The chill of the stone floor seeped through the thin soles of Linus’s slippers as he paced. Each circuit of the small chamber felt less about movement and more about containing the restless energy thrumming beneath his skin. The healers had insisted on complete rest, but stillness felt like surrender, and surrender was a luxury he hadn’t afforded himself in years. He rubbed at his temples, a futile attempt to quell the dull ache that lingered from the attack.

  “What’s the latest on Azura and Aria?” Linus asked, his voice hoarse from not having had water for some time.

  Marcus’s response was a mere inclination of his head. “Nothing definitive on either, Master Linus.”

  Linus stopped pacing, his gaze fixed on the intricate carvings above the fireplace. “Aria?”

  “I have men watching the drama studio and following her known associates. It’s a tangled web, but not yet revealing.” Marcus paused, his voice devoid of inflection. “Azura… I’m unsure where to begin.”

  A flicker of irritation twisted Linus’s face, barely contained. Azura—the cursed entity that languished in captivity, now threatening to unleash its horrors upon the world. What it had done to Isabel haunted his thoughts, a grim testament to its terrifying power. Too dangerous, and their understanding was woefully insufficient.

  “Focus on any deaths that occur starting now. I need to know.” His tone was final, leaving no room for debate.

  “As you command.”

  “And Isabel?”

  Marcus turned from the window slowly as if the words weighed him down. “She hasn’t stirred,” he said, voice low. “Still in the cell. The wards… we doubled them. Just to be on the safer side”

  Linus exhaled slowly. Isabel. A dangerous variable, even in her current state. “Good. Careful with her, Marcus. She is—or was—an unchanneled light mage.” He needs her to understand what Azura has done to her, why she is with Aria, and who they are really working for.

  Marcus nodded, his expression unchanging. “I understand, Master Linus. The wards are reinforced. No one approaches without your explicit permission.”

  Linus resumed his pacing, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on him. He stopped abruptly, turning to Marcus. “I need to visit the body of Commander Alfred. And the torture chamber.”

  Marcus’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. “The healers advised against leaving your chambers, Master Linus. Even a short excursion could compromise your recovery.”

  “My recovery is of little consequence if we remain blind,” Linus countered, his voice sharpening. “I need to see it. The body, the chamber… everything.”

  He didn’t articulate the reason, but behind his eyes, the scene replayed: Marcus’s face contorting, skin rippling like a disturbed pond before solidifying into someone—something—else.

  Too smooth. Too theatrical. It hadn’t just mimicked Marcus. It had worn him, like a well-practiced mask.. Another deception, undoubtedly. Was the face he saw really its original face?

  The memory made his skin crawl. The transformation had happened in silence—no screams, blood, or even the faintest shimmer of magic. Just a smooth ripple, like watching wax melt into shape.

  Linus’s stomach turned. Not transformation. Performance. And every detail was curated for his benefit. He was meant to see it. Meant to doubt.

  He rubbed his jaw, recalling the attack. The chilling efficiency of it. “And I need to understand why my own abilities failed me.”

  The thought gnawed at him. The moment it struck, Linus felt the shadows recoil, not in fear, but in absence. They simply weren’t there. No whispers, no pull—nothing.

  He remembered the cold bite of the blade, how it drank the magic from the air, from him, leaving him raw and defenseless. It hadn’t just cut his skin. It had cut through his essence.

  His breath caught as the memory surged. That weapon hadn’t been forged for battle. A weapon designed explicitly for that purpose.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “You felt…resistance, Master Linus?” Marcus asked, his voice carefully neutral.

  “Not resistance, precisely. Absence. As if the very pathways were blocked, the shadows…silent.” He closed his eyes, replaying the fight in his mind. But the shapeshifter offered nothing. No tell, no pattern, no discernible weakness. Just…precision. “The attack wasn’t chaotic. It was surgical. They knew where to strike and how to move. It wasn’t a random attempt.”

  He began pacing again, faster now, the rhythm mirroring the frantic churn of his thoughts. “They knew my defenses. They knew how to bypass them.” He stopped, a realization dawning, cold and unwelcome. “Your dress”

  Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “The one I wore during the fight?”

  “Precisely.” Linus’s voice was barely a whisper. “How did they acquire it? It wasn't simply found. They needed to observe, to study…to understand. They had to have infiltrated this house, or the camp, long before the attack.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his grip.

  “A significant breach of security,” Marcus stated, the understatement doing little to soothe Linus’s rising anxiety.

