I follow Commander Ikert through Haven's twisting passages, my altered form casting strange shadows on weathered stone walls. My new configuration forces me to duck beneath low archways, wolf-bone joints clicking against ancient masonry.

The demon shield scrapes occasionally, its edge catching on narrow turns.

Guards flatten themselves against walls as we pass. Their hands drift to weapons, eyes fixed on my monstrous changes.

One young soldier's blade rattles in its scabbard.

The winding stair poses no challenge to bones that need no breath. Tattered banners brush my frame as we pass.

Through arrow slits, I glimpse the Field of Broken Banners stretching dark beneath stars.

The borrowed bones within me pulse with recognition - how many died there, staring at these same windows?

Commander Ikert's boot heels strike stone with military precision. Her head turns slightly every dozen steps, watching my movement.

Testing.

Measuring.

Her hand never strays far from her sword hilt. The commander knows what I am, a weapon that chose its own purpose.

The iron door above draws closer. Voices leak through its gap, the war council gathering for night assembly.

Commander Ikert pauses at the final turn, her shoulders squaring beneath worn leather armor. She draws a slow breath, then gestures toward the torchlit chamber beyond.

These borrowed bones remember protocols of rank and ceremony, but such things matter little now.

I am what I am. Death's guardian. Haven's shield.

A monster that serves.

I follow Commander Ikert towars the war council chamber.

Commander Ikert halts before the iron-bound door. Her voice drops low, meant for my hollow sense alone.

"These are my most trusted advisors. Berta Volstadt, our Master-at-Arms - she'll recognize your combat stance. That steel jaw of hers came from a corrupted beast."

She points through a crack in the door. "Eren Falkreid, the bitter one with the metal fist, he lost his patrol years back. Hartger Amsell, youngest of the lot, missing half an ear. We've all lost a lot. You'll see them all around the table. Hilde Gerwynn runs our supplies, keeps us fed through the dwarven tunnels. Jermaine Dulluth, our strategist, missing fingers won't stop him thinking. Maralda Kreiz, our runner, she's quick despite losing part of herself to the endless rot."

She pauses, watching shadows shift beneath the door. "Old Thedir, blind now, but he was our best scout. Can't see you, but he'll have questions. Wayfried Anselm handles our armor, doesn't trust anything he didn't forge himself. Waynus Johhans leads our elite guard, even after losing most of his leg to a wolf bite."

The commander's hand rests on the door latch. "They've all lost something to this war. Each carries their own nightmares. But they keep Haven standing."

Her eyes fix on my skull. "Show them you're worth their trust, and that I haven't lost my mind by bringing you here."

The door groans open.

Conversation dies.

Ten sets of eyes, save Thedir's sightless ones, lock onto my altered form. These are warriors, survivors, guardians in their own right.

I incline my skull in a warrior's greeting, careful to keep my movements measured.

No sudden gestures to provoke their fear.

The wolf bones in my frame want to assert dominance. Here, I am simply Haven's shield, nothing more.

"By the gods, Ikert. When you said skeleton, I expected bones. Not, whatever the hell this is," says Eren Falkreid, his metal stump arm tapping against the table's edge.

I stand motionless as the council members process my presence. Their reactions, instinctive reach for weapons, subtle shifting of stance to defensive positions.

"This is what killed the Demon Duke?" Berta Volstadt's words are harshly spoken through her forged jaw.

I nod once, the gesture deliberate.

"Show them," Commander Ikert says.

I unsling the demon shield from my back. Brittle pieces flake off where the shield has been secured.

I place it carefully on the table, avoiding sudden movements that might startle these battle-hardened veterans.

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Jermaine Dulluth leans forward, looking at the Haven symbol I carved into the bone. "The Duke's own skull?"

"Fascinating," Wayfried Anselm mutters, his wooden peg leg scraping stone as he circles the table for a closer look. "Never knew you could work demon bone like this."

Old Thedir's blind eyes turn toward the sound of bone settling on wood. "It carries power. I can feel it from here."

His gnarled hands grip his staff tighter. "I'll reserve judgement till I know more. Time will tell its true nature."

Maralda Kreiz, the runner, steps closer. "Can it speak?"

I shake my skull once.

Speech remains beyond these bones.

"Then how the hell are we supposed to talk to it?" Waynus Johhans demands, his limp forgotten as he leans forward over the war table.

The answer is simple enough. I reach down with my right hand, gripping at the wrist joint.

Ancient magic pulses as I twist.

Bone separates from bone.

Swords flash from scabbards. Chairs scrape stone as council members leap back.

Even Commander Ikert prepares to fight before she catches herself.

I place my severed hand on the rough-hewn table. It stands on fingertips, each bone segment clicking as it orients itself.

The council watches as my hand skitters across maps toward an inkwell and quill.

"Sweet mercy," Wayfried Anselm pales, his wooden peg leg thumping as he backs away.

The hand grasps the quill. These bones remember the weight of a pen, though the memories belong to warriors long dead.

"Well," Berta Volstadt says through her steel jaw, "that's one way to make a point."

