Emerging from the oppressive darkness of the dungeon, Linus discovered Marcus waiting just outside the heavy iron gates. The cool air of the outer corridor was a slight relief, but the weight of his discoveries clung.

  “Marcus,” Linus began, his voice low and ced with suspicion, “both the Mayor’s and Commander Alfred’s deaths… the city guard appears remarkably eager to close these cases. Almost a rush to bury them.” He gestured back towards the dungeon. “It wouldn’t take a trained eye to detect the marks on Vancourt, to question the circumstances. But why avoid scrutiny?”

  A sharp edge entered his tone. “Maintain a close watch on Aric.”

  Linus’s suspicions regarding Aric were mounting. The captain’s unusual efficiency in wrapping up these cases bordered on suspicious negligence. The way Aric’s men maneuvered access to evidence, guiding inquiries when specific questions arose, wasn’t the actions of a thorough investigator but of someone following orders or covering tracks.

  More telling was Aric’s reaction when Linus interrogated him about the unusual marks on Vancourt’s body – a momentary hesitation, a slight aversion of his eyes that suggested knowledge being withheld. Either Aric was directly involved, or, more likely, he’d been instructed to uphold a specific narrative.

  “Is it possible,” he murmured more to himself than to Marcus, “that someone far higher than Aric demands these deaths unquestioned? Someone who doesn’t want us looking too closely?” He met Marcus’s gaze, his own troubled. “If so… why? Are they somehow tied to these shapeshifters?”

  He shifted the focus of their investigation. “Have you uncovered anything more about these… chameleons?”

  Marcus shook his head. “Not much, sir. Their tracks are faint.”

  A new, unsettling idea sparked in Linus’s mind. "Marcus," he excimed suddenly, stopping mid-stride. "What would you pay for a night with your dead wife?" Marcus jolted as if struck. "Sir?" "Or perhaps that actress you craved in your youth? The one with the auburn hair." Linus's eyes gleamed with dark inspiration. "What would a grieving widower offer to spend one more night with his beloved? What would a spurned suitor sacrifice to bed the noblewoman who rejected him?" Understanding emerged slowly on Marcus's face.

  “Perhaps,” he pondered, a grimly thoughtful expression on his face, “we should try a different avenue. Ask around in the brothels.” He eborated with a cynical twist to his lips, “Something as… exquisite as a shapeshifter, capable of fulfilling any man’s desire by shifting into any form they wish… that’s a commodity the brothels might be interested in. They might have overheard whispers, witnessed things.”

  Linus’s suggestion stemmed from strategic deduction rather than mere intuition. He noticed that shapeshifters possessed abilities that would prove invaluable in pleasure houses – beings that could metamorphose into anyone from lost loves to fantasies to even royal figures would command extraordinary prices. High-end brothels catering to the elite’s unusual desires would be natural venues for such services, and their madams typically understood the city’s darkest secrets.

  "The brothels," Linus continued, voice quickening with each word. "If these creatures exist—these shapeshifters—imagine their value in the pleasure houses." His fingers clenched into a fist. "The Velvet Pearl charges a month's wages for an hour with twins. What would Madame Selene charge for an hour with the exact image of your heart's desire?"

  He wasn’t simply curious about whether brothels had employed shapeshifters. He needed to know if clients had reported unusual encounters – partners whose eyes changed color mid-liaison, or whose features momentarily slipped. Brothel workers would notice these inconsistencies, as their survival hinged on knowing their clients intimately. They might have heard whispers of competitors offering “special companions” with unique abilities, or noticed patterns of certain powerful figures frequenting establishments rumored to offer “transformative experiences.”

  If shapeshifters were infiltrating positions of power as Linus suspected, they would need to hone their craft and refine their mimicry. Brothels provided an ideal training ground where intimate knowledge of human behavior and desire was currency, as well as pces to gather intelligence on the city’s powerful when they were most exposed and unguarded.

  "And think, Marcus—what better pce to master becoming someone else? What better training ground for mimicking human behavior than where people are at their most vulnerable, most unguarded? Where better to gather secrets from powerful men whose tongues loosen after pleasure?" Linus's fingers tapped against his thigh, a staccato rhythm matching his racing thoughts.

  "The Crimson Lily near the eastern gate. The Silver Chalice in Merchant's Row. Start there." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ask about clients requesting 'special entertainments.' Listen for mentions of companions who can become anyone. Watch for madams who've suddenly raised their prices without expnation." He straightened his already-immacute cuffs, a predator poising for the hunt. "Find me something, Marcus. Find me a trail."

  “Discreetly, of course,” he added, his voice regaining its usual composure. “I don’t want to instigate a scandal. But I want ears on the ground. I want to know what’s said, what’s offered. And I want to know who’s paying for it.”

