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 network of spies masquerading as everything from bakers to bankers, and subordinates who were disturbingly competent at bending rules, crossing borders was a piece 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 fence but infiltrating a fortress swaddled in ice and guarded by the kind of military that could make a tyrant whimper.

But Burn, with the audacity of a cat burglar with keys to the city, made his plans.

His entry strategy? A classic—hiding in plain sight. Under the guise of a humble merchant, Burn swapped his imposing armor for the nondescript garb of a trader dealing in exotic spices.

Spices, after all, were the one thing the frostbitten folks of Wintersin couldn't mine out of their frozen soil.

He had his caravan, loaded not just with the finest paprika and peppercorns, but also with cloaks, daggers, and some magic trinkets for good 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 inconspicuous gentlemen and women, had laid the groundwork well.

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

As Burn, the spice merchant, made his grand entrance, the guards were too distracted by their culinary dreams to see the wolf amidst the sheep.

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

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

Like searching for a particularly sneaky needle in an exceptionally large haystack—only the haystack is also frostbitten and suspiciously well-armed.

“Master is a believer,” Yvain said to him in the strategy meeting.

Not exactly a revelation that would knock anyone off their chair, considering a lot of Vision users were believers.

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

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

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

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"What? Are they fanatics?"

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

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

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

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

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

Dark, mysterious, and excessively covered, they made regular fanatics look positively laid-back by comparison.

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

Now, approaching this group was going to be a bit like a peacock strutting into a gathering of penguins—utterly and hopelessly out of place.

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

Sporting 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 suspicion would require a level of sartorial subtlety and religious camouflage that Burn hadn’t packed for this trip.

It was one thing to be a master of disguise, but blending in with this crowd might just be his toughest costume change yet.

So, Burn decided to sneak in at night.

Under the cloak of moonlight, he covertly made his way into the church—only to find that it bore no resemblance to any church he'd ever known.

"Where's the god's statue? Not even a symbol?" he muttered to himself, bewildered by the lack 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 Burn crept closer and peered into one of the chambers, he witnessed four individuals methodically draining the blood of a creature into a bucket placed on the floor.

Okay, done. This is a cult.

DRAP! DRAP!

Chatter! Yell, yell!

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

It seems that the local villagers had finally had enough and were coming to express their feelings in the traditional '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 single, thunderous cry, "Drive them out! Burn the darkness away!"

Leading this impromptu rally was a particularly vocal individual, who, armed with righteous fury and a megaphone voice, proclaimed 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 justice on the church's doorstep.

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

As the crowd neared, their shadows dancing wildly in the torchlight against the church's stark walls, it became clear that this wasn't just a confrontation—it was a scene straight out of a gothic novel, minus the subtlety.

Burn sighed.

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