The week passed in a blur of snow, spreadsheets, and rot.
By the time we rolled into Winterhold, the capital of the North, we looked like a nightmare parade. The zombies were falling apart—literally. Arms were snapping off, legs were giving out. The magic was fading.
But the wagons were full.
The gates of the city opened. They expected a Church delegation. Instead, they got a exhausted Duke, a terrified secretary, and a line of unmanned wagons that had been pushed the last mile by collapsing corpses that I dismissed into piles of dust just before we entered the city limits.
The people didn't care about the logistics. They saw the food.
Cheering erupted. It was deafening. Starving peasants wept in the streets. They threw icy flowers at our feet.
I stood on the lead wagon, waving. My smile was perfect. My disguise held.
[Mission Complete: The Northern Famine.]
[Reward: +5000 Influence. +10% Church Enmity.]
"We did it," Sylvia said, slumping against the seat of the wagon. "I can't believe we did it."
"Enjoy the applause, Sylvia," I said quietly, scanning the crowd. "But keep your eyes open."
Because I knew Malakor. He wouldn't be happy that I succeeded. He wanted a heresy trial, not a parade.
And sure enough, as we rolled toward the town square, my HUD pinged with a new message. It wasn't from the System. It was a magical courier message, encrypted.
It was from Empress Isabella.
[To: The Miracle Worker.]
[From: Her Majesty.]
[Subject: Reward.]
My dear Duke. The Church is furious. It’s delightful. Come to the Palace immediately upon your return. I want to hear exactly how you cheated. And wear the velvet coat. I missed you.
I stared at the message.
The Empress. The Wildcard.
I had survived the cold. I had survived the Angel. Now I had to survive a private meeting with the woman who ran the empire—and who had a reputation for eating men alive, metaphorically speaking.
I rubbed my temple.
"Sylvia," I said. "Turn the wagon around. We're heading back to the capital."
"Now?" she asked. "Sir, you haven't slept in six days. Your mana is critically low."
"No rest for the wicked," I said, my eyes flashing with a ripple of blue slime. "The shareholders are waiting."
[Next Objective: The Royal Bedchamber.]
[Threat Level: Extreme.]
I sighed. At least the zombies were quiet. Humans were so much more maintenance.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.