I tower over the scarred veterans, my borrowed bones creaking as I adjust my posture. The wolf skull grafted to my frame twitches, nostrils flaring despite having no sense of smell.

Ancient instincts from the balverine bones urge me to hunt, to chase, to tear through the darkness below, but I remain still, focused on Commander Ikert's words.

My detached hand scratches across parchment.

Show me.

"Here," Ikert's finger traces a thick line.

She traces ancient passages beneath Haven's foundation. "The dwarves kept these open for supplies," she explains, finger hovering over marked sections. "We relied on them until last year. Then the monsters came. We had to seal everything."

Rising to her full height, she continues, "We can't survive on Haven's crops alone. Our reserves dwindle, we face starvation."

My bestial frame lurks at the table's edge, wolfish skull tilting in acknowledgment.

Eren Falkreid taps his metal prosthetic, frowning.

"The tunnels run deep," he grumbles. "First the sewers full of city waste. Then burial catacombs. Finally, the dwarven roads, if they still exist. That thing will have to go through it all before he can get to the Kingdom, and what then?"

My hand scratches across the parchment, bones scraping against paper.

Hide bones. Wear wrappings. Not first silent soldier.

Commander Ikert's brow furrows as she reads. "You mean to disguise yourself?"

I nod.

My hand writes again.

Leper's mask. Bandages. Dwarves immune, but recognize marks.

"A mute leper," Eren scoffs, metal fist clanking against the table. "That's your solution?"

I scratch another response.

War leaves many voiceless. Many limbless.

Eren falls silent, jaw working. He understands - who would question another broken soldier?

"The dwarves are practical," Ikert says, considering. "They care about trade, not appearance. If you can reach their halls, aid them as you can."

My hand writes.

Purpose guides these bones. Through sewers. Through tombs. Through darkness.

"And when you reach them?" Eren demands. "What then?"

Show need. Show coin. Show way back to markets. Simple truth. Haven starves.

Commander Ikert nods slowly. "We can provide documents, seals. Make it official." She looks at my towering form. "But first, we need to make you..."

Leprous.

The war council disperses to gather supplies. I remain still as Wayfried Anselm approaches with measuring cord, his wooden peg leg thumping against stone.

"Hold still," he mutters, stretching twine across my shoulders. "Need to know how much cloth we'll waste on this madness."

My borrowed wolf skull turns to track his movement.

The armorer flinches but continues his work, jotting measurements on a scrap of parchment.

"We'll need more than bandages," Hilde says, emerging from a storage alcove. She carries a wooden box filled with copper trinkets and leather straps. "Lepers wear tokens to warn others. Bells, sometimes. Markers of their affliction."

My detached hand writes.

No bells. Silent approach needed.

"Copper discs then," she decides, laying out tarnished circles etched with old symbols. "Traditional warnings, but quieter."

Berta Volstadt interrupts. "The skull needs covering first. No bandages will hide those teeth."

She's right. The balverine skull grafted to my frame bears rows of savage fangs, too much beast, less than human.

My hand scratches across parchment again.

Have solution.

I move away from the war council table, finding corner spaces. My bones click and scrape as I begin the methodical process of reconstruction.

Dragon scales slide across my ribcage, filling gaps between yellowed bone. I shift the balverine pieces back, letting them sink beneath my collarbone while moving my original skull forward.

The dragon hand bones compress, becoming more human-sized as I weave them through gaps in my frame.

Each piece finds a new place, guided by the magic that holds this form together.

I pull borrowed bones inward, creating a denser form, still tall, but less monstrous.

But not natural.

My detached hand writes on parchment, showing it to Wayfried.

Need iron mask. Full coverage.

The armorer studies my reconstructed face, measuring with his fingers. "Might have something. Old tournament helm we could modify."

I continue adjusting, sliding dragon vertebrae into spaces where ribs show through. The magic pulses, binding each piece in its new position.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

My form becomes more solid, more suited to wearing heavy cloth.

