Blackened finger bones scrape against scorched earth. The fires of the Duke's fortress burn behind. Smoke curls through empty ribs, though these hollow fragments cannot smell the burning corruption.

A remaining arm, reduced to two fingers and a thumb, clutches Aeternus close. The blade's runes pulse weakly, matching the fading magic that keeps these fragments moving.

The Demon Shield weighs heavy, attached directly to damaged plates above the elbow but beneath the shoulder. Its corruption now bound to greater purpose.

Cracks spread through charred bone. The missing arm matters little; these borrowed pieces have endured worse. Purpose drives onward, each step marking progress toward distant Haven.

Newly reformed vertebrae groan beneath the strain of movement. The titan's power may be lost, but these bones remember older strength.

Pieces of skull show hairline fractures where demon claws found purchase. No matter. The blue-white light in these sockets remains steady, fixed on the northern horizon where duty waits.

The fortress burns brighter now. Its master's end marked by rising flames that consume centuries of corrupt rule. Let it burn. These bones have other battles to seek.

My foot catches on broken stone. More fragments scatter across. Haven's walls lie leagues ahead, but distance means nothing to the dead.

These bones will march until duty ends or final fragments shatter. No matter. Forward. Always forward. Borrowed bones remember the way home.

The compulsion shifts. Not the familiar pull northward to Haven's walls. This force drags southeast, across territories these borrowed memories mark only as dead fields and broken kingdoms.

My damaged frame turns, joints creaking against their intended path. Haven's safety lies behind, yet purpose cares nothing for conscious choice. The shield scrapes against scattered rocks as I pivot.

Something calls. Not with sound; these chosen bones hear no voices. More a compass toward whatever draws these fragments forward.

Maps stored in borrowed memory show nothing but wasteland in that direction. No settlements survived the corruption's spread through those lands.

Yet purpose does not lie. These bones have learned to trust its guidance. I drag my reformed body forward. The compulsion grows stronger, more insistent.

South. Then east. Where nothing should exist, yet something clearly does. The compulsion grows stronger as I continue across broken lands.

These borrowed bones pause at a ridge's edge, nearly where compulsion demands. Below, impossible signs of life persist.

Fresh thatch gleams atop crude wooden walls, no weathering, no rot. Three thin streams of woodsmoke rise straight through still air.

The scent means nothing to these hollow sockets, but memory follows of hearth fires and cooking meals.

My damaged frame shifts, bone scraping against borrowed bone. No fortifications guard this hamlet. No watchtowers against the gloom.

Just simple dwellings huddled together. These lands should be empty. Yet life persists below, movement between buildings, a door opening then closing, shadows of daily routine carried out in demon-claimed territory.

I count twelve structures. Simple homes of rough-cut timber and salvaged stone. A larger hall stands central, its roof peak crowned with a crude bell tower.

No guards patrol. No weapons wait. They cannot see me yet. The ridge's shadow keeps these bones hidden as purpose demands careful attention.

This hamlet should not exist. Cannot exist. Yet smoke rises from three chimneys, defying corruption's claim on these dead lands.

The last settlement discovered in forbidden territories held only horror underneath. The Harvester is not alone among monsters that feast on human flesh.

My borrowed memories surface of abandoned settlements claimed by monsters. But this place holds true warmth. Real smoke from real fires.

Fresh-cut wood and newly-laid thatch speak of human labors. A bell tower's rope sways slightly. Not the methodical movement of undead routine, but the natural motion of hemp against wood.

A child's laugh carries far. No monster has mastered that sound. These bones remember the parasites encountered after leaving Haven, how they wore patrol members' faces and begged for aid.

But their deception held no depth. No gardens grew beside their false homes. No worn paths marked daily routes between buildings.

Here, shallow furrows in the earth show recent farming. Laundry hangs between houses, colors faded from true use.

A stack of firewood leans against one wall, its lower logs softened by real weather while upper pieces remain freshly split. The larger hall's door opens.

A woman emerges carrying empty buckets toward what must be a well. Her movements flow naturally, none of the stilted awkward movements that mark false humanity.

She pauses to adjust her grip, a small human gesture no monster would think to replicate. This is life persisting where it should not.

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The compulsion that drew these bones here pulses stronger. Purpose aligns with other callings.

Yet purpose pulls forward, insistent. These fragments obey, beginning descent toward the hamlet's edge. Aeternus hungers in grasp of damaged fingers.

No walls. No defenses. Just life where death should be. I halt in shadow's edge. These bones know prudence.

The adults move with purpose as shadows lengthen. A woman guides children toward a stone cellar. Their obedience speaks volumes.

No protests at being locked away. Protection maybe. "Night comes," she calls. Her voice holds eager edges. "Inside, little ones. Wait for morning's light."

The cellar door closes. Locks from outside. Something wrong. My borrowed memories stir. Falksreach.

The name surfaces from Haven's maps, marked as a fallen settlement. Yet these buildings stand fresh-built, too new for ruins three days east of Haven's walls.

The woman's movements catch these hollow sockets again. Her stride flows smooth, muscles shifting. Sunlight fades.

Doors close from every building. Familiar routine. My borrowed bones recognize aspects of their nature.

Screams come with growing darkness. The woman by the well doubles over, her spine elongating as coarse fur erupts through splitting skin.

Fingers lengthen into claws that scrape stone. Where humans stood moments ago, massive wolf-like forms now rise on hind legs.

