The journey to Dry Port does not end with the sight of walls, but with the sound and smell of water. Kilometers away, the air becomes more humid and heavy. The dust of the road is replaced by a complex aroma: the sweetness of the stagnant river water, the smell of dried fish sold in the stalls, the greasy smoke of thousands of campfires, and the sour, unmistakable stench of unwashed desperation. There is no city gate or guards demanding a toll. Dry Port is not a coastal fortress; it is a strategic tumor at the crossing of three great rivers. The road simply widens and joins a beaten-earth path, packed with barges and crisscrossed by countless carts, wheelbarrows, and travelers on foot. It is a river of humanity flowing to and from the city.
Lyra, with her eyes trained to observe the details of human life, was the first to notice the anomaly. On the outskirts of the city, there were children. Many children. Children with dirty faces and patched clothes, running and playing among the carts. There was no sadness in their eyes, but a wild, vibrant energy. Lyra noticed they were not begging. They did not hold out their hands asking for alms. They played. They ran races, chased each other, laughed with a joy that seemed out of place. It was a strange detail, a small piece of a puzzle that didn't fit, but she said nothing, simply filing it away in her mind.
For Esther, the change was more visceral. The sound was the first thing to overwhelm her. It was a chaotic symphony that never stopped: the rhythmic roar of the river shipyard hammers, the groan of pulleys hoisting goods from flat-bottomed boats, the murmur of a thousand voices, a mix of languages and dialects that blended into a constant buzz. But it was the people that truly hit her. The looks she received were different from those in the countryside. In the village, curiosity was moderated, often disguised. Here, it was open, raw, and shameless. Men looked her up and down, their eyes stripping her without hesitation, as if they were appraising the value of her flesh in a marketplace.
As they negotiated the passage of a merchant's cart, a man with a pockmarked face approached them. He completely ignored Lyra and addressed Esther directly, a smile missing several teeth on his face. "Hey, you, the one with the big tits," he said, his voice hoarse. "How much for an hour? I've got some coins you'd love." Esther froze. The insult hit her like a physical punch. For a moment, the world shrank to the man's smiling, disgusting face. She felt Lyra's hand squeezing her arm, anchoring her to reality. She couldn't respond. Anger mixed with a deep, paralyzing shame. She lowered her gaze, clenching her jaw, and continued walking, feeling the men's laughter behind her like lashes.
But he wasn't the only one. A group of dockers unloading sacks from a boat stopped to watch them pass. "Look at her, boys!" one of them shouted, wiping the sweat from his brow. "With that ass she could split a stone by pounding it." Another whistled at her, a high-pitched, offensive sound. "I bet she knows how to ride better than a horse, eh, girl?" Esther quickened her pace, her face burning, feeling every comment was a dirty hand brushing against her. A third, bolder one, approached her and said in a low but loud enough voice for his friends to hear, "With that fat ass your underwear shows through, girl." The humiliation was so intense she felt like disappearing, melting into the ground. The simple act of walking had become a forced exhibition, and every step she took, feeling the sway of her hips, was a reminder that she was prey.
Overwhelmed by the siege, they decided their first priority was to find shelter. They took out the map they had bought, a wrinkled and stained parchment. In a corner, with red ink that was starting to fade, there was a small cross drawn by the map seller in Three Mills. "Here," he had said, "you will find the only decent people in that city of rats. The Sanctuary of the Mother Goddess." The cross guided them through the wider, busier streets, a small compass of hope in the midst of chaos. Following the map, the dirt path became a street of slippery, dark cobblestones damp with moisture. The houses were no longer wood and thatch, but dark stone and brick, huddled against each other, as if they were afraid of the river. The streets became narrow, dark labyrinths, where sunlight barely reached. The air became denser, heavier, laden with the smells of street food, cheap beer, and garbage accumulated in the alleys.