  The information from brothels wouldn’t just confirm the existence of shapeshifters, but potentially reveal who might be controlling them, who might be targeted, and most importantly, who might already have been repced.

  Linus eased into the carriage, the earlier unease about the Mayor and the potential shapeshifters still churning within him. The carriage crept as they navigated the congested theater district, a sea of bodies all moving in one direction. But the throng of people outside caught his attention. A considerable crowd was making its way towards the grand doors of the drama theater. He leaned out the window, overhearing snippets of excited gossip.

  "A new lead in the Underwood case…"

  "I swear it's true. Aria hasn't been seen in three days. The entire company is"

  "that actress, the one pying Mara" "Amy something-or-other" "—heard she has a powerful patron—"

  A sudden impulse overturned Linus’s priorities. “Driver,” he instructed, changing his destination on a whim, “take us to the theater.”

  As the carriage cttered up, music and dramatic voices spilled out into the street. Linus entered the theater, the interior humming with anticipation. The py had already begun. He stood at the back, near the entrance, observing the unfolding scene. From what he could gather, it seemed to be a theatrical retelling of the recent war with Sorenputhra and the Aldric Kingdom.

  Then, his gaze locked onto a figure entering the stage. It was Amy, and she was portraying Princess Mara. Seeing her like this triggered something inside Linus. What awakened Linus’s unexpected reaction was fundamentally physical, intertwined with his need for control. The sight of Amy in Princess Mara’s signature attire—that vibrant red top seemingly pulsing with energy against the sharp bck skirt—stirred a visceral response in him.

  Amy moved with a poor imitation of Mara's grace—her shoulders too tense, her steps too deliberate—yet Linus couldn't avert his gaze. She turned, and the light illuminated her profile. Not as refined as Mara's, not as striking, but there was something in the vulnerability of her throat, the eager-to-please curve of her lips that made his mouth go dry. He swallowed hard, suddenly aware of his thundering heartbeat.

  The actress delivered her lines, voice raised in royal command, and Linus felt a smile twitch his lips. While Amy cked Mara’s striking beauty, she possessed something Mara didn’t: complete vulnerability to his influence.

  The past few days had left Linus feeling increasingly untethered, events spiraling beyond his careful orchestration—mysterious deaths, shapeshifters, political machinations he hadn’t anticipated. This loss of control gnawed at him, threatening the carefully constructed framework of his ambitions.

  But Amy was different. Amy was his—molded by his attention, dependent on his approval, malleable to his will in ways the fiercely independent Mara would never be. Seeing her embody the princess physically while remaining psychologically his puppet created an intoxicating blend of desire and dominance that momentarily overwhelmed his calcuted exterior.

  It wasn’t romantic or even purely sexual attraction driving his reaction, but rather a primal reassertion of control. In a world where shadows shifted unexpectedly and political alliances wavered, Amy represented a constant—someone whose emotions, actions, and now even appearance he could dictate. This visible reminder of his power over at least one aspect of his complicated web was what stirred something within him, compelling him to act immediately, to reinforce that connection.

  He didn't wait for the py to conclude. The sight of Amy as Mara had triggered something, and he felt a sudden need to leave. Something primal and possessive coiled in his gut. His skin felt too tight suddenly, the theater too warm, too crowded.

  Just before exiting the theater, he spotted someone who appeared to be a member of the theater staff. A young man in theater livery—a crisp bck coat with gold trim—fixed his gaze upon him, heading toward the backstage area.

  "You," Linus said, his hand shooting out to grasp the boy's arm. "Wait."

  The attendant turned, surprise and annoyance fshing across his face before recognition set in. His expression shifted instantly to deference.

  "Lord Linus," he stammered, "how may I assist you?"

  Linus released him, then reached inside his coat for his pocket notebook and pencil. His hands weren't quite steady as he scrawled across the page, the pencil leaving deep impressions in the paper.

  He tore the page free, folded it precisely, and pressed it into the attendant's palm along with a gold coin that glinted in the low light.

  "For the actress pying Princess Mara," Linus instructed, leaning close enough to smell the rd in the young man's hair. "Amy. Ensure she receives it immediately after the final curtain. Not before. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, my lord." The coin vanished into the attendant's pocket with practiced swiftness.

  "And," Linus added, his voice dropping to ensure only the attendant could hear, "discretion would be appreciated. Generously appreciated."

  The implied promise of further payment lingered between them. The young man nodded, eyes darting to Linus's silk waistcoat, no doubt calcuting the worth of future favors.

  "Of course, my lord. No one will know."

  With one st gnce toward the stage where Amy stood illuminated in red and gold light, he turned and marched toward the exit, each step carrying him further from temptation but closer to inevitable indulgence.