"You best watch yourself, beast." He raps his stump on the pitted floor. "Corrupted things prowl that cesspit. A living man can drown in filth or get snagged by tentacles, or something worse. Maybe you can't drown, but there are uglier fates."

I say nothing, only tilt my bandaged head in acknowledgment.

Finally, Commander Ikert eases the lever.

Metal grates against metal. A hidden mechanism groans, and the thick sewer hatch in the floor slams open.

The smell grows bolder - rot, stale water, centuries-old sickness left to fester.

Several recoil, covering their noses.

"Gods," Berta rasps. "You sure you won't turn around and come out a monster?"

She looks up and down my half-wrapped frame. "Or more of a monster, I mean."

I have no response.

Whether monster or better monster matters not.

The stale air carries no scent to these hollow bones. Their reactions tell enough - hands clasped over faces, eyes watering at whatever reek rises from below.

I lean forward, peering down through the iron grating.

Darkness stretches endless.

Commander Ikert hands me a rolled parchment, weighted with lead caps. "Your map of the old tunnels. Marks the route to where we think the dwarven gates might be. No promises it's accurate."

I reach for the map.

Looking down once more into the darkness, I feel the pull of ancient stone. These tunnels remember when Haven was young, when trade flowed freely between human and dwarf.

Now they hold only echoes and whatever horrors have made them home.

The council watches. They've placed their trust in a monster to save them.

I give Commander Ikert a final nod. Then I step forward and begin my descent into the depths.

One guard lowers a lantern through the opening, revealing slick rungs descending into black sludge.

For me, it only evokes old instincts from wolf fragments, a muted sense of meat that's diseased.

This is not a place for hunting.

No one else speaks. I grasp the ladder, feeling rust crumble where I hold. With a creak, I slide down into gloom.

The last I see of the war council is a ring of uneasy faces encircling Commander Ikert. She meets my gaze, blue-white pinpoints glowing behind the iron mask, just before darkness swallows me.

Flakes of iron drift.

The bandages grow damp from moisture that seeps through ancient stone.

The lantern light fades above, leaving only the glow of hollow sockets. The ladder ends abruptly, broken rungs vanishing into thick sludge.

I release my hold, dropping into the mire. The foul water rises past ribs, past shoulders.

These bones sink through layers of waste, decay, settling then on solid ground beneath the murk.

The wolf bones bristle and pride in other fragments refuse to wade through filth.

Sudden anger. An emotion not for the dead, yet here.

I force them both down. Crushing instinct and refusal beneath the weight of purpose.

Chosen bones and borrowed bones are just as easily conquered bones.

Their memories and urges sink into dormancy as I assert control.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

My bandaged form pushes forward through the narrow tunnel. Stone presses close on either side, scraping wrapped bones.

The ceiling hangs low, water-slicked and dripping.

Stagnant liquid fills every space, leaving no room for air.

No matter.

These bones need no breath.

The tunnel tells its own stories. Here, a clutch of human bones wedged in a crack, desperate refugees who thought the sewers might offer escape.

There, tiny skeletons of rats float past, their hollow eyes matching my own.

Fragments of armor, crusted with rust and decay, speak of guards who ventured too deep and never returned.

Ancient refuse presses against my borrowed bones as I wade deeper.

The tunnel opens into a wider chamber. Makeshift platforms, cobbled from rotting wood and rusted metal, line the walls at various heights, desperate attempts at shelter for those who had nowhere else to go.

Tattered cloth hangs between the platforms, creating crude partitions. These were homes once, of a sort.

Fragments of life scatter the walkways - broken cups, moth-eaten blankets.

Crude markings carved into the wall.

Tallies, names, prayers to gods who never answered. Some markings are fresh enough that the stone dust still clings to grooves.

Others fade beneath the press of age.

A skull peers from beneath a collapsed platform. Not all who sought shelter here died peacefully.

The bone speaks to these borrowed fragments. It holds no magic, no purpose, just the desire to live that met misfortune.

I push through the makeshift refugee camp, past the rotting platforms and desperate memories. These tunnels were never meant as shelter. They lead deeper, to spaces carved with purpose.

