The cold stone walls of Castle Blackthorn echoed with the sharp clatter of armored boots as the Knight Commander strode purposefully down the dimly lit corridor. Her white cloak billowed behind her, the silver crest of her house gleaming faintly in the torchlight that cast warm orange flickers across the rough-hewn stone. She had heard whispers in the halls—rumors of an intruder, a shadow in the night, said to be no ordinary thief or assassin. The word had spread like wildfire through the castle: a shapeshifter was among them.

The Knight Commander entered the great dining hall, where most of her knights had gathered, and strode to the center where she climbed onto one of the many wooden tables. Her emerald eyes, sharp as a falcon's, scanned the room, assessing each of her loyal knights with a calculating gaze before she spoke. "Listen well," she said, her voice steady but edged with urgency that made the air feel heavy. "An intruder is among us—word has reached us that they are no ordinary foe. A shapeshifter. We cannot trust any face we see, any voice we hear." The room stirred as the men exchanged uneasy glances, the firelight reflecting in their uncertain eyes. They had faced many threats before, but shapeshifters were creatures of myth and terror, their ability to assume any form making them almost impossible to track. The Knight Commander's jaw tightened, and she lifted her sword, the blade catching the light in a flash of steel that momentarily blinded those who stared directly at it.

"Search every room, every corridor. No one enters or leaves without my command. Stay vigilant, trust nothing. We will find this creature, and we will end it." Turning on her heel, she strode towards the large wooden door at the far end of the hall with sure steps that made the table creak beneath her weight, while the rest of the knights broke into smaller groups, each taking a different route through the castle. She moved alone, her instincts sharp and unyielding as she passed through the narrow stone hallways, her armor clinking softly like distant wind chimes against the silence, her every sense attuned to the castle's subtle shifts. Every creak of a door, every whisper of wind against the walls, was a clue she would not overlook.

The shadows deepened as she descended into the lower levels of the castle, where few ventured, save for the storage rooms and dungeons that smelled of damp stone and ancient dust. She paused before a flickering torch, the light casting eerie shapes on the stone that seemed to dance and twist like living things. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled with that primal sense of danger that all warriors recognize. Something was wrong—something was very, very wrong indeed.