They arrived at the great central square, and there they saw the "port." It wasn't the sea. It was a labyrinth of wooden and stone docks extending over the murky, rushing waters of the three rivers. Flat-bottomed boats, with thick canvas sails and long oars, were moored in rows, loading and unloading goods under the shouts of foremen and the groans of pulleys. It was a factory of incessant movement and noise. They stopped at the edge of the square, watching the chaos. Looking at each other, they felt the change. They were no longer two travelers on a road. They were two tiny drops that had just been absorbed by a muddy, voracious river. There was no one to welcome them. There was no welcome. There was only the silent recognition that, from this moment on, they were alone. Dry Port was not a place you arrived at; it was a place that swallowed you. And now, they were a part of it. The weight of the city was felt on their shoulders, a physical presence that stole their breath.
The streets narrowed, becoming labyrinths of slippery cobblestones between huddled stone buildings that blocked out most of the sun. Lyra went ahead, map in hand, determined. Esther followed her, one hand on Shadow's reins and the other near the hilt of her sword, still tense from the harassment. They arrived at a darker, quieter alley that smelled of cheap incense and dampness. The Sanctuary was not a prominent temple. It was the ground floor of an old salt warehouse, with no bell tower or stained glass. The facade was of dark, stained brick, with a single, heavy, solid oak door. The only sign was a simple wrought iron plaque: "Sanctuary of the Mother Goddess." Lyra knocked on a heavy bronze doorknocker shaped like a hand. The door creaked open. It wasn't a priest who opened it, but an elderly couple with grateful faces who were leaving with a small sack of grain. From inside, Father Valentín saw them. He smiled, a warm but shrewd smile, and his eyes quickly assessed them. "Sisters! Welcome! The Goddess has guided you safely through the storm of this city," he said, his voice persuasive and calm. "Come in, come in. The wicked outside world must not stain this place of peace."
Crossing the threshold was like entering an oasis of order and silence. The street noise almost disappeared. The space was a large, high-ceilinged warehouse. There were no pews, but rows of heavy burlap sacks filled with grain that served as seats. The walls had no religious frescoes, but sturdy, well-organized shelves full of supplies: blankets, medicines in jars, barrels of drinking water. The air smelled of incense, clean grain, and dried herbs. In the center, on a simple wooden table, sat a silver chalice and a large, well-sealed iron donation box. Father Valentín listened attentively as they explained their situation, his nodding seeming genuine. His gaze shifted to Esther, and his smile became more calculating. "A 'Chosen One'... The Goddess has been generous. With such a status, you could be of great help to this city. Wealthy merchants often have problems with... pests. Creatures from the rivers, beasts from the sewers. I could act as an intermediary. For every monster you eliminate, a portion of the payment would go to the Church."
Esther felt trapped. The shame burned inside her. She lowered her gaze, unable to hold his. "Father... I... I don't have the combat skills you think I do," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "I came to Dry Port to find a master, to train very hard to improve." She looked up, with forced determination. "That's why I don't want to make it public yet. But soon... when I'm ready, I can be the heroine the people need." Father Valentín looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded slowly. "I understand. Humility is a virtue, and prudence, a gift from the Goddess. Very well. Your hospitality here will not cost a single coin. It is the least I can do for a future defender of our faith." "As for your rest," continued the Father, "the beds we have are few. All sorts of people who need a roof sleep here. Fortunately, a pious family donated an annex house, right next door."
Lyra, seeing the worry on Esther's face, was quick to say: "We can share a bed. That way we won't take a place from anyone who might need it more." Father Valentín smiled at Lyra. "Your charity is an example to us all, sister. I thank you for it. Come, I'll show you the dormitory." He led them through a small courtyard to a two-story house. The dormitory was a large room on the second floor. The place was full. There were a dozen wooden cots arranged in rows, and almost all were occupied. Most were men—sailors, laborers, and other destitute people who were either sleeping deeply or whispering amongst themselves. Esther was uneasy about the idea of sleeping surrounded by so many strange men, her body tensing. Lyra placed a reassuring hand on her arm. They were pointed to an empty cot in a corner. It was narrow, but it was clean. They lay down together, sharing the thin blanket. Esther was alert, listening to every sound, every snore, every movement in the darkness. But nothing happened. The men were too tired to pay them any mind. The exhaustion of the journey finally overcame her, and she fell asleep, not in peace, but at least safe, with the warmth of Lyra beside her like a shield against the world.