The tunnels descend at a steeper angle and spiral into deeper dark.

Water trickles down the walls, collecting in channels carved by dwarven hands. Their craft shows in every angle, every precisely fitted stone.

No rough edges. No wasted cuts.

Ancient runes mark the intersections, their meanings worn nearly smooth by centuries of dripping moisture.

The tunnel levels out. The stonework changes, more elaborate now. Traces of gold sheen and brass still cling to deeper-carved runes. This section once served as more than mere passage. The dwarven road should lie ahead, their ancient highway connecting fortress-cities beneath the earth.

Instead, tons of collapsed stone block the way. The cave-in fills the tunnel completely, packed tight from floor to ceiling.

The collapse bears telltale signs of dwarven engineering. Each boulder fits against its neighbors, not the chaotic jumble of a natural cave-in. Blast marks radiate outward in perfect circles, spaced at regular intervals across the rubble face.

This was sealed from within.

Steel fragments embed in stone, remnants of shaped charges designed to shear the rock along predetermined lines. The fallen sections interlock, creating an impenetrable barrier without gaps or weakness.

The surrounding tunnel walls show no structural damage beyond the blast zone. The charges focused their force inward, containing the collapse. Support beams remain intact mere feet from the rubble.

My skeletal fingers move across the stone.

Not a single loose rock shifts under pressure. The entire mass acts as a single solid plug, anchored into the tunnel wall.

Dwarven runes near the collapse differ from the worn markings in previous sections. Warning signs, perhaps, or records of the deliberate sealing.

Fingers trace the carved letters. Dwarven script is carved in stone. Below, the same warning repeats in human tongue, both recent.

HE BURNS

The words hold power. Not mere carving, but enchanted warning etched by master runesmiths.

I know nothing of its meaning. No memories surface of dwarven lore or ancient warnings. Yet something in the warning's power feels familiar.

Like the current that drives these bones, yet fundamentally different. Where death's power flows cold, these words hold desperate purpose.

My hand withdraws from the carved warning. Water continues its endless path down the walls, yet refuses to touch the glowing runes. The drops curve around the letters as if repelled, leaving the warning dry while surrounding stone gleams wet.

The floor holds more evidence, scratch marks from heavy machinery used to position the charges, all aligned toward specific points in the tunnel's arch. Tool marks in the walls show where temporary supports were anchored.

This was no accident or hasty barricade. The dwarves invested significant time and resources to permanently close this path. Whatever lay beyond, they meant it to stay sealed forever.

Purpose shifts as memory surfaces, the titan form that once towered above Haven's walls. The ability to split consciousness remains, even in this smaller frame.

Skeletal fingers detach and reassemble. More pieces join, spare fragments carried from previous battles that fortify ribcage and redundant parts.

A separate entity forms, roughly hand-shaped but larger, with additional joints and segments that allow it to navigate tight spaces.

The construct moves independently yet remains connected to my awareness. It scuttles across the floor, testing the sealed tunnel's edges. Probing where stone meets stone.

Near the floor, a hairline fracture extends downward.

Big enough.

The construct compresses itself, bone grinding against bone as it forces entry into the narrow gap.

Rock scrapes against borrowed fragments as it pushes deeper.

The crack widens slightly as it descends. Not a natural formation, the stone shows signs of stress from whatever the dwarves sealed away. Their perfect barrier holds, but the surrounding rock yields to ancient pressure.

Through the construct's senses, the path ahead feels promising. The fracture continues to angle down and away from the main tunnel. Not large enough for my full frame, but the smaller form can continue exploring.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The fracture opens to a larger chamber. Ancient dwarven architecture stretches into darkness, but something feels wrong. The stonework bears scorch marks, and the air holds an acrid tang that even these hollow bones can sense.

Aeternus goes first, blade scraping against rock as I lower it through the gap. The sword clatters against stone floor below, its magical resonance confirming solid ground.

The iron mask follows, its weight pulling it down into shadow. Metal rings against metal as it strikes Aeternus. Then the bag holding the Vigilant Sister's parts.

All to reach the separate hand that waits in deeper dark.

Bones disconnect. Ribs separate from spine, yet remain linked by death's current. Skeletal arms split at joints, fragments realigning into new forms. Purpose guides the reshaping.

The spine curves, vertebrae clicking as segments lock into serpentine configuration. Ribs flatten outward like centipede legs, ready to grip stone and pull forward. Dragon bone fragments integrate naturally, reinforcing the altered frame.

Balverine bones prove useful here. The hidden wolf skull splits, jaw bones becoming additional gripping points. Borrowed monster parts remember how to move through tight spaces.

The serpentine spine goes first, vertebrae scraping against rock as it follows Aeternus down. Rib-legs catch and release, finding holding points in hairline cracks. The transformed arms probe ahead for stable paths.

