The air tasted like metal even before Linus unzipped the tent flap. It wasn’t the clean, sterile scent of a surgical room, but thick and rusty, clinging to the back of his throat.

  The shapeshifter had been…efficient. Linus hadn’t expected efficiency. He’d expected something grander, crueler.

  Instead, it was rough.

  The tent stood alone on the edge of the empty field, forgotten by the rest of the army. The camp had moved on days ago—no more shouting soldiers, no more lines of tents or the glow of firelight. Just this one shelter, left untouched for investigation. Its canvas sides sagged inward, the ropes loose where no one had bothered to tighten them. A breeze slipped through a gap near the base, stirring dust across the floor.

  It had been Commander Alfred’s tent once. A faded map of the surrounding territories still clung to one pole, curled at the edges and half-covered by cords strung hastily across the space. A broken lantern hung from the center beam, empty and swaying slightly. Crates lined one wall—some overturned, others left open with contents missing. There was no order here. No sign of care.

  At the center of it all sat a single, heavy wooden chair. The floor beneath it sagged around deep scratches, canvas worn thin where boots had dragged or kicked. Dark stains blossomed on the woven seat and bled into the fibers of the rope, binding the arms and legs.

  Blood. Dried, but unmistakable.

  Linus crouched beside the chair, his fingers hovering just above the deep gouges. Sten with dried blood, the rope fibers frayed like old twine at the edges. He didn’t touch them—but he didn’t need to. His mind filled in the motion: a body thrashing, wrists grinding, muscle tearing against restraint.

  The scratches weren’t neat, panicked gouges. They spoke of desperate, straining effort, a body throwing itself against restraints. He traced one with his gaze, imagining the commander straining, fighting… and failing.

  Linus had seen blood more than his share before, but something about this chair made his stomach twist. Not the gore but the sheer haste of it all and the disposability of the whole setup. This wasn't a carefully constructed dungeon meant to break a prisoner’s spirit over days. This was a quick fix, a temporary solution. A place to get something and then discard the source.

  The urgency of it pressed down on him. They’d moved fast. Too fast. And the fact they could pull this off, right under everyone’s noses… even with the inherent hesitation that came with questioning a commander’s personal tent… the thought sent a shiver down his spine. How skilled, how organized, did these people have to be to operate so seamlessly?

  He circled the chair slowly, his boots silent on the canvas. It wasn’t the elegance of a calculated plot that frightened him, but the raw, desperate improvisation. They hadn’t been building a power base. They’d been reacting. And that, Linus realized, was somehow far more terrifying.

  “I want this chamber sealed,” Linus ordered Marcus, his voice regaining its customary authority, though a tremor still lurked beneath the surface. “No one enters. No one leaves. I want every inch of it meticulously documented, every stain analyzed. And I want a full report on my desk by nightfall.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgement, already turning towards the tent flap. The need to move, to do something, was overwhelming.

  “Already on it, sir,” Marcus responded, maintaining a calm and measured tone. Linus didn’t need to see his face to know the man was observing him and assessing the extent of his recovery. He ignored the scrutiny.

  “And Marcus,” Linus paused at the entrance, his hand resting on the canvas. “Did we get anything from those living nearby? Anyone who might have noticed unusual activity around this tent? Anyone who saw something…remotely suspicious?” He pushed the flap aside and stepped out into the afternoon sun, shielding his eyes.

  Marcus followed, his shadow falling across Linus’s face. “Initial inquiries have been…fruitless, sir. The camp is large, and the area around the commander’s tent is typically quiet. A few reported hearing muffled sounds a couple nights ago, dismissed as training exercises. Nothing concrete.”

  Linus frowned. “Muffled sounds. And no one thought to investigate?”

  “Hesitation, sir. It was a commander’s tent. Few would question Commander Alfred’s activities directly.” Marcus’s tone was neutral, but Linus could read between the lines. Few would question a commander. Especially not one as respected as Alfred.