The rest of the council remains frozen, weapons half-drawn, as my severed hand begins to write.

My detached hand scratches bold letters across parchment.

Writing easier than scratching on stone and marks in dirt.

Eren Falkreid leans forward, metal stump forgotten as he reads. "Well, that's... direct."

My fingers adjust their grip on the quill, continuing.

I hunt. I protect. I serve.

"At least it's literate," Hilde Gerwynn mutters, her scarred arms crossed tight.

My detached hand pauses over the parchment as Hartger Amsell steps forward, his remaining half-ear twitching.

"Why are you here? Inside our walls?" He gestures at my towering form. "You're clearly built for the battlefield, for hunting monsters. What purpose does standing in this chamber serve?"

The question catches me off guard. These bones have no answer. Commander Ikert commanded me within Haven's walls, but my purpose lies in combat, in protection from threats.

Out in the wastes and the wilds, the killing grounds where bone and marrow cleanse corrupted ground.

My severed hand hovers uncertainly over the parchment.

The Field of Broken Banners birthed me for battle. Not council chambers.

"The skeleton has a point," Waynus Johhans says, leaning on his cane. "It's done more good outside our walls than in them. Why bring a weapon of war to our war room?"

Jermaine Dulluth's steel-capped fingers tap against the table. "Perhaps it means to betray us? Learn our secrets? Finish us all off for its dark master?"

My skull turns toward Maralda Kreiz as she laughs.

"I saw that damned thing beat a Gargoyle to death mid-flight three years past," she says, fingers tracing the stumps where corruption took her digits. "If it wanted to kill us all, it would."

The borrowed bones within me remember that battle, the crumbling stone wings, the height above Haven's walls, the need to protect those below.

Berta Volstadt nods. "I remember seeing that, no way a damned thing would fight for us like that."

My hand scratches quickly across the paper.

I serve Haven. Nothing more.

"But serve how?" Maralda Kreiz asks, her damaged fingers flexing. "What can you do within these walls that you couldn't do better outside them?"

Before my hand can respond, Commander Ikert steps forward. Her boots scrape stone as she puts a palm on the table to study the map.

"You're all asking the wrong question," she says. Fingers trace paths beneath Haven's marked walls. "We've been thinking of our guardian as a wall defender, a monster hunter. But what if..."

She taps a point where old ink marks tunnels beneath the fortress.

"What if we had a warrior who doesn't need light?" Her finger moves to another tunnel junction. "Or air?" Another tap. "Or rest?"

The council falls silent as understanding dawns.

Even Old Thedir's blind eyes widen slightly.

"The old passages beneath Haven," she continues. "The ones we had to abandon because they were too dangerous to keep open. Our skeleton friend here doesn't need any of the things that limited us down there. And most importantly," She taps the demon shield. "It's proven it can handle whatever horrors lurk in the dark."

The wolf bones in my frame bristle at the implied weakness, but I remain still.

These are Haven's defenders, their doubts are earned. They have sacrified.

"We can watch the walls," Waynus Johhans says, his damaged leg creaking as he shifts weight. "The skeleton can't do everything. We need to remember that."

My detached hand pauses over the parchment, then writes:

Haven needs all guardians. Living and dead.

Waynus's face hardens.

"Pretty words from something that doesn't bleed."

I tap the quill against parchment, considering.

My hand scratches across the parchment, bones clicking against wood.

"What is it saying?" Old Thedir asks.

The council leans forward as my fingers continue writing. Commander Ikert begins reading.

"Bled once. Field of Broken Banners remembers. Each drop of blood carried final wish, that something would stand when we could not."

Waynus's grip tightens on his cane.

"Remember weight of flesh. Burn of demon fire in lungs. Copper taste as blood filled throat. Remember watching brothers fall. Sisters broken. Friends torn apart. Remember final charge when death stood before us. Remember Demon King holding severed heads of Dragon Lords."

"Remember bleeding out on this very ground. Remember last breath."

"Now I stand again. Different form. Same purpose."

Old Thedir's unseeing eyes glisten.

The room falls silent save for the clicking of my detached hand returning the quill to its well.

These battle-hardened veterans recognize the weight of sacrifice in those words.

They've all bled for Haven.

They know the price of protection.

My detached hand retrieves the quill once more.

The living too few to waste in dark tunnels where corruption festers. Let these bones go where flesh cannot tread.

Commander Ikert nods.

"And if it finds something down there it can't handle?" Eren Falkreid asks, metal stump tapping nervously.

My hand scratches across parchment.

Then scatter. Reform. Continue. Until threat ends.

"That's unsettling," Hartger Amsell mutters, touching his damaged ear.

Better scattered bones than dead soldiers. Haven needs its defenders above ground.

Berta Volstadt nods as she considers. "True enough. Lost too many good fighters trying to keep those tunnels clear. At least bones don't suffocate when passages collapse."

"Seventeen of them." Eren Falkreid answers, his metal stump arm clenching. "Last count was seventeen dead in the deep dark. Good men and women, all of them."

My hand writes again.

Send me.