No flesh to tear, no breath to catch, just the grinding of bone against stone as this collection of reformed parts goes deeper.

The magical current flows differently now, having to navigate the many separated pieces in their altered shapes.

Yet purpose remains unbroken, death's power adapting to these new configurations.

Each segment knows its role. The centipede-ribs pull while snake-spine pushes. Transformed arm-bones twist and anchor, securing position before the next movement.

The process is methodical, inevitable and continuous.

The separate hand-construct waits below, sending awareness of space and depth through shared connection. Its bone-fingers tap against stone.

The separate pieces gather in the wider chamber. Death's current pulls them together, but not into familiar humanoid shape. Purpose demands adaptation.

Dragon bones shift first, not of memories of skies, but of crawling. Curved talons emerge from finger bones, natural hooks for gripping stone.

Spine fragments integrate with mine, allowing sinuous movement through narrow spaces.

The ribcage compresses, plates overlapping like armor scales. Multiple anchor points emerge where bones lock together in new configurations. Each joint can now rotate freely, allowing movement in any direction.

The chamber offers more space, but these altered forms lack proper grip for Aeternus. The sword lies silent against stone, waiting. Dragon talons can scrape and climb, but are not meant for wielding.

Purpose demands solution. The current flowing through these parts holds answer.

Vertebrae shift apart, creating space between spine segments. Aeternus slides between the gaps, its crossguard catching against bone. More fragments lock around the blade, securing it in place.

The sword becomes extension of spine, point angling outward like deadly tail. When spine curves, Aeternus follows the motion but does not curve, it is a spike. The blade's magic resonates with death's current, accepting this strange fusion.

Additional bones brace the connection points. Ribs wrap around steel, distributing force across multiple anchor points. Dragon bone reinforces critical junctions where blade meets bone.

I test the new configuration. Spine flexes, Aeternus sweeping in controlled arc. The sword responds as naturally as when held in hand, perhaps more so. Every vertebrae can now contribute to each strike, adding power through serpentine motion.

This form may lack human stance, but it has gained new advantages. The blade can attack from unexpected angles, driven by spine's full range of movement.

What was limitation becomes strength.

Not what ancient knights intended, yet purpose adapts. Death's champion takes new shape to meet challenge.

The iron mask moves against reformed ribs as purpose shifts once more. Creating space within the cage of bone. Plates overlap, forming protective chamber.

The mask slots between ribs, its eye holes aligning with spine segments. Metal edges catch and lock against bone, transforming simple disguise into makeshift shield.

The bag containing Carida's remains follows, settling deeper within the protective cage. The bag's fabric catches against rough edges, anchoring it in place.

Protected.

Ribs close around both mask and remains, sealing them within. Bone plates slide together, interlocking like armor scales. Additional fragments reinforce critical points, ensuring nothing can slip free during movement.

The iron mask now serves as core protection, behind it, the Vigilant Sister's remains rest secure.

Purpose adapts. What protected identity above now guards precious cargo below. The mask's presence feels right, one more piece serving new role in changed circumstances.

This new shape feels right for these depths. No wasted height or bulk, just efficient adaptation to survive whatever the dwarves sealed away. The frame coils and stretches, testing its enhanced mobility.

Dragon-curved talons scrape against stone, finding grip.

The transformed spine coils, letting hollow sockets adjust to deeper gloom. Multiple sources of movement catch my awareness, drawn perhaps by disturbance where nothing should stir.

There, where tunnel walls meet curved ceiling. Pale shapes cling to weathered stone, their segmented bodies reflecting faint light from these empty sockets. Each creature spans longer than a man is tall, something like centipede and cave fisher.

Feeding appendages click.

The lead creature drops, multiple legs finding instant purchase as it scuttles down the wall. Others follow, their pale bodies flowing like water across stone. They move with the coordination of a hunting pack, spreading to cut off retreat while others press forward.

The reformed spine curves, Aeternus angling outward like deadly tail.

The creatures pause, feeding mandibles working as they process this strange prey. No blood to scent. No flesh to tear. Just bone and steel arranged in unfamiliar pattern.

Their hesitation reveals uncertainty.

These hunters know living prey, how it moves, how it bleeds. This skeletal serpent presents new challenge.

The pack spreads wider, pale segments rippling as they adjust position. More drop from above, forming loose circle.

Their movements suggest experience hunting in these tunnels, using walls and ceiling as naturally as floor.

Purpose shifts. The transformed frame settles lower, bone plates scraping stone. Aeternus hungers, its magic undiminished by strange configuration. Death's current flows.

These hunters may rule these depths, but they face something beyond their experience. The spine coils tighter, preparing.

Let them come.