The parasite stench fades behind borrowed bones. Ahead, the land changes. Cobblestones give way to bone, countless layers pressed into a solid path beneath these plated feet. Vertebrae. Femurs. Skulls. These are forgotten bones have forgotten how to call.

A road built from defeated armies. Final pleas trapped in marrow turned pavement. Memory-fragments stir lost to time. Death lingers in every footfall. They do not come to me and I cannot answer.

Corrupted birds circle overhead, wings of shadow and clotted filth.

They keep their distance, wary. Even twisted by demon taint, they sense a greater predator. My titan frame, fifteen feet of bone and ancient steel runed with old oaths, casts a bigger shadow. In their croaking calls, I hear respect born of fear.

They know this shape transcends common horrors.

Knowledge starts to flow

This place, the Path of Conquest, I know from half-remembered battles. Here the Demon King’s legion under the Duke first marched north, grinding hope beneath iron heels. Now their bones pave the way to his doorstep.

A grim irony, what once carried his ambitions now leads these chosen bones back to him.

I pass monuments of defeat, suits of armor fused into cairns, weapons melted into abstract sculptures of violence begetting violence. The Duke marks his territory with trophies of war. Rusted shields stacked upon greying bones.

Each display tells a story of annihilation, of armies broken and hopes ground to dust beneath demon boots.

The air grows heavier with each mile. Ash falls like snow, coating my bones in gray. The corruption here runs deeper than surface taint.

Hollow sockets narrow. Something vast awaits.

Compulsion pulls me forward. There, I find a monstrous host before black walls. Hulking fiends, wolf-headed brutes, warriors in chitin plate, and other things.

Standards bearing old rot.

Siege engines creak, built from bone and rusted chains, catapults strung with sinew. Ladders carved from giant femurs lean on scaffolds of rib and horn. Siege towers shaped from titan ribcages roll forward on skull-wheeled axles. At their center stands the Demon Duke’s fortress, walls of curse-stone, towers like crooked fingers clawing at diseased heavens. Crimson sparks moved between crenellations where lesser devils patrol.

I have found a war.

The road stretches ahead, ancient stones cracked by corruption's touch. Other traffic marks the path, demon forces moving to press their advantage against the weakened Duke.

They converge on his fortress like vultures to carrion. Pride blinds them to the real threat. Let them waste strength fighting among themselves. These bones need only one clean strike.

Memories surface as borrowed feet click against weathered stone. The Duke's power burned hot enough to melt dragon bone. What nearly destroyed this frame only made it stronger.

The road curves north around a ridge. Black smoke stains the horizon, signs of demon warfare. Their battles spread corruption in their wake, tainting soil and sky. No matter. These bones care nothing for their poison.

The horde shifts restlessly, horned heads turning to watch my approach.

"A greater dead," one hisses. "A bone champion," another rasps.

Clawed warriors step aside, letting me pass. They see only another terror drawn by the promise of carnage and spoils. They know nothing of Haven, of children sheltered behind distant walls, of why these bones move at all.

Fine. Let them misunderstand.

This borrowed purpose courts no allies, only opportunities.

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My titan frame towers over even their largest warriors. Dragon-forged plates click against ancient bones as I stride through their ranks.

Aeternus hungers.

The blade knows what comes.

A demon captain, face hidden behind a helm of twisted horns, steps into my path. "The Duke's head is promised to our master."

Its voice grates like steel on stone. "What tribute do you bring to this feast of revenge?"

I meet its gaze with hollow sockets.

Blue-white light flares. The captain flinches back, armor creaking.

Lesser devils perched on siege engines track my movement, tails lashing. Their wings spread and fold, nervous energy radiating from scaled forms. They recognize something in these bones that sets me apart from their petty power struggles.

The corrupted host parts before me like a tide before the prow of a warship. Each step brings fresh whispers, fresh fears. Let them wonder. Let them waste time debating my purpose while I march toward mine.

These demons plot the Duke's fall for pride, for power, for their masters' favor. My purpose runs deeper than their shallow ambitions. It flows through every borrowed bone, every ancient oath carved into this frame.

