don't. There is no test. There is no test."

Azazor smiled more broadly but answered nothing. And as Uzykos disappeared into the vaporous horizon of the fragmented desert, he turned his attention to the north and the unknown, where lived fyros who had never been part of the Empire. Wild fyros. Fyros he could convince to seek out the Great Dragon with him.