The dim light of a flickering candle illuminated the grand, darkened room, casting long shadows across the heavy, blood-red curtains that blocked out the sunlight. Linus lay on a plush, ornate bed, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion, struggling to open them. A voice, soft yet insistent, drifted through the air—a woman's voice, familiar yet elusive, like a memory shrouded in mist. He strained to focus, but the sound seemed to fade into the silence, leaving only the faint echo of his own labored breathing.

  Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain shot through his gut, as though someone had plunged a dagger into his very soul. Linus gasped, his body jerking involuntarily, and he let out a guttural scream that echoed through the chamber. The sound startled him, and he tried to sit up, but the pain intensified, forcing him back onto the mattress.

  Through the haze of agony, he became aware of a figure looming over him. The person was speaking, their voice calm and reassuring, though Linus could barely make out the words. "Sir, sir, it's me, Marcus. You're safe now. Please, calm down."

  Linus's vision was blurred, but he could make out the outline of a man, his face etched with concern. Without thinking, he reached out with his shadow magic, a skill he had honed over the years, but the effort sent another wave of pain through his body. He groaned, clutching his stomach, and the figure—Marcus—leaned closer, his hand resting on Linus's shoulder in a futile attempt to comfort him.

  "Leave me," Linus managed to croak, his voice trembling with a mixture of distress and fear. "Get away from me!"

  Marcus hesitated, his grip tightening on Linus's arm. "Master, I—"

  "Leave me now!" Linus bellowed, his voice echoing with a desperation that surprised even him. With a surge of strength he didn't know he possessed, he pushed Marcus away, sending the man stumbling backward. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor echoed through the room as Marcus fell, but Linus paid him no mind.

  Clutching his stomach, Linus sank back into the pillows, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain was unbearable, a relentless fire that consumed him from within. He closed his eyes, willing the darkness to take him, to spare him from the agony that threatened to overwhelm him.

  But the darkness did not come. Instead, the voice returned, clearer this time, though still distant. It was a woman's voice, soft and melodic, yet filled with an urgency that Linus could not ignore. "Linus," it whispered, "you must wake up. You're not safe here."

  He tried to respond, to call out to the voice, but his throat felt raw, and no sound escaped his lips. The pain intensified, and he let out a muffled cry, his body writhing in a futile attempt to escape the torment.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pain subsided. Linus lay still, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. He opened his eyes, his vision slowly clearing, and found himself staring at the ceiling, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the room.

  He stared for a long time, unsure if he was awake or adrift in some false memory.

  His mind reeled, trying to make sense of it. Something had happened. Something real.

  Then the image struck him like ice to the spine: Marcus—but not Marcus. The thing wearing his face. The knife sliding between his ribs.

  He sat up too fast. The world tilted, nausea clawing at his throat. He scanned the space around him. No movement. Just candlelight, books, silence. He breathed in the air and forced the words out between clenched teeth.

  “Calm. First… calm.”

  He pulled the sheets down and looked.

  The bandages were clean and neatly applied, as though a skilled healer had attended to him. No blood. No stain. His fingers ran across the linen.

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  It was almost as if the entire ordeal had been a hallucination, a product of his overactive imagination.

  But the memory of the dagger remained, a persistent reminder of the terror he had felt. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the lingering unease that gripped him. Slowly, he concentrated on the faint flicker of energy within him, the faint glow of his shadow magic. It was weak, barely perceptible, but it was there.

  Relief washed over him as he realized his abilities were still intact, however diminished they might be.

  Linus’s jaw tightened. “Marcus,” he called, voice low but firm.

  The man paused in the doorway, hesitant. The air between them seemed charged with an unseen force, a heavy, silent tension in the room. Linus's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening as he struggled to maintain control.

  "How long have I been out?" Linus demanded, his voice steady but laced with an underlying edge of suspicion.

  Marcus hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting Linus's eyes. "A week," he replied, his tone calm but tinged with a hint of unease.

  Linus's jaw tightened, and without warning, a sharp, unseen force rippled through the air, closing its grip on Marcus. The man froze, his body going rigid as an almost imperceptible shimmer flickered around his throat. A shadow-like collar constricted, and Marcus's face paled as he struggled to breathe. His hands instinctively rose to claw at his own skin—only to find nothing there.

  Linus watched with a mixture of relief and concern as Marcus's body began to shake, his legs trembling beneath him. The shadow bond, a connection forged between them, pulsed with a life of its own, its presence a reminder of the deep, unspoken bond they shared.

  Finally, Marcus collapsed to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Linus's heart sank as he saw the pain etched on Marcus's face, but he knew he had no choice. The shadow bond was a double-edged sword, a connection that could both protect and punish.

  "You're the real one," Linus muttered, his voice soft but firm. The shadow bond had confirmed Marcus's identity, but the lingering doubt in Linus's mind refused to fade.

  Marcus nodded, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "I am," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

  Linus released the force, and the shimmer around Marcus's throat faded, leaving him gasping for air.

  "I had to be sure, Marcus," Linus said, his voice steady but tinged with regret. "First, the Princess knows about Ratrians, and now, a shapeshifter attacks me as you. It looks like someone is making us into pawns."

  Marcus nodded, his expression somber. "We've been searching," he said, his voice low. "Princess Mara searched the entire battlefield for the shapeshifter, but there was no sign of them. It's as if they vanished into thin air."

  Linus's brow furrowed as he listened, his mind racing. The shapeshifter's ability to mimic others was a dangerous threat, one that could unravel their carefully constructed plans.

  “They found Alfred,” Marcus said, voice dropping to a whisper. “In an abandoned cave near his camp. Shackled. Tortured. Long dead.”

  Linus’s blood went cold.

  “Whoever wore his face,” Marcus went on, “they’d been doing it for some time. Long enough to fool his men. Long enough to sit in war councils, issue orders...” His voice faltered. “We never noticed.”

  Linus's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. Alfred was one of Curtis’s commanders. The shapeshifter's reach was far-reaching, and the implications were unsettling. "No one knows how long the deception lasted," he repeated, his voice filled with a growing sense of unease.

  Marcus shook his head, his expression somber. "They found an abandoned chamber near Alfred’s camp," he said. "His body was there. It was clear he had suffered greatly before his death."

  Linus leaned forward, his hands tightening on the edge of the bed as he tried to process the information. The weight of the situation pressed heavily on him, and he felt a growing sense of unease. The shapeshifter’s ability to evade detection was unsettling, and the thought of them still being at large filled him with dread.

  "We don’t know how far this goes," Marcus said, his voice filled with a growing sense of doubt. "Everyone could be a suspect now."

  Linus nodded, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the fragments of the puzzle. The shapeshifter’s influence was far-reaching, and the thought of being surrounded by potential enemies was daunting.

  As Marcus spoke, Linus felt a familiar sense of deja vu wash over him, a haunting memory of pain and betrayal that he couldn’t quite place. The mention of the torture chamber triggered something deep within him, a memory that refused to surface.

  Just then, they heard footsteps approaching—slow, deliberate footsteps approaching from the corridor beyond the chamber door. The sound echoed cleanly through the stone hall—no rush, no hesitation.

  Marcus shifted his stance, hand drifting toward the mace at his belt. Linus didn’t move, his posture still but watchful, eyes fixed on the door.

  Neither of them spoke. The steps were getting closer.