Wayfried returns with a rusted iron mask, edges curved inward. "Tournament fighters used these. Keeps the face hidden, lets you breathe." He holds it up against my skull. "Could work, with the right wrappings."

My borrowed bones settle into their new configuration, fuller, more human-shaped, ready to bear the weight of disguise.

The mask fits over my reconstructed features, covering.

Wayfried stumbles back.

Temporary, my hand writes. But will hold shape beneath bandages.

Commander Ikert studies the transformation.

"Back to it then," Hilde says, laying out rolls of bandages across the war table. She sorts them by width, some thin as fingers, others broad as palms. "We'll start with the hands. Need to hide those bone joints first."

My detached hand floats back, reconnecting at the wrist. The magic pulses as I lock it into place.

I extend both arms, letting Hilde wrap the first layer of cloth. The bandages are old, yellowed with age, perfect for the disguise.

She works methodically, weaving strips between each finger bone, crossing over palms, spiraling up forearms.

Where cloth gaps, she doubles back, building layers.

The wrappings hide the subtle glow of runes etched in ivory.

"Tighter here," Wayfried instructs, tapping a spot where dragon bone still shows.

Hilde adjusts, pulling the bandages firm.

She secures each end with tiny copper clasps, the metal darkened to prevent shine.

The wrappings transform my hands from skeletal to merely thin, as if wasted by disease.

My wolf bones shift beneath the surface, trying to assert their nature.

I force them still, maintaining the more human shape I've crafted.

The bandages help, containing borrowed pieces that want to break free.

"Arms next," Hilde says, reaching for wider strips. "Then we'll work our way up."

The process continues, each layer of cloth bringing me closer to passing as something the dwarves might accept.

Something broken, but human enough to trade with.

My borrowed bones settle into their new configuration.

The council members file out, boots scraping against stone.

Only Commander Ikert remains, her weathered face illuminated by torches.

"Remember who you serve," she says softly, fingers brushing the ancient commander's crest on my armor.

I incline my wrapped head.

The iron mask feels heavy, but the weight matters little to these bones.

She nods, tucking the response into her coat. "You understand then, good. The guards will escort you out."

I rise, bandaged form towering despite my more contained shape.

The cloth wrappings pull tight as I move.

The chamber door creaks open.

A ring of guards waits beyond, spears held at ready angles. Their knuckles whiten against wooden shafts as I emerge.

The hallway feels narrower with their presence and anxious nerves.

They form a wary circle around me, maintaining precise distance.

These men know they escort danger.

The iron mask hides my skull, but they know what lurks beneath the wrappings.

They've seen me shift form, watched borrowed bones realign.

Their spears won't waver until I'm beyond the walls.

I follow the ring of guards through Haven's narrow streets, my bandaged form casting long shadows in the torchlight.

The War Council trails behind, rejoining.

Citizens scatter at my approach. A mother yanks her curious child inside, door slamming shut.

Men grip farming tools like weapons, knuckles white against wooden handles.

Their fear is familiar. These bones have worn many shapes that inspired terror before.

The ones who don't know truth of bones beneath cloth only hear leper's call.

It is not the first time.

Their fear will keep them alive in days to come.

The guards lead me toward Haven's edge, where the stench of sewage meets ancient stone.

Thick iron grates block the entrance, reinforced with salvaged metal and rusted chains.

Faded religious symbols dot the barriers, desperate prayers to gods who abandoned this realm long ago.

The barriers speak of desperate defense, of horrors barely contained. Dragon bones within my frame resonate with ancient magic woven into the metal, while wolf bones sense old blood dried in the cracks.

The tunnels beneath Haven beckon old memories. These bones recall the dwarven engineers who first carved the deep paths, as they linked command post to their underground highways.

Now the passages lie sealed.

Closer to Haven's walls, the burial catacombs sprawl - a maze of cramped corridors where generations of defenders rest in stone niches.

The dead here lie quiet, undisturbed by the power that drives my frame.