Haven's walls rise in memory. Emmy's trust. Serrah's maps.

The weight of promises made in silence. These bones remember why they walk.

Then comes a figure of grafted metal and corrupted flesh.

Their master.

My borrowed bones recognize him, Marnac the Defiler, a risen demon who once served Demon Duke. His skull stretches backward, crowned with curling horns.

Not as powerful a demon as first thought, but something hungrier, a lesser power seeking to rise. His armies mix demon, undead, and things that defy description.

The Defiler's gaze passes over this frame without interest. To him, these bones are merely another piece in his grand assault. His attention fixes on the Duke's walls.

Let him think that. Let them all think that.

His captains gather, scaled monsters that tower over common demons, winged terrors with flesh like oil-slick metal, things of too many limbs and eyes that drip venom from needle-teeth maws.

They form a half-circle.

"You who stride from ashen waste." Marnac's voice scrapes like chains dragged through gravel. "We know not your name—nor need we. Come you for battle's feast?"

These jaws hold no words. Never have, never will. I tilt my skull, letting ancient magic pulse behind hollow sockets.

I point to the sword and then the Duke's fortress.

My point is made.

Blue-white light flickers across bone and dragon-forged plate.

Metal teeth flash as Marnac grins a grin of corrupted gums. "A greater dead drawn to conquest. Good. The Duke trembles in his fortress."

His claws spread wide, encompassing siege lines and massed horrors. "Help break his walls, and spoils shall be yours."

The horde approves.

They accept my silence as assent. Marnac signals, and commanders bark orders in coarse tongues. I stand among their ranks—fire-maned gnolls gnawing on old bones, stitched trolls drooling acidic saliva, insectoid devourers that remind me of the Harvester.

Fetishes of horn and sinew dangle from wooden poles.

Dusk approaches. Torches sputter greenish flames. Siege crews test ropes of sinew that creak under monstrous tension. The horde's mood darkens with excitement. They see my silent form as a lucky omen, an avatar of death.

They do not understand that death is not corruption.

The horde is restless.

Claws scrape stone. Wings rustle like dead leaves. A gnoll captain sniffs the air, hackles rising at my presence. These creatures understand power on an instinctual level. They sense something different in these chosen bones.

Marnac's lieutenants position siege engines. Lesser devils perch on wooden frames, wings spread for balance. The Defiler himself stands before his command, running claws over a map of the Duke's fortress. His warriors give my frame wide berth as I move through their ranks.

These demons plot complex strategies, but my purpose remains the same.

Direct. Pure.

The death of the Duke, and then of these monsters.

Red sparks move in distance on battlements where lesser devils patrol. They peer down at the gathering army, unaware that death walks among their enemies in borrowed bones.

Horns of bone and brass sound. The horde surges forward.

The first volley launches, spheres of cursed bone trailing green fire arc toward the Duke's walls. They explode in bursts of corrupted flame. Lesser devils scatter.

I march among them, each step driving old bones deeper into the road. The horde's bloodlust propels th em forward.

Ladders of titan bone slam against black walls.

Demons surge upward, claws scraping stone. The Duke's defenders respond with arrows tipped in burning silver.

Scaled forms fall, but more take their place.

Marnac's voice booms across the battlefield, words of power filled with commands. The siege towers groan forward, pushed by things inslaved with chains.

I glimpse winged horrors ready to leap onto the walls.

A catapult releases with a sound like snapping spine. Where it touches, stone begins to bubble and melt.

The horde howls. They see victory in each breach, each fallen defender. They do not understand that their celebration is premature.

Green fire rains from above as the Duke's forces counter-attack. Demon flesh melts, bone warps, but the assault continues. The siege engines keep firing, methodically targeting weak points in blackened stone.

My borrowed bones feel the pulse of battle.

Old memories surface, tactics, weak points, paths of approach. But these fragments come from fallen warriors who fought against demons, not alongside them.

No matter. Let the horde spend their strength. Let them crack the Duke's defenses. My purpose remains pure among their corruption.

The walls begin to crack.