The sun dipped behind the hills, painting the sky with blood and gold, as João walked with steady steps through the newly raised camp. In his hands, he carried a cloth as white as washed bones, taken from the cart that had brought him here under the torment of the noonday sun.
Bruno, the veteran of a thousand scars and reckless decisions, had backed away from the idea of setting camp near the city. João didn't know the exact reason, but he wagered that the scout's report had stirred dark omens in the commander's heart. Either way, the men were now far from the walls, under the watchful eyes of the stars, racing against time to raise their tents before the darkness swallowed the world.
In the distance, soldiers Pedro and Mateus emerged from the woods, arms full of dry branches. They had been chosen to light the central flame—the sacred core of the formation, a symbol of vigilance and communion.
João wasted no time. He drove two stakes into the ground and, with skilled hands and a focused mind, built a simple structure. He threw the white cloth over it, creating his temporary shelter beneath the indifferent skies. It wouldn't be a palace, but it would suffice to protect him from the cold and the night's pests.
"Not bad, tent architect," said a familiar voice behind him.
João turned and found Rafael, the young warrior-cleric whose spirit dared to smile in the face of the cross, and whose words carried the duality of light and flesh.
At twenty-one, Rafael seemed older than he was—not from wrinkles, but from the weight in his eyes. He wore the black cassock that set him apart, marked by a silver crucifix that swung on his chest like a pendulum between heaven and earth. His leather shoes spoke of long journeys, and his presence always carried a subtle scent of wine and mystery.
"Planning to sleep in it?" João asked, pointing to the tent.
"A noble offer, but…" said Rafael with a crooked smile, "I'll sleep in one of the carts."
"What?" João replied, surprised. "That's captain privilege!"
"And apparently, also for priests who care for the souls of sixty soldiers," Rafael answered, raising his eyebrows.
"This is an offense to divine justice…" João muttered, pretending to be indignant.
"If you hit me again, I'll excommunicate you," Rafael said, after taking a light punch on the shoulder. But he laughed, like a man who had already made peace with all his sins.
Rafael was no ordinary priest. He was a spark of irreverence amid iron and discipline. A poet who knew the Scriptures but also the desires of wine and flesh. A restless-souled warrior who seemed to laugh at the very cross he bore.
"Before the meeting starts, how about we visit my… 'sacred stash'?" he suggested, eyes glinting with conspiracy.
João smiled. The so-called "stash" was the worst-kept secret of the convoy: a wine hideout that Rafael guarded like a holy relic.
"As long as I get a goblet of that blessing."
"Behave yourself, templar," Rafael said theatrically. "You're not allowed to drink."
"But you do!"
"I'm a licensed sinner."
"You're a priest!"
"A title… not a sentence," he replied, spreading his arms like a mocking prophet.
They walked side by side between rows of tents. The camp had come alive. Fires burned in strategic spots like watchful eyes. Iron pots released fatty, comforting steam. The air was filled with the scent of cooked meat and burning wood.
"Feel that?" João murmured. "The air feels… heavy."
"The air or your carnal thoughts?" Rafael replied with a mischievous grin.
João widened his eyes. "What—?"
"Just kidding, brother! But hey… it's good to know you've got more than prayer and sword in your blood."
"You're hopeless," João muttered, blushing.
"And you're a good soldier, you just need to learn to laugh before death comes to collect its dues."
They reached the cart area—mobile fortresses of wood and iron. The second to last held shields and simple helmets, forged in the heat of haste. The last, a promise of destruction: a dismantled catapult, created by the Order for purposes no one dared to question.
There stood Vicente, guardian of the sacred arsenal. His head was shaved like a monastery penitent, his beard streaked with snow and coal. One of the oldest in the convoy, Vicente radiated authority without needing to speak. He didn't just care for the weapons—he understood them, like a master understands his disciples.
"Good afternoon, Vicente," Rafael said, with a mix of reverence and irony.
"Father," Vicente replied in a deep voice, casting a measuring look at João. "Good afternoon, lad."
"Sir," João replied, instinctively standing firm.
"Is your sword sharp?"
"Always."
Vicente nodded, eyes like blades. Then he glanced sideways at Rafael.
"And you? You didn't come for steel, did you?"
"I came seeking enlightenment," Rafael said with a wink. "And maybe a sip of wine."
Vicente raised the empty flask and tossed it to Rafael, who caught it midair like a miracle. But as he shook it, he realized it was as dry as the biblical deserts.
"It's been a long day," Vicente muttered.
João stifled a laugh while Rafael stared at the flask like he'd been betrayed by an angel.
João then approached the cart and admired the arsenal. Helmets, arm guards, greaves, shields of all sizes… instruments of the war that approached like an inevitable shadow.
"Do these armors resist arrows?" he asked curiously.
Vicente crossed his arms. "If they hit directly on the steel plate, yes. But from above, or from a well-tuned crossbow, they can pierce. Most deaths don't come from cuts, but from impact. A crushed plate is as fatal as a blade to the heart."
João listened in silence, as if Vicente were reciting the laws of the world.
"And spears?"
"They'll knock you down. And if you're wearing armor, getting up is almost impossible. Battle doesn't wait for those who fall."
"That's why, my friends…" Rafael interrupted, raising the empty flask, "it's always good to have a reason to toast. Life is short, and wars are long."
Before any more words could be said, Bruno's voice echoed through the camp like thunder:
"EVERYONE TO THE CENTRAL FIRE!"
It was time for the meeting. Time to hear the Order's call.
Vicente left in silence. João followed. Rafael stood still, shaking the empty flask with pleading eyes.No miracle came.