The party was in full swing.

We could see Laetita and Habib in a breathtaking dance.

The sound of their footsteps carried everyone along like the currents of the sea.

Two shining stars in the brilliant night.

And whose solar foam illuminated the companions; orange is the hue.

Softly and slowly,

The madness dissipates;

Like a fog of ashes.

But the joy had not gone.

Down here in the night,

It was with a smile that all the others;

Soldiers and friends,

Close their eyes, they are ours.

The match went out.

He had also fallen asleep in the silence and indifference of his family.

And the night flows like water over the ravine,

Until early morning.

. . .

Artanne's huge troop will arrive within 2 hours,

Habib tells his comrades.

While they get up and prepare drinks and butter,

Laetitia and the leader went to the tent of their elderly and sick brother.

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He was up and analysing the next battle with a plan.

‘So! Today's the day, Ruh; take Archal!

We're going to send a strong message to Tarshkila!

- Well done Habib, yeah! We'll show them,’ says Laetitia.

- The Archal city is protected by two outposts.

A breakthrough will be necessary, and quickly, as they haven't had time to prepare.

We've got our cannons, while they won't have anything to fire back at us.

against these explosive machines.

So we're going to bomb their infrastructure.

For a breakthrough mission, Artanne is the purest.

His capture of Nome in 1 hour is proof of that.

- Are you talking about when he defeated the governor in less than 10 minutes? said the other brother.

- Yes, he's an exceptional and fearless fighter.’

Ruh starts coughing without stopping.

His arms move in all directions, as if gasping for air.

Droplets of blood fall to the floor.

His eyes express bitter pain,

Like a forced dive into acid.

You feel your body tingling and melting in a horrible way,

And you end up in a bed for worms.

Habib lays Ruh on his bed.

He is tired and catches his breath as he looks at his brother.

Gently, a hand lifts the veil of the frail tent.

A man with an attractive body, curly black hair and pale orange eyes.

He had a scar on his soft lips, as silky as sugar.

And a long black toga with a turban around the nape of his neck,

He wipes his dirty shoulders,

From the sand.

‘Yo my beloved deers is it me we're talking about?

- Yes, Artanne.

- Well my little crustys crispys crisps...

- He's doing it again,’ murmurs Laetitia.

- I've got all the stuff to mix them up!

- That's the spirit, let's get moving!

- Let's get on with it, artists!

. . . . .

It was a real workers' army.

More than a thousand volunteer soldiers,

stood on the outskirts of Zone 1.

With more than fifty cannons,

They marched into the canyon.

Blessed are they, provided they don't fall into the traps of the dunes...