For Burn, slipping into another kingdom unnoticed was less of a challenge and more of a leisure activity.

  Armed with his wits and magic, a work of spies masquerading as everything from bakers to bankers, and subordinates who were disturbingly petent at bending rules, crossing borders iece of cake—a very sneaky, covert-operations type of cake.

  Sneaking into the famous Wintersin Empire? Just another day at the office.

  This wasn't just slinking through some backwoods fe infiltrating a fortress swaddled in id guarded by the kind of military that could make a tyrant whimper.

  But Burn, with the audacity of a cat burgr with keys to the city, made his pns.

  His entry strategy? A cssic—hiding in pin sight. Uhe guise of a humble mert, Burn sed his imposing armor for the nondescript garb of a trader dealing iic spices.

  Spices, after all, were the ohing the frostbitten folks of Wintersin couldn't mi of their frozen soil.

  He had his caravan, loaded not just with the fi paprika and peppers, but also with cloaks, daggers, and some magic tris food measure.

  His caravan wove through the snowy passes, greeted by the icy winds that howled like the Wintersin military at a victory parade.

  His spies, a veritable league of extraordinarily inspicuous gentlemen and women, had id the groundwork well.

  They had spread rumors of a spice mert whose seasonings could make even boiled leather taste gourmet—a story so appealing that even the frost-hardened buards couldn't resist a peek.

  As Burn, the spice mert, made his grarahe guards were too distracted by their ary dreams to see the wolf amidst the sheep.

  Thanks to his well-pced bribes—a sprinkle of saffron here, a dash of amohe gates opened wider than the jaws of a yawning troll.

  But, searg for someone in the middle of someone else’s backyard was another kind of task.

  Like searg for a particurly sneaky needle in an exceptionally rge haystaly the haystack is also frostbitten and suspiciously well-armed.

  “Master is a believer,” Yvain said to him irategy meeting.

  ly a revetion that would knoyone off their chair, sidering a lot of Vision users were believers.

  They operated uhe belief that the same deity who crafted their souls didn't skimp on ead every of their potential—though he might have diversified their portfolios a bit.

  These Vision afiados weren’t just about soul-searg; they liked to give a nod to the big boss upstairs for handing out the soul starter kits.

  "The chur the outskirts of the Wintersin Empire is where Master's acquaintance lives,” Yvain said. “But they’re… a bit weird.”

  "What? Are they fanatics?"

  "No. They're certainly devout, but not zealously so."

  Burn strategically deployed his people across the empire, c all the bases just in case Man decided to pop up somewhere less predictable.

  Meanwhile, he took it upon himself to iigate the church Yvain had mentioned. Finding it wasn't easy, but the moment Burn passed by, he knew he'd hit the jackpot. Ahe gregation was... unique.

  dark robes from head to toe, with not a sliver of skin in sight—no eyes peeking out, nothing.

  These weren't yarden-variety churchgoers but rather folks who seemed to take the cept of 'Sunday best' to a whole new level of grim.

  Dark, mysterious, and excessively covered, they made regur fanatics look positively id-back by parison.

  Yes, they were more than just devout; they were devout with a passion for anonymity that could rival a society. It was as if they were trying to out-fanatic the fanatics, setting a andard for spiritual iy.

  Noroag this group was going to be a bit like a peacock strutting into a gathering of penguins—utterly and hopelessly out of pce.

  Burn, typically so fident in his covert operations, suddenly found himself on the aesthetic back foot.

  Sp his usual undercover attire, he'd stick out among the sea of meticulously covered-up devotees like a sore thumb—or more accurately, like a neon sign in a nunnery.

  Navigating this crowd without drawing immediate suspi would require a level of sartorial subtlety and religious camoufge that Burn hadn’t packed for this trip.

  It was ohing to be a master of disguise, but blending in with this ight just be his toughest e ge yet.

  So, Burn decided to sneak in at night.

  Uhe cloak of moonlight, he covertly made his way into the churly to find that it bore no resembo any church he'd ever known.

  "Where's the god's statue? Not even a symbol?" he muttered to himself, bewildered by the ck of traditional religious decor.

  As he ventured deeper, the faint sound of soft, eerie singing wafted from the inner chambers.

  It wasn’t the robust choir anthems you might expect but rather the sort of hushed, haunting melodies that could give you goosebumps on a warm night.

  As Bur closer and peered into one of the chambers, he witnessed four individuals methodically draining the blood of a creature into a bucket pced on the floor.

  Okay, dohis is a cult.

  DRAP! DRAP!

  Chatter! Yell, yell!

  Just as Burn was digesting the sight before him, the retive peace was shattered by a cacophony from outside—a cssic pitchfork-and-torch parade.

  It seems that the local vilgers had finally had enough and were ing to express their feelings iraditional 'mob justice' fashion.

  "Tonight, we take back our town from these cultists! No more whispers, no more fear!" one yelled, thrusting his pitchfork skyward.

  The crowd responded with a resounding roar, their voices melding into a sihunderous cry, "Drive them out! Burn the darkness away!"

  Leading this impromptu rally articurly vocal individual, who, armed with righteous fury and a megaphone voice, procimed their mission to drive out the "cultists."

  His voice cut through the night, his words igniting the air with a mix of fear and anger as palpable as the torches they waved.

  They marched like a storm, ready to rain down their homespun justi the church's doorstep.

  Burn, caught between the bloodletting he'd just witnessed and the angry vilge drama unfolding outside, found himself p the lesser of two evils.

  As the crowd heir shadows dang wildly iorchlight against the church's stark walls, it became clear that this wasn't just a frontation—it was a se straight out of a gothiovel, minus the subtlety.

  Burn sighed.

  “Why would Man Le Fay acquainted herself with these kinds of people?”