  “How were they able to enter?” Linus asked, more to himself than to Marcus. “A commander doesn’t simply allow anyone access. It had to be someone he knew. Someone he trusted…or someone masquerading as such.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture sharper than he intended.

  “That’s what I’m looking into, sir. Access logs are being reviewed, but it’s…complicated. Alfred preferred personal arrangements to official channels. He often received visitors without recording them.”

  Linus stopped walking, his gaze sweeping across the bustling camp. “Then widen the net. I want a list of everyone who had close ties to Alfred. Family, allies, even casual acquaintances. And I want to know if anyone among them is…missing. Any unexplained absences. Any recent deaths. Look for patterns, Marcus. Look for anything that doesn’t fit.”

  He turned to face his aide, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps there’s another body out there, waiting to be discovered.”

  He paused, but his mind wasn’t done digging. “Wait,” he said suddenly, his tone sharper now. “Alfred’s tent would have had guards posted. Who were they?”

  Marcus blinked. “Sir?”

  “The night this happened,” Linus pressed. “He was still active in command. His tent would’ve been under watch. So where were they? What did they hear?”

  Marcus’s lips thinned. “There were two guards scheduled to be on duty. Private Renn and Corporal Vale.”

  “And?” Linus stepped closer. “Did they hear anything? Did they report anything?”

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  “They said they were dismissed early that night,” Marcus replied. “Claimed Alfred wanted privacy.”

  Linus’s eyes narrowed. “The same night a shapeshifter took his place—or finished taking his place—and no one questions an early dismissal? Not even when muffled sounds come from inside?”

  “They insisted they didn’t hear anything unusual,” Marcus said. “Just a few shuffling noises. They claimed they thought it was the commander moving around. Nothing alarming.”

  “And you believe them?”

  A long pause.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Renn was reassigned with the northern front two days ago,” Marcus said. “Vale filed for medical leave. He’s en route to Harfell.”

  Linus stared past him, jaw clenched. “Get them back. Both of them. I want them questioned—thoroughly. I want shadow verification if we can manage it. And if they’ve vanished, I want to know who signed their transfers. Who approved their routes. Who spoke to them last.”

  He stepped away, pacing once. The air felt heavier now.

  “If they were part of the shapeshifter’s team, we’ve already lost more ground than we thought,” he muttered. “And if they weren’t… then that thing knew enough about Alfred to make their dismissal feel routine. That’s just as disturbing.”

  Marcus nodded grimly. “I’ll move on it immediately.”

  “Do it quietly,” Linus said. “If anyone else in this camp is compromised, I don’t want them spooked. And Marcus?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If those two are missing by morning… we burn the lists and start again.”

  Linus walked in silence, his boots crunching over the dry earth as the camp faded around him. The scattered sounds of hammers, distant shouts, and shifting crates became little more than background noise—white static against the storm in his mind.

  He stopped at the edge of the clearing, gaze fixed on the empty horizon. “Where was Alfred buried?” he asked suddenly, not turning.

  Marcus answered from a step behind. “Thornfield, sir. Full honors. Quiet ceremony. His family was notified.”

  Linus nodded once. “I want the body exhumed.”

  Marcus hesitated. “Sir?”

  “I want to see it,” Linus said, turning to face him. “With my own eyes. I don’t care what honors were given. If the shapeshifter was imitating him, I need to know how long it’s been dead. What was done to it. What we missed.”

  Marcus didn’t argue. He simply gave a short nod. “I’ll ready a transport.”

  “Good,” Linus muttered. His eyes drifted back to the distance, already imagining the cold soil, the wooden box, the secrets still buried with Alfred. “We leave within the hour.”

  It didn’t take long to reach Thornfield’s military burial ground. The path wound through low, windswept hills dotted with wooden markers—each one straight, clean, and identical in design. A line of flags flanked the entrance, their colors faded but still catching the breeze. This was where Boomi buried its fallen with honor. No marble, no grand displays—just quiet rows of the dead and the space they’d earned.

  Alfred’s grave sat near the crest of a gentle rise, his marker newer than most. A polished wooden cross bore his name, rank, and date of death, carved with care. Someone had left a single iron medal nailed to the base, the ribbon fluttering like a heartbeat.

