The Stygian moon, cold and pallid, flooded the sleeping circus encampment. In his lavish tent, Zarekh paced, his agitated fingers drumming on a forgotten golden goblet. The mocking face of his cousin and the image of the giant Barrock haunted his thoughts. The intoxication of the provocation had faded, leaving behind a cold, gnawing anxiety. Had he gone too far? Had he jeopardized his greatest asset, his entire fortune, on an impulse?
This fear, new and humiliating, finally drove him to action. He pushed aside the heavy tapestry of his tent and strode quickly towards another dwelling, larger and better guarded than that of a mere gladiator. This was Brannok's tent. No longer the cell of the little bastard from Shadizar, but the abode of his champion, his "Bestiarus."
He entered without knocking. The interior was a strange cathedral of savagery and comfort. Thick Vendhyan carpets covered the floor, but the walls were adorned with macabre trophies: the skulls of leopards with empty sockets, the gaping jaw of a hyena, the spotted pelt of a panther spread like a tapestry. Each head, each pelt, told of a victory, of blood spilled that had filled Zarekh's coffers. Tonight, however, these glorious memories felt like so many silent reproaches.
He found Brannok at the back of the tent, lying on a wide mattress covered in precious furs. Three women, captured or bought in various kingdoms, were nestled against him, their beautiful bodies contrasting with his, marked by battle. His prominent muscles were a veritable parchment where one could read every fight, every claw, every fang, through a network of pale and more recent scars. He seemed peaceful, a sated lion amidst his harem.
But as Zarekh approached, Brannok opened his eyes. His pupils, as clear and piercingly grey as they were four years ago, immediately fixed on his master. He hadn't needed a sound. He had smelled his scent – a sour sweat mixed with anxiety and wine – and had known, instinctively, that the man was troubled.
"So, my friend," Brannok murmured in a voice husky with sleep, yet perfectly lucid. "What troubles you enough to visit me at this hour?"
The women, awakened, pressed closer to him, casting fearful glances at Zarekh.
Zarekh cleared his throat, unnerved by the boy's absolute calm. "The wager, Brannok. The one against my cousin. I... may have been reckless. His warrior, Barrock... he's a giant. A brute beast. I saw him. He strangled a bear."
Brannok didn't move. His gaze swept over the animal heads mounted on the walls, then returned to Zarekh. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn't a smile of reassurance, but something far more savage.
"Zarakhim showed you his trophy?" Brannok asked. "You, you have given me mine." He made a vague gesture encompassing the macabre collection. "But my collection is missing a piece, Zarekh. A head larger than the others."
There was a silence. Zarekh's fear mutated into a fascination mingled with dread. Brannok didn't see a monster to be feared. He saw a new skull to add to his gallery.
"You are not afraid?" Zarekh whispered, unable to hide his doubt.
Brannok sat up slowly, gently disentangling himself from the women's arms. The moonlight slid over the muscles of his torso and the deep gash the anaconda had left on his flank.
"I have smelled this man, Zarekh. Fear, sweat, poor food. It is not the scent of a predator. It is the scent of prey that has simply grown very large."
He stood, naked and imposing like a statue of a barbarian god.
"You worry for your money? Don't." Brannok walked to the tent's entrance, ignoring the cold, and looked out, as if he could see the future in the stars. "This giant... he will not be a defeat. He will be the finest trophy in my tent. His head will decorate this pillar, right there."
Zarekh watched him, seeing him no longer as his gladiator, but as a force of nature he had unleashed and no longer fully controlled. The fear for his wager faded, replaced by an icy certainty: Brannok was not cannon fodder. He was the blade. And a new head would indeed soon decorate his tent.