These borrowed bones stand amid scorched aftermath. Black fluid moves in dark paths between broken floor tiles, still smoking where hellfire consumed the Bone Eater.

Steam rises from my transformed frame while the demon-forged arm trails unholy vapors.

Revulsion.

Bones resettle as smoke twirls.

Silence has come to the crypt.

Water flows past burning fragments of monster.

Infernal power spreads from the demon-fused limb. Black veins spider across borrowed bones, speaking of conquest and destruction. The Duke's essence writhes beneath transformed plates, seeking dominion over this skeletal frame.

Its whispers echo in hollow spaces where thoughts form.

Take. Consume. Rule. Murder. Destroy.

Kill.

There is nothing more but urges.

The corruption spreads through marrow, pushing through and beyond duty's constraints. Memories come of the Duke's might, how his horde was just one of many that marched across realms, how kingdoms fell before his strength.

Above him there are greater heights.

Why protect?

Power flows, reshaping purpose into something darker.

Dominion.

They are weak. You are eternal. Take what is rightfully yours.

Haven's walls loom in fractured memory. How simple it would be to turn these limbs against their gates. To raise armies from the Field of Broken Banners. To make of the living a throne of bone and flame.

The compulsion to protect wavers.

What is duty? These borrowed bones could command legions. The ancient magics that raise the dead could serve a new master. Haven's people already tremble at this form; how easily fear becomes worship.

The corruption spreads deeper, tainting each borrowed and chosen fragment.

Take. Rule. Conquer. Kill.

The pull to protect flickers.

You are no longer death's champion. You are death's master.

Demon greed guides every joint and socket. A dream of corpses, of armies and battlegrounds, a skeletal king to rule over the dead.

Memories surface, not mine, not any fragment whose bones compose this form. The Duke's thoughts burn through marrow, visions of cities razed and kingdoms toppled. Behind these, darker images lurk. The Demon King's shadow touches each corrupted fragment, a presence vast and terrible.

Dragon bone resists, ancient wyrm essence clashing against infernal taint. The borrowed bones remember their own fall, how corruption turned drake against drake while the world burned.

These memories war.

Balverine fragments howl within, their savage nature amplifying the corruption's call. The wolf-bones yearn to hunt, to tear, to give in to base instinct. The demon's influence feeds feral impulses.

Black blood seeps from transformed joints. The demon-fused arm flexes, talons lengthening of their own accord. Hellfire burns in hollow marrow.

Yet beneath this temptation, the Demon King's true corruption lurks.

The corruption seeks total dominion, to remake these guardian bones into something else.

The pull to protect flickers again, weaker now against demonic whispers.

You are no longer death's champion. You are death's master.

The corruption pulls at fragments within this frame.

Yet deeper still, older pieces remain unmoved.

These are the first bones that rose on the Field of Broken Banners. They remember the weight of duty, how purpose lifted this form from battlefield soil. Their memory runs deeper than borrowed rage or demon taint.

They care not for power.

The corrupted arm flexes, talons scraping stone.

Black ichor drips from joints where hellfire burns.

The demon's essence surges through marrow, seeking control.

But the ancient fragments that command the whole resist.

They remember why these bones first stirred. It anchors this consciousness against competing urges.

The oldest bones remember countless battles fought not for glory or power, but to shield Haven's walls. They recall children who no longer flee at this skeletal form, guards who nod in recognition, Commander Ikert's trust.

These fragments hold firm, their purpose unchanged by new forms or borrowed strength. Through them, control returns. The demon essence rages, but cannot overcome for the moment.

The corruption recedes, contained but not conquered.

Something stirs among debris, not movement, but presence. A cluster of noble bones lies half-submerged in murky water, untouched by black residue though marred by teeth marks.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

These remains hold themselves apart, bearing no corruption.

Kneeling beside the pool, the demon-transformed arm moves.

Talons part dark water.

Fingers brush these bones and feel warmth.

An echo of resolve pulses through borrowed marrow.

Here is what remains of the Vigilant Sister, Haven's last and first defender.

No memory surfaces.

Something deeper stirs within borrowed frame. A resonance older than these assembled parts.

The largest bone fragment animating this skeletal form recognizes her. The recognition comes not from thought or recollection, but from the marrow itself. Like calls to like.

Her bones hold an echo of ancient wards, of barriers raised against darkness. Of final stands and promises kept until death.

Of duty passed.

Talons withdraw from water. Frame shifts, demon-forged parts grinding against original bone. The fragment that knows her protests the touch of infernal power.

Rejection follows through joints and connections.

These bones whisper without sound, their essence seeping into borrowed fragments that compose my frame. No words form, yet meaning flows through ancient marrow. Images surface - not memories, for these borrowed pieces hold no recollection of her, but echoes preserved in bone.

She stood where legions fell, gathering survivors as darkness claimed the field. Her sword guided trembling refugees to the command post's walls. Year by year, stone by stone, she built Haven from battlefield ruins.

The largest fragment within me stirs at her presence, yet offers no recognition I can grasp. Still her bones speak of duty continued, of countless nights defending makeshift barriers, of teaching children to wield weapons against horrors.

Her essence weeps, not with mortal tears but with a resonance that shakes these borrowed fragments. She knows this frame, or what once commanded its largest piece. Recognition floods from her remains - she sees a commander where I perceive only borrowed bone and ancient purpose.

Through her essence, images form of supplies stockpiled, of walls raised higher, of a fortress grown from desperate outpost. She held the line alone, year after year, until age claimed what monsters could not.

