The refugees gather their belongings, strength renewed from the morning's meal. I secure the remaining provisions in makeshift sacks fashioned from torn cloaks.

My bones lead us back to the road. The worn stones still show through patches of corrupted moss - an ancient path that once connected kingdoms. Now it serves as our lifeline to Haven.

Emmy walks closer to my frame today, her small steps matching the click of my bones. The food has brought color back to hollow cheeks. Her mother Sarah no longer flinches when my shadow falls across their path.

The sun climbs higher, burning away morning mist. Merik takes point with his spear while I guard our rear. My socket-gaze sweeps the treeline, tracking movement in shadow. The corrupted deer keep their distance, but other threats may not show such wisdom.

"How far to Haven?" one of the refugees asks.

I do not answer, I do not know. Time had no meaning when I crossed the road.

The fragments that make up this form hold memories of marching - endless columns of soldiers heading to their final battle. Days blurred together as armies converged on Victory Fields. Some memories show leaves green and full, others speak of snow coating these stones. The same path walked in different seasons, different years, different wars.

My hollow sockets track the worn milestones, their markings eroded by corruption's touch. Numbers and distances that meant something once, now just scratches in ancient stone. Distance matters only in the steps these refugees can manage, in the supplies they can carry.

Emmy tugs at my tattered cloak, pointing at carved symbols. I trace them with steel fingers, but their meaning is only half remembered. The memories that surface speak of different measurements - how far a legion could march in a day, how many supplies needed to reach the next waystation, how long until reinforcements arrived.

None of it matters now.

Haven lies ahead, that is enough. These bones will see them there, whether it takes a day or a season. Time belongs to the living. Death's champion measures only in threats ended, lives preserved.

The road stretches on, and my borrowed bones follow its path, guarding those who still count the passing hours.

Only vibrations through stone, only movement on the road, nothing dangerous, just the shuffle of weary feet.

We move steadily north, the group's pace stronger after rest and sustenance. The road knows the way home.

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Something these borrowed bones know: the weight of a shield wall. As we march, fragments of memory surface through marrow, the press of armored shoulders.

I watch the refugees walk in scattered formation, exposed.

Vulnerable. These bones remember better ways.

But these are not soldiers.

I feel a pull, a feel a compulsion, something drives these bones to move. Faster forward, pushing refuges to move.

My joints click faster as I move among the refugees. Steel fingers scrape urgently in the dirt.

MOVE MOVE MOVE

Sarah clutches Emmy's hand tighter. "What is it? What's wrong?"

No time. The compulsion drives these bones to frantic motion. I grab Emmy, lifting her small form as gently as death's hands allow. Her surprised squeak cuts through the morning air. Other children stare, frozen in fear.

My free hand scratches deeper in the dirt: RUN

I scoop up Merik's son under my other arm. The children's hearts pound against my armored ribs.

Their warm breath fogs the cold steel.

"Go!" Merik understands first, grabbing another child. "Everyone run!"

The refugees break into panicked motion, parents snatching up little ones, the elderly struggling to match pace. Too slow. Too slow. The vibrations grow stronger.

I push them forward, Emmy and the boy clutched against my chest plate. My bones remember the weight of children - fragments of ancient warriors who carried their own to safety. Those memories guide these hands now, holding firm but gentle.

The group stumbles into a ragged run. I take more children, three more small forms pressed against rusted armor.

"Which way?" Sarah gasps.

My skull turns north. Always north. Haven waits. But first we must move. Faster. Faster.

The pull screams through my frame now.

Whatever comes, it comes soon. These borrowed bones know only that we must flee.

The compulsion pulls harder at my bones, an urgent force I cannot ignore.

These fragments remember too many last stands, too many final charges.

But the refugees cannot fight what comes. They must live.

I gather more children, my frame expanding to accommodate their small forms.

Six now press against my armor.

The adults struggle to keep pace, laden with supplies and weaker members.

Not fast enough.

My free hand scratches desperately in passing dirt.

HAVEN WALLS. NO STOP.

The memory of recent battle floods through my marrow, hundreds of undead fell to my blade. Yet this approaching threat demands we flee.

My form can shatter and reform. These children cannot.

The pull screams through every joint, every fragment.

The group just simply is not fast enough. Too many elderly. Too many injured. They'll never outrun it.

My bones remember carrying wounded from battlefields. Remember the price of duty.

I transfer the children to Sarah and Merik, my fingers gentle despite urgent haste. More scratches in dirt: CARRY WEAK. LEAVE NOTHING.

They understand. The stronger refugees lift those who cannot run. Merik shoulders an elder's weight. Sarah gathers two more children.

My sword hand flexes. These bones know what must be done. I will delay whatever comes, buy them time to reach Haven's walls. This form can be broken and rebuilt. They cannot.

The compulsion pulls south now, toward the approaching threat. The refugees stumble north, following the road's worn stones. My purpose splits - protect them, face what comes. The fragments that make me remember too many last stands.

I turn south. Let it find death's champion first.