Titan from remains anchored outside Haven's walls, sword planted deep in earth. Yet through the envoy's hollow sockets, I witness the nervous approach of scribes who hide behind the walls, their maps and scrolls are no defender.

The connection between forms pulses with each step my smaller frame takes. Distance matters, I dare not let the envoy stray too far from my larger self. The magic binding us together grows tenuous past certain ranges, like a rope pulled taut and then snaps.

I know this without testing, I feel the connection fray with distance.

When the envoy reaches for chalk, I feel it. When it traces letters on slate, the sensation echoes through both bodies. Not separate minds working in concert, but one will expressed through different arrangements of borrowed bone.

A scribe spreads a detailed map across a wooden table. Through the envoy's eyes, I study the careful ink strokes marking demon territories. Yet my titan form's gaze sweeps the horizon, watching for threats. Two perspectives, one purpose.

The envoy's smaller fingers can point to specific locations, trace routes through mountain passes, tap coordinates with precision my larger form could never manage. But it is fragile, these bones assembled from spare parts.

It is of me, part of me, but not me.

No matter. The titan form holds the true strength, while this lesser frame serves as my hand among the living. When danger comes, the envoy will retreat to rejoin the whole. Until then, it lets me work closely with those I must protect.

The magic flows between both forms like water seeking its own level. I am not divided, merely expressed in two scales at once. The envoy is a tool, an extension, a piece of the greater form reshaped to serve.

Through the envoy's form, I study the reports brought by Haven's scouts. Their hands tremble as they describe signs of demonic infighting, scorched earth and blacked blood that spreads corruption where demon lords clash. My titan form's grip tightens on Aeternus' hilt, remembering the Duke who scattered these bones.

"Three days east," a scout traces the path on parchment. "The Duke's fortress shows damage. Other demons pressed their advantage, the same one you once battled."

The memory surfaces, dragon bones shattering, borrowed limbs scattering across blood-soaked earth. But now? Now I stand fifteen feet of wyrm-reinforced bone and ancient steel. The Duke's power nearly unmade me then.

But he bleeds. He weakens. He heals.

Through both my forms, I process cold calculation. The Duke bleeds. The Duke shows weakness. These are not just statements, they are opportunities.

My borrowed bones remember his power, how he scattered my previous form across scorched earth.

But that was before. Before the Field of Broken Banners rebuilt me. Before dragon bone fused with ancient steel and shard of justice seeded newer paths.

I feel it in these bones - the same pull that transformed me from grave knight to dragon knight to titan. Each evolution born from the death of something greater. The Duke's power nearly unmade me once. But power flows both ways. His death could forge something new from these chosen bones.

Through the envoy's form, I mark the Duke's fortress location. Three days east. The demons fight among themselves, distracted by their own wars. They do not expect the dead to rise against them. They do not expect chosen bones to seek destruction.

Stolen story; please report.

My titan form's grip tightens on Aeternus. The sword hungers. These bones know patience. These bones know purpose.

One chance is all these bones require. One opening to prove that monsters can fall to other monsters. One death to fuel the next evolution.

My envoy's smaller frame traces battle lines on the map. Through its eyes, I see the patterns of demon movements, the signs of warfare between corrupt powers.

The Duke retreated to his fortress after a battle? Pride? Pain?

My bones remember his strength, how he scattered my form to the winds. But these are not the same bones. This is not the same knight. What nearly destroyed me has only made this form stronger, larger, harder to break.

Through my envoy's form, I trace letters on the slate board while Commander Ikert leans forward at her desk, squinting at my writing.

DUKE WEAKENED. WILL SEE FALL.

Ikert's fingers drum against weathered oak. "Your larger form could reach there in two days, assuming the old roads still hold."

I wipe the slate clean, chalk scraping against dark stone.

PRIDE. WEAKNESS.

"And you mean to exploit that weakness?" She stands, pacing to a wall covered in maps and markers. Red pins mark demon sightings, black ones for corruption spread. "The last time you faced this Duke, it nearly destroyed you."

DUTY DEMANDS. THE MASTER BEYOND ITS MASTER MUST FALL. CHOSEN BONES MUST GROW STRONGER. AM CHANGED NOW.

The bones clink as I write.

"Changed enough to face a Duke of Hell?" She frowns. "Even weakened, it'll still be powerful.."

The envy inclines its head forward. It is known.

I say nothing further.

Ikert's lips press thin. She's seen my previous transformations, witnessed borrowed bones take new shapes. "And if you fall? Haven loses its strongest defender."

HAVEN SURVIVED BEFORE BONES.

IT WILL SURVIVE AFTER.

"Perhaps." She studies smaller frame. "But fewer of us would live to see that survival." Her hand rests on an old battle map. "Show me your planned approach."

Through my envoy's hands, I wipe the slate clean. The chalk snaps in skeletal fingers.

NO PLAN. BONES KNOW WAY.

Ikert's face hardens. "That's not an answer."

My larger form shifts outside, armor plates grinding. The envoy's bones click as I write again.

DEMON LORDS FIGHT. PRIDE BLINDS. CORRUPTION SPREADS.

I pause, chalk hovering.

AM MONSTER NOW. MONSTERS KILL MONSTERS.

"You're suggesting..." Ikert's eyes narrow. "You'll use their own chaos against them?"

The envoy's skull dips in agreement. These borrowed bones remember countless battles, countless deaths. Plans matter little when blood flows and steel rings.

What matters is the kill.

DEMONS SEE ONLY POWER. PRIDE. HUNGER.

My titan form's grip tightens on Aeternus. The sword pulses, ancient runes flickering with shared purpose.

DO NOT SEE CHOSEN BONES UNTIL TOO LATE.

"And the Duke?" Ikert challenges. "What of his power?"

The envoy's chalk scratches against slate.

POWER FLOWS BOTH WAYS. DEATH FEEDS EVOLUTION.

Through both forms, I feel the pull - the same force that transformed these bones before. Each death of something greater carved new paths. The Field of Broken Banners remembers. These bones remember.

NO PLAN. ONLY PURPOSE.

The envoy's smaller frame stands silent while Ikert processes my words. Plans are for the living. Strategies for those who fear death. These bones know only the hunt, the kill, the endless duty that drives them forward.

Let the demons plot and scheme in their fortresses of corruption. Let them war among themselves, blind to all but their own desires. These chosen bones will carve their own path through blood and darkness.

There is no plan. Only purpose. Only the next kill that feeds evolution.

The envoy's chalk writes one final time

MONSTERS DIE. BONES REMAIN.

Through the envoy's form, I set down the chalk and step back from Commander Ikert's desk. The smaller bones creak as I turn toward the door, each movement echoing through both my frames. The connection pulses stronger as my fragmented self moves closer to my titan form.

Haven's defenders press against the walls, making way as my smaller frame passes. Some fearful, some curious. Through my titan form's eyes, I watch my own approach, the smaller collection of bones walking worn stone..

The distance closes. The magic binding both forms hums louder, like a plucked string finding harmony. My envoy's frame reaches the base of Haven's walls where my larger self towers. Borrowed bones recognize borrowed bones.

The smaller form breaks apart, segments separating . . Ribs unlatch. Spine unwinds. Skull detaches. Each piece rises, drawn upward by the same force that first assembled these chosen bones.

My titan form absorbs the returning pieces. Dragon-reinforced bones welcome their smaller brothers home. The magic flows smoother now, no longer split between two vessels.

I am whole again, singular in purpose and form.