Above them, newer tunnels wind crude sewers cut through rock, their iron grates hastily reinforced with whatever materials the citizens could salvage.

These barriers speak of desperate times, when something tried to climb up from below.

The rust-streaked bars and makeshift barricades tell stories of narrow escapes, of horrors kept at bay.

I trace the worn steps leading down.

First the sewers, rank with refuse and fear.

Then the catacombs, where the lesser dead gather near.

Finally, the ancient dwarven roads, broad tunnels that once carried supplies.

These passages could be Haven's salvation or doom. The dwarven roads still connect to their distant kingdoms, though none have dared the journey in years.

What terrors claimed those lightless highways?

What creatures now nest in halls meant for commerce and alliance?

My bones remember the weight of supply crates, the thunder of dwarven supply wagons.

Now there is only the drip of water and the whisper of things that shun the sun.

The first guard approaches the barrier with a rod of blessed iron. His hands shake as he touches the chains, muttering prayers and regrets as he removes that which repels the dead and darker things.

"Stand back," he warns. "These wards burn."

I step closer.

The blessed metal should sear these bones.

The guards tense, expecting my form to smoke and crackle.

Nothing happens.

"Impossible," Waynus mutters, clutching his cane as he approaches. "Those chains were blessed by three different priests."

I reach out, touching the blessed iron.

No cracking, no crackling. No burning. No reaction at all.

Commander Ikert steps forward, her eyes narrowing.

"The chains repel corruption," Old Thedir says, his blind eyes somehow finding me. "But not him. Think on that, Commander."

The blessed chains clatter against stone as Waynus drops them.

His knuckles whiten around his cane.

"Not him," Berta rasps through her metal jaw. "It's an it. A thing of bones and stolen parts that just happens to be wearing an outfit."

Old Thedir taps his staff against the ground. "I've fought enough things in my life to know the difference between enemy and ally."

"A clever beast is still a beast," Eren cuts in, metal fist clenching. "Next you'll claim the balverines have souls because they remember to wear human faces."

"Sure, you can believe that," Thedir says, voice hardening. "Ignore the evidence before us. The blessed chains reject corruption, yet accept this guardian. It returns our dead with dignity instead of adding them to its frame."

Jermaine's metal-capped fingers tap against his belt. "Old man, you can't see the damned thing. It ain't right, it's not natural."

"Neither are your metal fingers, Jermaine," Thedir counters. "Or Berta's jaw. Or Eren's fist. We remake ourselves to survive. Right?"

My borrowed bones remain still as their argument echoes off the sewer walls.

Their words matter little.

These fragments serve regardless of what name they give me.

The dead's only pride is in the living who remain.

The council's argument fades as Maralda steps forward, clutching something against her chest.

She approaches cautiously.

"Here," she says, giving me something. "From the runner's stores. The pen's good stock, won't run dry. Paper's not as good, but you'll manage."

"Just, don't tear your hand off anymore," she says, stepping back. "It unsettles people. And you'll need both hands for climbing through those tunnels."

I nod, the iron mask heavy against reconstructed skull.

She's right.

Commander Ikert raises her hand, "The skeleton serves Haven, that's all that matters."

"Shouldn't we at least give it a name?" Maralda asks, still keeping her distance. "Instead of 'it' and 'skeleton'?"

Commander Ikert's eyes flick to my chestplate, where the ancient commander's emblem rests beneath layers of bandages.

Her expression tightens, a grimace for the recognition that none of the others catch.

"No," she says firmly.

The council members shift uneasily, exchanging glances.

They don't see what passed between us.

Don't recognize the weathered insignia that makes Ikert's jaw clench.

My borrowed bones remember fragments of that crest's meaning. Flashes of battle formations, of soldiers moving.

But the memories are incomplete.

Not me, just more pieces.

Ikert knows something about that emblem.

I remain still, watching her through the iron mask's eyeholes.

The bandages pull tight across my reconstructed frame as I adjust my posture.

The wolf bones want to prowl, to circle.

But I force those borrowed instincts down.

Names matter little.