I turn from the burning hamlet.

Wolf bones merge seamlessly with my existing frame, lending primal instinct to duty, to purpose. Ash and cinders spiral in my wake as pillars of smoke mark where homesteads collapse into embers.

My hollow eye sockets scan landscape differently now.

Merik's bone-sack bounces against my reformed ribcage with each bound. Inside, a single roll of parchment rustles, the safer truths I'll share with Haven's defenders.

Territory markings. Monster movements. Knowledge that serves without breaking spirit.

Transformed legs make quick work of distance. What might have taken days will now be merely hours. Haven's direction pulls at my core, that familiar compulsion that has guided these bones since first rising.

But something shifts.

My next leap falters mid-stride. The constant pull towards Haven's walls wavers like a compass needle losing true north.

I land awkwardly, claws scraping stone as I try to reorient.

The directional certainty that has driven every step since awakening grows uncertain. Haven's beacon flickers in my awareness, corrupted by something else.

I jerk forward a single step, claws scraping dirt. Then I lurch backward, pinned by my own skeleton.

Tension splits my plating at the seams. One part leaps toward Haven, the other drags me to the black horizon.

Halted atop broken stone, ancient instincts warring within these borrowed bones. Dragon memories simmer behind the wolf's heightened senses.

Something deep in the marrow stirs, fragments that aren't truly mine questioning this ceaseless drive toward Haven.

A phantom rumble builds beneath my ribs, a roar without lungs to give it voice. The wolf-bones yearn to run faster, to chase and hunt.

But deeper still, dragon-bones awaken with older hungers, echoes of vast skies and ancient grudges.

In the hollow space of my borrowed consciousness, voices rise without sound. The bones speak their separate wills - wolf, dragon, and countless fallen warriors beneath.

Tension crackles where bones of many things meet, each fragment pressing its own drives against my purpose.

Inside me, the tension grows. Wolf wants the next chase, wants to hunt, wants to run. Dragon demands I turn away from that fortress of humans, calls me to the Shattered Peaks.

Another enemy, older and rawer, awaits final vengeance there. The demon king's corruption turned a once lesser wyvern into dragon tyrant.

Tiamat.

The name flickers through my consciousness, half-forgotten. Something about a cause of death, a reason the dragon bones ended on the Field of Broken Banners at all when lesser races were last to fall.

These bones try to serve different masters.

I force stillness on my frame, planting hind legs in the dirt. The sack of bones, Merik's remains and the maps, thumps against re-fused ribs.

I must decide.

The duty since my rising has been singular, protect Haven. That remains, or so I believe. Yet the compulsion quivers, subverted by dragon wrath that demands I chase something else.

I halt my stride as conflicting urges war within my frame. The wolf bones with raw instinct, urging swift passage to Haven's walls.

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Yet deeper, where dragon fragments fuse with ancient warriors, another call rises.

My claws dig tracks in stone as memories surface, not mine, yet residing in these borrowed pieces.

The name "Tiamat" comes through my marrow. The dragon bones remember their fall, their final moments marked by betrayal.

They were the first to fall.

I stand motionless as dragon memories come.

My skull turns to the mountainside. The dragon pieces know those peaks, knew them from when great wyrms still ruled the skies, before betrayal.

Images flash through the hollow spaces. A wyvern, bitter at her lesser status. A pact with darkness.

Multiple heads sprouting from a single neck as demon magic twisted scale and bone. These aren't my memories, yet they burn like brands in the dragon fragments I've absorbed.

Tiamat, the dragonfall. A traitor who guided the Demon King's forces to the ancient roosts.

The dragon bones I carry remember their final moments as the demonic dragon helped the Demon King slaughter dragon lords.

The Field of Broken Banners came after.

The pull toward Haven wavers again as dragon bones strain against my purpose, demanding vengeance, guided not by duty but by ancient grudges.

I steady my stance. Haven's beacon steadies in my awareness.

These bones serve my mission now, regardless of their past.

Something stirs.

Am I these fragments, or something more?

I flex claws that weren't mine mere hours before.

Am I truly separate from these pieces I gather? Or am I simply the sum of borrowed purpose, assembled from the last wishes of the dead?

The bones speak, but they are not me.

I am... separate.

Dragon memories press against my consciousness, the betrayal, Tiamat's rise, the fall of the Dragon Lords. Yet these are their memories, not mine.

The wolf bones hunger for the hunt, but that drive belongs to them, not me.

I flex skeletal fingers, watching borrowed joints move at my command. "Mine,"

I think, testing the word in the hollow space where thoughts form.

The hand moves because I will it, not because the bones remember movement.

Maybe once before, but now something else.

The pull toward Haven flares stronger.

My skull turns toward Merik's bones in their sack. I carry him not because borrowed memories demand it, but because I decided his remains deserve proper rest.

The distinction matters.

Dragon bones lend strength, wolf bones grant speed, warrior bones offer skill, yet I remain separate from their ancient drives and grudges.

I am not you, I think to the countless dead whose pieces form my frame.

The certainty settles into my hollow core. I am neither dragon nor wolf nor fallen soldier.

I am something else, a guardian who chose this path, who builds itself from borrowed pieces that serve beyond the grave.

I am death unborn, or perhaps reborn. It matters not.

Death has no hold over what was never truly alive. I exist in the space between, not a revenant bound by unfinished business, not a spirit anchored by regret.

I am the choice to stand between threats and those who still draw breath.

That is enough.

My skull turns toward Haven's distant walls. The pull remains steady now, not because fallen soldiers willed it, but because I chose this path.

Their memories guide these bones, but the call to protect was mine to follow.

Memory surfaces, that first awakening on the Field of Broken Banners. A scavenger's plea. Rising not from curse or dark magic, but from simple need.

The dead remember duty, and I was the answer that followed with this bones.

Perhaps that is enough.

I am the space between heartbeats, the pause between last breaths, the moment when duty transcends death.

And that is all I need to be.

To dragon bones, I counsel patience and bend them to my will. The new alpha bones approve and soldier bones lend their strength in regaining control of this form.

They trust in my purpose turned decision.

I flex claws against stone, addressing the fragments that form my frame. To dragon bones, I counsel patience. Their memories of betrayal burn hot, but my purpose burns hotter.

Ancient wyrm fragments protest.

Not yet.

I press into marrow and magic.

First I counseled, now I demand it.

The drive for vengeance must wait.

The wolf bones, alpha bones fresh from battle, give me their approval. They understand hierarchy, respect chosen purpose over base instinct.

Their strength flows through reformed limbs, supporting rather than fighting my will.

Soldier bones lend their weight to this internal struggle, countless fallen warriors who knew the importance of discipline over desire.

Their memories of battles lost to rash action, of victories earned through patient resolve.

They know without united purpose, Haven will fall.

They are mine now, all of them. Not through conquest or curse, but through choice. Their memories remain their own, but their strength serves.

I straighten to full height, testing this restored control. The bones respond as one, different fragments moving as one.

Haven's beacon pulses steady in my awareness, no longer wavering under competing pulls.

I examine my skeletal hand. Beneath the ivory sheen, runes pulse with the same energy that first animated these bones.

But where do borrowed fragments end and my own existence begin?

I flex my reformed fingers. Whatever I am, empty vessel or borrowed purpose, the mission remains.

These fragments serve my will now, regardless of their origins.

I resume the journey, heading once more towards Haven.