The cart creaked under the weight of destiny, swaying from side to side as it crossed the dry southern lands. The sun fell like a curse from the sky—merciless—and the heat seemed intent on melting flesh, metal, and will. João hit his head against the cloth that covered the cart, but not even the physical discomfort could quiet the unrest building in his chest.
He was young—only seventeen winters lived—but on his shoulders rested the weight of an ancient ideal. He wore a simple white jerkin, but by his side lay something far from simple: his sword. A stern blade, 78 centimeters of pure steel, adorned only by the forged cross on its hilt. It was more than a weapon; it was a silent vow. Its pigskin scabbard protected it like a reliquary guards a sacred bone.
His white wooden shield, marked with the red cross of the just, was with the others—war relics transported in another cart, alongside the armor. There were twenty carts in total, moving slowly beneath the solar curse, drawn by firm-hoofed oxen toward Irmy—a city considered corrupted, where the Church's eyes had detected pagan rituals, dark sacrifices… and whispers of something even worse.
João tried to keep a serene expression, as if faith alone were enough armor against fear. But inside, he felt like a crumbling castle. This was his first real mission alongside the Templars, and his hands sweated as much as his spirit cried out for courage.
He had joined the Order as a child, only eight years old. Between steel, prayer, and discipline, he had been shaped. But fighting in the Order's courtyards was different from riding toward war. Now, the blood would be real, and souls would be claimed.
Most there were like him—recruits freshly emerged from the cloister, sent because the mission was believed to be low-risk. But João knew the truth: even small shadows can hide greater horrors. And some of them would not return.
Sixty men marched beneath the banner of the cross. Only five were veteran knights, mounted on steeds and wearing the scars of time. They were the guides of faith, the pillars of that small army. The rest were young—like João—driven by faith, discipline… and fear.
In the cart, João shared space with four brothers:
Gabriel, with ever-alert eyes and fingers that never stopped moving, as if playing a melody only he could hear.
Mateus, tall as a tower, with arms like they were carved from oak.
Pedro, skinny with curly hair, always gazing at the crucifix on his chest, as if drawing invisible strength from it.
And finally, Miguel, the coachman. He had eyes as blue as polished steel, and his straw hat gave him an almost irreverent air—but no one doubted the fire of faith that burned in his chest.
"If the pagans don't kill me, this heat surely will," grumbled Pedro.
"You've said that seven times already," replied Miguel, without turning.
"Seven, at least," said Gabriel with a half-smile.
"Don't give us false hope of such mercy," joked Mateus, tossing him the canteen. "But go easy on the water. We've got a whole hell ahead of us."
Pedro caught the canteen with trained reflexes, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and drank as if sipping life itself.
João watched them in silence. Their jokes were a fragile shield against the terror growing like weeds in their hearts. He knew—from the dark circles under their eyes and their averted gazes—that no one had slept well. Pedro, in fact, had spent the night in prayer, as if his spirit already sensed what was coming.
"Why so quiet?" asked Mateus.
"Didn't sleep well," João replied.
"I slept like an angel," Pedro lied, trying to sound carefree.
"An angel with asthma," Miguel retorted. "It sounded like a marketplace around your bed."
"Shut up," Pedro muttered, blushing.
"You sounded like a priest preaching," João added. "Maybe your calling is the pulpit, not the sword."
"Very funny…" grumbled Pedro, making a not-so-devout gesture.
Everyone laughed, and he ended up laughing too. But the laughter soon died.
"Seriously now…" João said. "What do you all think of this?"
Their eyes met, hesitant, waiting for someone to speak first. At last, Gabriel sighed:
"They're pagans. We must eradicate the error and restore order. That's what we're called to do."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Miguel muttered.
"We'd be lost without your divine wisdom," Pedro added sarcastically.
"The problem goes deeper," João continued. "These cults are spreading like a plague."
"They're not just cults," Gabriel said. "There are things being worshipped that don't belong to this world. Things that walk at night, things that corrupt the soul."
"We live in dark times," João concluded, and no one disagreed.
The stories were multiplying: demons walking the earth, women flying with wings made of bone, shadows devouring the light. And whether they were just stories or fragments of truth, no one knew for sure.
"Leave those nightmares for the veterans," said Miguel, trying to lighten the mood. "They're not our burden yet."
"Yes," João agreed. "For now, our enemies still bleed like we do."
But even those certainties felt fragile when the sound of hooves approached. Everyone stiffened, straightening like soldiers who know they're being watched. A brown horse appeared beside the cart, ridden by a man who looked carved from war itself. He wore the full armor of the Order, sword at his waist, shield on his back. Only his helmet was missing—and even without it, the respect he commanded was absolute.
"Templars!" the knight roared, his voice like thunder.
"Sir!" they all replied in unison, even Miguel.
Bruno was his name. The leader of the convoy. The oldest among them, the most experienced, the most feared.
"The scout has returned. We are near Irmy," he announced, then rode off without waiting for a reply.
João's stomach twisted as if pierced. His hands began to sweat again. His companions' eyes—even the most playful—lost their spark.
"As soon as we see the walls, we'll set up camp and begin the tactical meeting," Bruno added, before moving on to the cart ahead.
"Yes, sir!" the young men echoed, though their voices trembled.
As he moved away, silence returned. But now it was heavy, like the omen of a coming storm. João laid a hand on his sword. It was an involuntary gesture—or perhaps an ancestral one.
His first real battle was near. And with it, the fate so many sought… and so many feared.
They rode on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, as the road carried them to the pagan city.
To judgment.
To blood.