The desert. An expanse of silence and heat, scoured by a wind that seemed intent on polishing the bones of the unwary. Brannok traveled for three days, his muscular body quickly regaining its vigor. The cracked rib was a distant memory, the bruises had vanished. He could once again climb steep rocks, leap across crevasses, and run across the burning sand with an endurance that belonged to him alone.
On the third day, as the sun began to lower, he saw a city etched against the horizon. Walls of ochre stone, towers, the promise of life beyond the sand.
Arriving at the gates, two guards in light armor barred his path. The taller one, suspicious, challenged him.
"Halt!Who are you, and what is your business here?"
Brannok stopped, his grey eyes sweeping over the men without hostility. "I am just a traveler. I have crossed the desert for three days. I need a place to eat, drink, and resume my journey."
The guard stared at him, incredulous. "What? You crossed this desert for three days? Alone?"
"Yes," Brannok replied simply. "Why?"
The guard looked more closely. He saw the broad frame, the prominent muscles under the leather jacket, the necklace of fangs, and the massive sword on his back. He saw the desert dust ground into his boots and the quiet assurance in his eyes. He understood this man was not ordinary. Only certain people could do incredible things.
"Fine, never mind," the guard grunted, nodding. "Two bronze pieces. Then enter. And do nothing illegal."
Brannok took two bronze coins from an inner pocket of his jacket and handed them over. He passed through the gate.
The city was large, noisy, and alive. The shouts of merchants, the smells of spices, roasting meat, and crowds... It was the kind of city he knew well, having fought in similar arenas. But this time, it was different. Before, he was always accompanied, watched, managed by Zarekh's guards. Now, he was free. Free to go wherever he wanted.
He blended into the crowd, his senses alert. And that's how he sensed the movement long before he saw it. A furtive hand slipping towards the pocket where he kept his money.
With a movement swift as lightning, he caught the thief's wrist. It was a young boy, with dirty clothes and eyes too large for his thin face.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" Brannok said, without raising his voice. "A little cutpurse."
The boy struggled with desperate energy. "Let me go! You're hurting me!"
Brannok watched the "maggot" squirm, and a distant memory returned. Shadizar. Him, as a kid, picking the pockets of rich merchants so his mother wouldn't have to go to the brothel as often. The circle was complete.
Suddenly, the boy yelled: "Papa! Papa! There's a man bothering me!"
A large man with a thuggish face emerged from the crowd. "You! Let go of my son!" He approached Brannok, threatening.
It was his mistake.
Before the man could even raise a hand, Brannok had acted. His movement was so fast it was barely perceptible. A magnificent slap, delivered with controlled power, landed on the man's jaw. The "father" crumpled like a sack, knocked out cold.
Brannok turned back to the young thief, still held by the wrist. "Sorry, what were you saying, huh?"
The boy, petrified, didn't answer.
"Nothing? Well, that's that. But know that if you keep struggling, I'll do what they do to thieves in Shadizar."
The boy froze completely. He didn't move, didn't speak, his eyes fixed on his accomplice's body.
Brannok released him. "Listen. If you want money, find me an inn nearby, and I'll give you a bronze piece."
The boy, regaining a bit of fight, narrowed his eyes. "Two."
Brannok looked at him, an eyebrow raised, a hint of amusement in his grey eyes. "Seriously? You tried to rob me, and you're negotiating?"
The boy shrugged. "Always negotiate."
A small smile touched Brannok's lips. "Very well. Two pieces."
The deal was struck. The young thief, whose name turned out to be Kael, guided Brannok through the stinking alleys to a modest inn, its wooden sign depicting an old cooking pot: "The Bronze Pot."
It was a start. For the first time, Brannok was choosing his own path. And he was starting, as often happened, in a tavern.