The refugees huddle close to their small fire, wrapped in threadbare blankets. Sarah pulls Emmy nearer, tucking the worn fabric snug around her daughter's shoulders.

Merik leans against a fallen log, his gaze sinking lower. Sleep claims him.

My bones click as I patrol. The darkness conceals too many threats. Each rustle of leaves might herald death.

The wyrm-reinforced bones in my frame are stronger now; it was never these bones that would fail, but the living. How much longer till Haven? If nothing slows us, if nothing finds us, if they can keep the pace.

A branch snaps in the underbrush. Only a deer, picking its way between ancient trees. Corruption has touched it.

I move between it and the sleepers until it melts back into shadow. Emmy stirs, whimpering. Sarah's arms tighten around her daughter.

They dream of horrors they've seen, of friends and neighbors cocooned in monsters' lairs. I trace another circle around the camp, armor shifting silently with each step. Purpose drives these bones steady, unwavering. Alert.

Merik's son shifts in his sleep, small fingers clutching a wooden toy soldier. Strange, how the young ones fear me less. They haven't learned yet that bones should stay buried, that death wears many faces.

The fire burns lower. I dare not add more wood; the light draws attention, but they need the warmth. These borrowed bones feel neither heat nor cold, but older memories recall the bite of frost and the pang of hunger.

Their breathing comes shallow. Children twist in uneasy sleep, bellies too empty for proper rest. As my damaged bones from last night's battle settle back into place, new memories surface through marrow.

The 13th Army did not march empty-handed.

[Memory Awakened: 13th Army Supply Routes]

Supply lines stretched across these lands before corruption claimed them. Caches hidden from the enemy, some perhaps still sealed against time's touch.

A waystation two leagues east, stone walls that might have preserved their contents. Iron-bound crates. Sealed jars. Perhaps more.

My finger scrapes dirt near Merik's bedroll. He wakes at the sound, hand reaching for his crude spear before recognizing my form in darkness. "Dead knight?" he mutters.

More scratches in soil.

GUARD. I GO FOR YOUR HUNGER.

He studies the words, then hollow sockets. "You, you know where food might be?"

I tap my reforming armor. New bones bring old knowledge. "Let me wake one of the men," he says. "Two can guard better than one."

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I scratch again. BONES BRING WHAT THEY BRING. Merik nods slowly and then offers a quiet thank you.

These bones move silently into darkness, guided by memories that are not mine, yet serve my purpose all the same. The borrowed fragments of the 13th Army remember their final march. Their last acts of duty might yet serve the living.

The sword rests lightly across borrowed shoulders as I follow paths written in ancient bone. Each step brings clearer memories: a commander's orders, soldiers laboring.

Haven waits ahead, but first these bones must see them fed. Some duties are more than just protection. My bones carry me through darkness, a pace no living legs could match.

Memories guide these steps: a captain's determined march, securing supplies against demon raids. Soldiers hauling crates into stone chambers, sealing iron-bound doors with blessed locks.

I move my frame. No muscle to tire, no breath to catch. Only purpose drives this form forward.

Two leagues east. The distance means nothing to these borrowed bones. Each footfall is certain. The 13th Army knew these paths well.

My cloak snaps behind me as I leap a fallen column, ancient stonework half-buried in corruption-twisted vines. The waystation's location vivid in borrowed memory, nestled against a hillside, walls of fitted stone designed to last centuries.

No need to slow for darkness. These sockets see what living eyes cannot, tracking the subtle shifts between shadow and deeper shadow. The corrupted deer shy away as I pass, sensing death's champion and his purpose.

The mission drives these bones forward. The living need sustenance, and these memories know where it waits. I run tireless through the night, guided by fragments of dead men's knowledge, while behind me the refugees sleep uneasily beside their dying fire.

And then I'm on it. The waystation, half a building now, its eastern wall collapsed to rubble. Yet these borrowed bones remember what lies beneath.

Soldiers worked through night to hide provisions here, their final duty before marching to death in Victory Fields. My gauntlets scrape soil aside, ancient steel against older stone.

There, beneath fallen rocks marked by a rusted helm. The cellar door emerges, oak planks swollen with age but intact. Iron bands still hold true, sealed by whatever power kept corruption at bay.

The lock crumbles at my touch. Steps descend into darkness that holds no terror for hollow sockets. The air hangs stale but clean, no trace of corruption's rot.

Crates line the walls, military markings faded but legible. Most have split, their contents long since spoiled. But three remain sealed, reinforced boxes marked with the 13th Army's supply sigil.

The first yields only rot. The second holds promise. Clay jars of honey, sealed with wax, untouched by time. Nature's gift endures when all else fails.

The third crate reveals sacks of white rice, preserved in pitch-lined containers against moisture and vermin. A final box, hidden behind the others, bears the legion's mark.

Inside, stacks of hard tack, military bread baked until all moisture dies, dense as stone and nearly eternal. These fragments remember how soldiers sustained themselves on long marches, softening the iron-hard biscuits in water, sometimes sweetening them with honey when fortune allowed.

The rice, though old, remains sound. The hard tack shows no trace of rot.

I gather the supplies in fallen cloaks. The load would break living backs, but these bones care nothing for weight.

Dawn approaches as I return, guided by duty's compass. Merik rises at my approach, eyes widening at the burden I carry.

No words pass as I lay provisions before him. His hands tremble as he examines seals unbroken by time. He taps a piece of hard tack against a stone, the sound rings like striking wood.

"This. this is.." he starts, then pauses. "Thank you." Let them wonder how death knows to feed life. Some mysteries serve better unexplained.

The sun rises as small hands reach for honey-sweetened rice and softened hard tack. Parents weep silently over simple meals. They do not question too deeply, though some cast wondering glances towards me.

These borrowed bones remember satisfaction, though they can no longer feel it. The 13th Army's final cache serves its purpose at last - protecting those they died defending. I remain to watch while they eat their fill.