  The guards worked in silence, shovels slicing into soft earth with practiced rhythm. Damp clumps landed beside the grave with low, sodden thuds. No one spoke. Even the birds seemed to keep their distance.

  Linus stood at the edge, arms crossed tight, his fists clenched beneath the sleeves. The smell of turned soil hit him—rich, cold, and strangely sweet. It coated his lungs with every breath. He kept his face neutral, but his eyes didn’t leave the growing hole.

  The coffin emerged slowly, its surface dark and swollen from the weight of dirt and time. The wood was solid, reinforced with dull iron brackets, standard for high-command burials. Marcus oversaw the process with his usual calm, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his discomfort. This wasn’t standard protocol. This was desecration.

  Still, he gave the order, and the lid creaked open.

  The sight of Alfred’s face, pale and lifeless, didn’t elicit the reaction Linus expected. He’d known Alfred for years, but the man lying before him was…altered. It wasn’t simply the pallor of death. It was the way he looked.

  Linus knelt, ignoring the damp earth staining his trousers. He examined the exposed skin of Alfred’s arms, the collar of his tunic pulled open to reveal his neck. And then he saw them.

  Faint, almost delicate cuts marked Alfred’s skin—thin lines running just beneath the surface, as if drawn with the tip of a blade rather than carved in anger. They weren’t the jagged slashes of a struggle, or the brutal damage left by torture. These were cleaner. Tighter. Intentional.

  They didn’t connect. No full symbols, no obvious pattern. Just lines—some straight, some curved—scattered across his chest, arms, and neck. But the more Linus looked, the more wrong they felt. Too even. Too measured. Like someone had drawn parts of something larger and then stopped… or hidden the rest.

  He crouched low, his gloved hand hovering over the corpse. The skin looked cold and waxy now, drained of life—but the cuts hadn’t bled much. That detail hit him harder than expected. No real blood loss. No mess. Just clean, quiet shapes. Left behind like a message no one could read.

  Linus reached out and traced one with a finger. A short curve. Then a sharp angle. Then nothing.

  This wasn’t a wound meant to cause pain. It was meant to form something. A design. A warning. A mark.

  Or worse—part of a ritual.

  He stood slowly, the wind tugging at his coat. His mind raced through everything he’d seen—symbols on temple walls, prisoner markings, even the strange diagrams hidden in the old Ratrian scrolls. None of it matched.

  “These cuts…” His voice came out rough. Quiet. “They weren’t made during the torture. They were made after.”

  Marcus didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes were locked on the body, jaw tight, throat working as he swallowed.

  Linus turned to him, his own stare sharp and alive now. “I want answers. Real ones. Find out what these are. Search the archives. Pull anything on ritual carvings, old military codes, magical bindings—whatever fits. Talk to the scholars in Duskwatch. Or the priests, if you have to.”

  He took a step closer, his voice firm. “I don’t care what it takes. I want anything—anything—that resembles these markings. A symbol. A name. A legend.”

  Marcus nodded. “At once, sir.”

  As he turned to go, Linus glanced down at the body again. He could feel it—something deeper than fear. Not grief. Not shock.

  Something older.

  Something watching.

  The memory of another crude chamber surfaced—the one found beneath the Mayor’s estate. Different circumstances, different victim, but a similar…roughness. Previously he’d dismissed it as the eccentricities of a man with power. People with power always indulged in such things. He’d thought the Mayor might have been dabbling in things he shouldn’t, perhaps a private means of extracting information or silencing dissent. But what if… what if it wasn’t simply the Mayor’s private indulgence?

  A flicker of unease ran through him. Likely unlikely, but the timing bothered him. Two makeshift chambers, both displaying a distinct lack of finesse…could it be coincidence? He doubted it.

  “Marcus,” he said, rising to his feet. “Prepare a carriage. I’m paying a visit to Vancourt.” He inclined his head towards the distant prison walls. “It’s time I had a conversation with our incarcerated mayor.”