Fenrir strolled casually through the village market, inspecting various wares with an air of quiet authority. Behind him, Young Viscount Horas followed discreetly, his face partially obscured by a hastily donned cloak.
Fenrir, of course, was well aware of his shadow. He had anticipated this and planned to use it to his advantage. As he moved from stall to stall, he made sure to engage in loud conversations with merchants, discussing the importance of each item in grandiose detail.
"This silk must be of the finest quality," he told one vendor, holding up a shimmering roll of fabric. "The god accepts nothing less than perfection for the ceremonial altar."
The merchant, catching on to Fenrir's act, nodded enthusiastically. "Of course, sir! This silk is woven with threads blessed by the priestesses of the southern isles. A bargain at this price!"
Fenrir paid an exorbitant sum without haggling, making a deliberate show of handing over gold coins.
