The environment around Dinis was anything but welcoming. As he advanced through the forest, whispers and distant screams mingled with the muffled sound of his footsteps. He knew those voices were just echoes of lost souls, people like the soldier he had just left behind—souls condemned to wander in circles, eternally repeating their own torments. Dinis moved with calm and determination, aware that he couldn't save everyone who crossed his path. He was neither a hero nor a spiritual guide. His mission called him beyond the laments echoing in the forest.
After a few days of solitary walking, he was advancing with firm steps when suddenly he felt something strange underfoot. In the midst of that infertile soil soaked with moisture and decay, there was something soft—a contrast to the fetid and rough sensation of the ground. He bent down to see what it was and found, partially buried in the mud, a severed arm. By its size, it seemed to belong to a child.
Dinis averted his gaze for a moment, but the horror of that sight brought back a memory from three years ago during his training with Everard, his mentor and traveling companion. He vividly remembered the day when the two rode to the village of Dordot, a place whose image still remained alive in his mind.
Dordot was a village forgotten by time, situated on the fringes of human territories where the light of the great cities did not reach and where laws seemed mere rumors. The village was poor, almost miserable, and its population barely survived with the little they had. The houses were improvised constructions made of rotten wood and mud, with roofs that seemed about to collapse. The air always carried a smell of smoke and rot, as if the entire place was slowly decomposing.
However, the most unsettling thing about Dordot was its reputation. It was known as a refuge for those whom society preferred to forget: the missing, criminals, and souls that had already lost their way. It was a place where norms had no value, and where strength and reputation were the only currencies that mattered. People survived on scraps, and even among the residents themselves, an atmosphere of distrust and hostility reigned.
Dinis and Everard arrived in Dordot in silence, both mounted on horses with hoods covering their faces. As they entered the village, Dinis noticed the shadowy figures lurking in the alleys and narrow streets, distrustful and vigilant eyes watching every step. He knew they were being evaluated and that any sign of weakness could be interpreted as an invitation to confrontation. But Dinis was calm; his training and abilities gave him a confidence that went beyond the threats that village presented.
Everard rode beside him, observing the environment with an experienced and firm gaze. He didn't seem disturbed by the looks or the hostile environment. His mentor was accustomed to places like that and, as always, seemed secure and relentless. Dinis knew that for Everard, places like Dordot were simply part of a Sentinel's territory. He was there to teach his disciple that no matter how grim the situation, a Sentinel must not deviate from his mission.
As they crossed the central square, Dinis noticed the few improvised stalls selling provisions and second-hand items. People avoided making eye contact and kept their transactions quick, fearing to draw attention. Some dirty and poorly dressed children watched them from afar, their gazes mixing curiosity and fear. On the edges of the square, men and women gathered, empty eyes and faces hardened by a difficult life.
Dinis noticed that as they advanced, lookouts followed them silently, hidden in the shadows of the alleys. They watched them attentively, alert to any sign of vulnerability. Every dark corner, every furtive glance was a reminder that they were in hostile territory. But Dinis maintained a calm and resolute posture, ignoring the shadowy figures around him, aware that showing fear there would be like signing his own death sentence.
Although they went through bars and dwellings in search of information about a creature that lurked in that region, Dinis could still feel that a single presence followed him incessantly everywhere. No matter how far from the village or how hidden the place was, he sensed someone walking in his shadow, in a rough and clumsy manner, as if the pursuer didn't care about being discreet.