Deep within a small stone church situated on the outskirts of Dublin... Inside this humble sanctuary, dozens of weary Irish monks and local villagers knelt on the hard wooden benches, their heads bowed in silent prayer.
At the front of the altar, the parish priest was completely lost in his sermon.
The peaceful atmosphere of the Irish church meant nothing to the man standing half-hidden in the shadows at the back of the room. Leaning against a stone pillar near the doors, he completely ignored the Latin prayers.
To any observer, he seemed like just another tired traveler wrapped in a cloak. But beneath the hood lay a young Scandinavian rogue with sharp eyes, a messy mop of wind-swept blond hair, and a lithe, athletic build.
This stranger... whose name was Hakon, possessed a charming smile that easily concealed his complete lack of morals, and fingers that were far faster than the blink of an eye.
