The commotion of the arena had faded, replaced by the relative calm of the circus infirmary. Zarekh pushed aside the heavy canvas of the tent and found Brannok sitting on a stool, shirtless. A healer was finishing bandaging his torso, pulling the wrap tight to immobilize the cracked rib. The young man's skin was a map of purplish bruises and superficial cuts, but considering the blows he had taken, it was miraculously light.
"Brannok! So, my boy, how are you?" Zarekh asked, approaching, his expert gaze assessing the damage.
Brannok turned his head towards him, his face impassive. "I'll live. I've had worse with more restraint."
Zarekh burst out laughing, a rich, satisfied sound. "Ahah! Well said, well said! I won a fortune with that fight, a real one! Even though that scoundrel Zarakhim cheated, you handled it well."
"Cheated how?" asked Brannok, feigning ignorance. He had heard Zarakhim's desperate call perfectly but had chosen to ignore it, like one ignores the wind.
"From what I could see, he was brandishing a strange skull the moment you killed his gladiator. He let out a terrible scream and then collapsed. It was funny to see! Hahaha!" Zarekh laughed again, shaking with the memory.
"Glad it amused you," Brannok replied, his gaze detaching from Zarekh to lose itself beyond the tent, towards the desert horizon. "But now, let's talk about the future."
"Yes, yes, the future! I will first..." Zarekh stopped. He followed Brannok's gaze, a gaze that no longer settled for the arena's dust or the walls of a tent. He saw vastness, a thirst for the distant. And he understood. The cub he had taken in from Shadizar had become a young lion, and that lion wanted his freedom. A deep sadness gripped his chest, mingled with a form of respect. He knew he couldn't hold back such a force.
"But so it is," Zarekh murmured, more to himself. "The time has come to say goodbye."
Brannok stood up, adjusting his bandage. "Before I leave, I want you to give everything I'm owed to my mother, in Shadizar. Everything."
Zarekh looked him straight in his grey eyes. He placed a hand on his heart, a rare gesture of sincerity. "I swear it on my honor. She will never want for anything again."
Before Brannok could leave, Zarekh signaled to a servant. The man brought over new gear: a heavy jacket of soft leather, sturdy and comfortable trousers, boots reinforced at the key points, and a magnificent Cimmerian two-handed sword, broad and deadly. Finally, he handed him a strange necklace, fashioned from the fangs and canines of all the beasts Brannok had slain, a macabre and powerful memento of his reign as the Bestiarus.
Brannok put on the clothes, strapped the sword to his back, and slipped the necklace over his head. The teeth clicked softly against his chest.
Then, without another word, without a backward glance, he pushed aside the infirmary flap and walked out. He crossed the slumbering encampment, leaving behind the laughter, the shouts, the smell of blood and sand.
Zarekh watched him go, the young man's figure growing sharper against the first light of dawn. It wasn't a sad farewell, but a goodbye laden with respect. The Bestiarus had died in the arena with Barrock. Brannok, however, had just been reborn. And a new, greater, wilder adventure was beginning.