Balverines. Their muscles ripple beneath matted fur as they shake off the last vestiges of human guise. Yellow eyes gleam.

The largest, still wearing shreds of the woman's dress, throws back its elongated head and howls. Others join. The sound of organized hunters announcing the night's beginning.

More doors open. More transformations complete. I count twenty-three adult balverines now prowling between buildings.

Their movements hold none of the earlier human pretense. Claws click against stone as they gather near the locked cellar.

The large female balverine paces before the iron-banded door, then turns away. My damaged frame settles lower against scorched earth as understanding comes with borrowed memories.

Balverines. The massive wolf-forms prowling between buildings match fragments of uncommon knowledge. Hunters that wear human skin by day, taking settlements as permanent feeding grounds.

Twenty-three adults gather in the hamlet's center, their muscles rippling beneath matted fur. With missing pieces and weakened joints, such numbers would test these fragments.

The largest female stalks past, still trailing shreds of her dress. Purpose pulls hard toward the cellar, but older memories counsel patience.

The children remain secure until dawn. These damaged fragments need repair first. I drift between buildings, these borrowed bones making no sound that draw their senses.

The balverines pass within arm's reach, massive forms focused on distant prey beyond the hamlet's edge. Death holds no scent they hunger for.

Their hunt calls them elsewhere. My damaged frame carries me past crude walls built atop older stones.

The contrast speaks clear - fresh timber covering ancient foundations, a facade hiding darker purpose. Gardens line the paths, vegetables ripening unpicked.

These bones remember enough of life to know wrong when seeing it. The cellar door rises before me, solid oak bands wrapped in black iron.

My skeletal fingers trace the cellar door's iron bands. No sound comes through the thick oak, not even breathing from those locked within.

The door's construction speaks of older craft than the crude buildings above, heavy metal hinges set deep in original stone. The lock mechanism shows wear from outside only.

No way to open it from within. I press damaged bone against stone. Nothing. The walls must be thick indeed to block all sound of children who should be frightened, crying, making any noise at all.

The silence bothers these fragments more than howls of hunting balverines. Young ones locked away should whimper, should call out, should make some sound. Yet only dead stillness rises from below.

I rap knuckles against oak, testing. The wood doesn't echo, too dense, too thick. My remaining fingers probe the seams where door meets stone.

No gaps, no spaces where sound might escape. Or air flow freely. This cellar door was built by different hands, in a different age, for a different purpose.

Purpose pulls onward. Information before action. These fragments have learned patience through countless battles.

The community larder stands apart, larger than the other structures. Its door shifts in the night air, hinges protesting each movement.

Wrong radiates from within. These bones follow purpose's insistent drive. Inside, hooks line the walls.

Not simple butcher's tools, these bear trophies of the hunt. Bodies hang in various states, their clothes marking them as travelers and scavengers.

Not all from Haven. Memories, but knowledge is secured, there are other places besides Haven.

My hollow sockets scan the hanging remains. Strips of dried flesh cling to yellowed bone. The scent means nothing to these borrowed fragments, but memories surface of rotting meat and copper tang.

A corpse near the entrance draws purpose's attention. Haven's colors mark the uniform, fabric mostly intact despite the skeletal state beneath. The bones have been picked clean.

The remnants of his ribcage still wear Haven's colors, the fabric barely touched by decay. These fragments know him, the man who once threw stones.

Who later accepted my protection on the journey north. Who reached safety and then ventured away from it. I trace skeletal fingers across the remains.

An echo pulses through my borrowed bones, protection, family, desperation. Merik's final moments linger in these picked-clean fragments.

His bones remember the drive to keep his people safe, even as teeth tore flesh from frame. The echo grows stronger as I touch his skull.

A father's need to guard his children passes through my hollow frame. His bones hold onto purpose past death, a shadow of consciousness that recognizes my own compulsion to protect.

My damaged fingers curl around his femur. His bones remember the horror of realization, of discovering what truly dwelled in Falksreach as he and his men were taken.

His echo pulses with shared purpose. Even in death, these bones remember their drive to protect. Not gone entirely, just transformed.

Like the magic that animates my own borrowed frame, Merik's final moments left an imprint of desperate guardianship. But his are not bones that can be chosen.

For a young girl back in Haven I will return her father. I gather his pieces into a bag and store them. The other remains offer what these damaged pieces need.

My skeletal fingers trace the hanging corpses, testing which bones still hold strength. Many have rotted too far, made brittle by time and feeding.

Others crack at the slightest pressure, unusable. But some remain solid. I gather those with care, letting memories in bones guide the reconstruction.

A piece from one to fill a gap in the arm, another to restore missing fingers. Each piece I select must be strong enough to bear Aeternus' weight, to wield the demon shield.

The magic that binds these fragments pulses stronger with each addition. New bones fuse seamlessly, ancient runes spreading across their surface to match the existing patterns.

My form grows more complete, more capable. A spine segment here. A shoulder blade there.

The borrowed pieces remember their purpose, eager to serve again. Not all bones can be chosen, some reject the magic, refusing to join alongside borrowed and chosen fragments.

But enough accept to rebuild what was lost. My damaged frame straightens, joints moving smoothly once more.

The demon shield settles properly against a reconstructed shoulder. The blue-white light in my sockets grows brighter as power flows through this rebuilt form.

Not the titan's overwhelming strength, but enough. More than enough for what must be done.