I press forward, scraping against the curved walls. My skull brushes the ceiling's metal grating, centuries of buildup scratching against my mask.

The map stays dry, sealed in its lead-capped case strapped across my back.

The water grows thicker, clinging like tar. Each step requires force to break free of the muck trying to claim these borrowed bones.

Still, I advance.

Something brushes past in the filth, perhaps the tentacles Eren warned of. Or another horror that lurks.

It matters not.

This form feels no revulsion, no fear.

The tunnel stretches. Rust-eaten pipes jut from stone at odd angles, dripping constant additions to the muck.

Fouled water parts around borrowed bones, patterns speaking of things that learned to thrive in filth.

I pause, letting the faint glow from my sockets sweep the tunnel. Another swirl, too deliberate for a stray current.

My grip tightens on Aeternus.

The water trembles again, but closer.

A hunched mass erupts, sending sludge spraying. It resembles an eel, sides studded with spine-like ridges and a wide, fang-lined mouth that shudders with diseased hunger.

Thick tendrils lash out. The beast hisses, brackish water falling off its hide.

I thrust the lantern aside, bracing low. No bestial or draconic instinct surges. Those borrowed fragments remain silent, dormant.

Instead, echoes of old soldier's discipline guide me - correct stance, calm, and killing focus.

The eel-thing lunges at my facemask. I pivot, letting it strike the empty air beside my shoulder.

My bandaged arms feel a tremor of impact as the creature's teeth graze wrappings around ribs.

Aeternus counters, meeting half-formed flesh in a slicing blow. Black fluid spews into the putrid water, trailing lumps and decaying tissue.

A furious screech rattles the stones.

Tentacles lurch forward from the eel's underside, aiming to bind my legs.

I wrench free with a clank of ancient armor, stepping back through the sludge.

The creature surges again, trying to wrap me in its mass.

The eel-thing's fangs clamp down on my ribcage, crushing bandages and scraping bone. Its strength would shred living flesh, tear muscle from sinew, rupture organs.

But these borrowed bones feel only pressure.

Undiminished.

I let it bite deeper, using its grip to pull myself closer.

There is no muscle to rend, no heartbeat to cease. The eel's jaws clamp uselessly. I let it anchor itself, using its grip to drive Aeternus deeper, finding softer flesh beneath.

Black ichor drips as I drive the blade up through its throat.

The creature thrashes, trying to tear away chunks that don't exist. Its fangs scrape helplessly against the bones that stand before it, thinking it a man.

Where it expects resistance, there is only hollow space. Where it seeks blood, there is only the space between ribs.

Its confusion lasts only moments. The beast releases its futile grip and hollow gnawing, attempting to retreat.

Too late.

I thrust Aeternus deeper.

More black fluid pools in the murky water.

The eel-thing's death thrash sends waves of filth against the tunnel walls. Its tentacles whip frantically, finding no purchase on my skeletal frame.

Each strike that would maim living prey simply clatters against bones that break, but don't shatter, then reform.

I wrench Aeternus sideways, cleaving through corrupted flesh. The eel-thing's death cry bubbles through the muck, a wet gurgle before fading to nothing.

Its mass goes limp.

Black ichor clouds the water further, spreading like ink through the murky depths. The creature's bloated corpse begins to sink, another corrupted thing among the filth.

I am what stalks these tunnels now. A better monster, driven by purpose rather than hunger.

The bandages hang in tatters where its teeth found purchase, revealing glimpses of ivory beneath. Scraps of cloth drift away in the current, no longer needed to hide what I am.

The wrappings served their purpose in the war room above, easing the minds of those who must harbor doubt.

Here in the depths, appearances mean nothing. The darkness cares not for pretense, only sustenance of prey and hunger.

The silence returns, broken only by the constant drip of ancient pipes. Water ripples against time-worn walls that remember older kingdoms.

I reclaim my lantern from where I'd tossed it, its flame still burning in the dark. The light catches on wet bone and rusted armor. The mask remains and will find a way for that to be enough.

The sewers hold more secrets, and more creatures lurking out of sight.

But duty propels these bones forward, deeper into the labyrinth of rot.