  “Significant?” Linus scoffed. “It’s catastrophic. Did they bribe someone? A servant, a guard? Or…did they eliminate a staff member and assume their identity?” The thought was chilling—a slow, insidious corruption spreading from within.

  He fixed Marcus with a piercing gaze. “Someone within my circle aided them, Marcus. Someone with access, with knowledge. This wasn’t a lone wolf. This was a calculated operation, and it points to a traitor.” The words hung in the air, heavy and accusing. He didn’t dare voice the question that followed, the one that threatened to shatter the fragile trust he’d carefully cultivated. Could it be one of my own? First, Mara knows about ??Ratrians, and now this.

  He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. “I want you to begin a discreet inquiry. Start with anyone who had contact with Commander Alfred in the weeks leading up to his…transformation. Healers, guards, even the kitchen staff. I want to know if anyone noticed anything unusual. Any strange habits, altered routines, or…conversations. Also, look for any missing servants or new ones that were added recently.”

  He paused, his gaze hardening. “And extend that search to anyone who might know shapeshifting – scholars, alchemists, even rumor-mongers in the lower districts. I want to know everything they can tell us about their abilities, weaknesses, anything that might give us an edge.”

  A flicker of something unreadable crossed Marcus’s face. “You believe the shapeshifter may still be among us, Master Linus?”

  Linus didn’t answer directly. “I believe we must operate under that assumption. It’s… unsettling how easily it mimicked you. Too perfect. It suggests a level of control and mastery that is rarely seen. We cannot afford to be caught off guard again.” He shivered despite the warmth of the room. The thought of another familiar face concealing a monstrous truth was deeply unsettling.

  He then turned to the memory of the blade, the sensation of its touch. “The weapon,” he murmured, more to himself than Marcus.

  Just before he was attacked, he had instinctively reached for the shadows, his usual reservoir of power, ready to unleash a wall of darkness to slow the attacker. But it was as if someone had shut a door in his mind—and locked it.

  No, not locked. Erased.

  “The blade that bypassed my shadows. I need to know its origin. Its composition. Was it forged here, in the kingdom? Or did it come from elsewhere?” He closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of the metal, the way it seemed to…absorb his magic. "It wasn't steel. Nor any alloy I recognize. It felt…cold. Almost hungry."

  “You recall any markings, any unique characteristics?” Marcus prompted, already reaching for a writing slate.

  He could still remember the feel of the weapon's edge—not jagged or crude like forged steel. It was smooth, impossibly so. No runes, no etchings, no flicker of enchantment. Just that unnatural sheen, as if light dared not touch it.

  Linus shook his head slowly. “No markings. No runes. Just this… glassy, cold surface. Not metal. Not like anything I’ve felt.”

  He rubbed his forearm absently as if the memory still stung beneath the skin. “It didn’t reflect light. It swallowed it. Like it was hungry.”

  He opened his eyes, his gaze locking onto Marcus’s. “I want you to task the armorers, the metalworkers. Show them sketches and descriptions. I want to know if anyone has seen anything similar. And discreetly, Marcus. I don’t want to alert anyone to our concerns.”

  He watched as Marcus meticulously recorded his observations. A slight, almost imperceptible tightening of the lips was the only indication of the man’s growing unease. Linus knew Marcus wasn’t prone to panic. That made his apprehension all the more concerning.

  The room seemed colder now. Somewhere in the kingdom—or beyond—someone had crafted a weapon not merely to kill but to render the most dangerous unchanneled mages inert. That wasn’t chance. That was design. That was intent.

  “And one more thing,” Linus said, his voice low and measured, eyes fixed on the shifting light beyond the window. “Keep a close watch on Princess Mara. We’ve only just begun tightening the leash around her neck, and already she’s pulling against it. That recent victory—engineered or not—has fed her too much confidence. Let her taste frustration again. Undermine her momentum, stall her initiatives, remind her she’s not as untouchable as she feels. We can’t afford her believing she has autonomy—not yet.”

  He paused, then added, more darkly, “And Princess Elara… Alexander didn’t send her out of sisterly concern. He sent a blade dressed in silk. She’s here to dig—into Curtis’s death. Why else send the one person Mara once trusted above all others? Elara’s not just a distraction. She’s a countermeasure to Mara's recent victory. So watch them both, Marcus. Closely. This could be our chance to sink our claws into Mara further”