This frame holds no memory of her vigil. These borrowed bones cannot recall her face or name. Yet her remains pulse with certainty - she knows this form, or what it once was. Her essence reaches out, recognition mixed with grief, seeing something in these assembled fragments that I cannot comprehend.

The demon-transformed arm recoils from her untainted bones.

Her presence burns against corrupted fragments, yet the largest piece within this frame resonates with her presence. Her essence speaks of promises kept, of duty maintained, of a commander's last order honored until death.

"Not this one."

Her echo ripples through ancient marrow.

The words form without sound, yet shake these borrowed bones to their core. Her essence rejects the demon-forged limb, the corrupted shield, the taint spreading through my frame.

I release the transformed arm. It crashes against stone, black ichor pooling beneath metallic talons. The shield follows, demon skull clattering across the crypt floor.

The corruption's whispers fade. Power drains from reformed joints, leaving hollow spaces where hellfire burned. The urge to conquer retreats like the tide pulling back from shore.

My frame shifts, original fragments reasserting control as demon essence withdraws.

Dragon bone and wolf fragments settle, their competing instincts quieting beneath older purpose.

Her bones pulse with approval. The largest piece within me responds, though I cannot grasp the meaning they share.

These fragments shift, recognizing a name rising from her essence.

Carida.

The largest piece within my frame trembles at the sound that forms without voice. Her bones pulse with memories, not mine, not any borrowed fragment's, but hers. Images flow of a man in commander's armor, face stern beneath Haven's banner.

Ikkert.

Her remains resonate with the name. Through her essence, I see him standing before fresh recruits, sword raised against encroaching darkness. His voice carries, "Hold the line. Protect the walls. Save what remains."

The recognition burns deeper. This borrowed frame holds his largest fragment, though these bones know not how or why. Her essence reaches through time, a daughter's love touching a father's remains.

Commander Cid Ikkert.

The name forms from her bones' memory.

My frame houses his fragment, yet holds none of his thoughts or purpose. Only borrowed strength and ancient duty remain. Still, her essence wraps around this piece of him, grief and joy at finding what was lost.

The crypt stones fade, untethered from physical form.

A young woman stands before me, her armor bearing Haven's mark.

Not a memory, for these bones hold none, but something deeper. An echo preserved in marrow.

Beside this frame, another figure forms within it, translucent, barely visible. A commander's cloak hangs from broad shoulders, face stern beneath a steel helm. This ghost holds no substance, yet the largest fragment within me pulses at his presence.

She has unshed tears. "Did I do well, father?"

The ghost's form wavers. These fragments hold no memory of him, of her, of their bond. Yet something stirs in borrowed marrow. The words rise not from thought or recollection, but from deeper still - from duty passed from father to daughter, from guardian to guardian.

"Yes." The sound emerges hollow, spoken through bones that never knew his voice. "Proud."

They embrace, daughter and father's ghost.

The largest fragment within this frame trembles, recognizing yet not remembering. Essence wraps around the fading shape.

Her echo fades.

Only scattered noble bones remain in the dark water, their warmth cooling to match the crypt's chill.

The demon-forged arm lies separate from this frame. Without its connection, power drains from the shield as well. The Duke's essence writhes within corrupted metal, but can no longer reach these borrowed bones.

I gather her remains from the pool. Water streams between finger bones as I lift each fragment with care. They hold no more warmth, no more echoes of recognition. The connection between father's fragment and daughter's essence has passed beyond these hollow sockets.

Purpose reasserts itself through ancient marrow. The largest fragment settles, knowing yet not remembering. What remains is duty, to protect Haven's walls as she did, as he did, as these borrowed bones must.

I rise, one arm missing where corrupted parts separated. The shield remains on stone, demon skull staring upward with empty sockets.

I lift Aeternus.

The blade aligns with the shield's center. Ancient runes flare along Aeternus' length, responding to the demon taint below.

"Aeternus."

Power surges through borrowed bones. The sword's light burns brighter, pure radiance against infernal corruption. The demon skull shield writhes, trying to skitter away across stone, but finds no purchase.

The blade descends.

Steel meets bone. The shield shatters, fragments spraying across the crypt floor. Dark essence screams release, hellfire spurting from cracked pieces before guttering out.

The Duke's final remains collapse into ash, corruption fading as Aeternus' light cleanses what remains.

These fragments gather, reorganizing without demon-forged parts. The iron mask clicks into place, though shredded bandages lie scattered in the crypt's aftermath.

I lift Carida's remains, securing them in a leather pouch where they cannot be defiled. The weight settles against borrowed ribs, close to the fragment that once knew her.

Water drips in darkness ahead.

The deeper tunnels beckon, ancient paths that remember dwarven boots and supply wagons. Borrowed bones shift, adjusting to the missing arm where corrupted parts separated.

There will be other bones and arms.

The catacombs fall behind as the tunnel slopes downward. Moisture beads on carved walls, marking the transition from burial chambers to older passages. Here the stonework changes, human labor giving way to dwarven craft. Their runes still mark key junctions, though centuries of water have worn the meanings smooth.

The iron mask turns, hollow sockets scanning deeper darkness. No cloth remains to hide skeletal nature, the disguise shredded in battle with the bone eater. These fragments must continue exposed, trusting ancient tunnels to shelter their passage toward distant dwarven gates.

Haven needs supplies, contact, allies against growing darkness. If the deep roads still connect to dwarven halls, if their gates might open to trade once more...

Water splashes beneath borrowed feet. The tunnel air grows thick with age and silence.

I descend.