The fifteen-foot skeleton moves across the killing field as it approaches Haven's walls. Through signs of fresh battle, turned earth, and corpses. Steel scrapes against stone as guards rush to defensive positions.

The guards on Haven's walls tense at the approaching titan with the weary readiness of veterans. Three years of endless siege have burned fear out of them, leaving only grim competence. Years of endless waves crashing against their defenses have numbed them to all but the worst of threats.

Commander Serrah Ikert stands at her usual post, her armor weathered and patched from countless battles. She remembers when the Dark Heart's destruction should have meant peace. Instead, it merely changed the nature of their war.

"Siege positions," she calls out, more from habit than urgency. The archers nock arrows while spearmen brace against the ramparts. Below, scavenger teams retreat back behind the walls.

The walls bear fresh scars from recent attacks - claw marks where men who abandoned their humanity had tried to scale the walls, grooves from acid burns caused by crawling things, and the distinctive punctures left by the fangs of greater monsters.

Last week it was shadow-wolves big as horses. The week before, things that wore men's faces wrong. Every day brings new nightmares to test their walls.

"Three years," mutters an old guard beside Commander Ikert. "Three years since that skeleton destroyed the heart, and still they come."

Serrah watches the titanic skeleton approach through her spyglass. Its movements seem familiar, but she's learned caution.

Through her spyglass, Serrah tracks each deliberate movement of the approaching titan. The familiar precision in its steps triggers memories of another skeleton, smaller, but no less purposeful, who had once cleared the darkness from beneath Haven's walls. But where that skeleton had brought protection, this one would bring destruction.

"Ready the ballista," she orders, pushing sentiment aside. The massive bolts could punch through stone. They'd felled three giants last month alone.

The skeleton's armor is beyond any mortal craft. Its sword, proportioned to its massive frame, bears runes that pulse with each step. Something about the pattern seems familiar, but Serrah knows better than to trust such feelings.

"Remember the refugees from Joist?" The old guard adjusts his grip on his spear. "The ones who came with stories of how that skeleton sent them to us and told them to fight against a demon duke? Never saw anything like that before or since."

Serrah's fingers trace the worn edge of Haven's shield, identical to the one she'd given that skeletal knight years ago. The titan draws closer, and now she can see the blue-white pinpricks of light in its eye sockets. The same color she remembers from before.

It is not the only skeleton to have such colors, but only one ever made a difference - one that raised a shield towards humanity rather than a sword against it.

She hardens her resolve. She's watched too many friends die from hesitation. Seen too many monsters wear familiar faces. The Dark Heart may be gone, but its legacy lives on in every corrupted thing that stalks the killing fields.

"Hold positions," she commands, her voice carrying along the wall. "We've defended Haven this long. We'll defend it today."

The old guard nods. "Three years since that skeleton fell. Three years of holding these walls alone."

The guards' crossbows remain trained on the massive figure, their hands steady from countless similar confrontations. Haven endures, as it always has, but the cost of survival grows steeper with each passing season.

"It's coming!" A guard's voice cracks.

Bells ring out across Haven's towers.

Commander Ikert strides along the ramparts. "Archers to positions! I want every bow ready to loose on my command."

Arrows rattle in quivers. Bowstrings creak as they're drawn taut. The giant skeletal figure continues its advance, plates of bone and dragonbone shifting with each massive step.

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Emmy stands at her usual post near the western wall, where she's kept vigil every morning for the past three years. Her fingers brush the wooden toy soldier tucked in her belt, its paint worn from countless hours of handling. The guards mock her vigil but respect her aim. On the wall, she's earned her place.

"Look at the size of that thing," a guard whispers. "Must be twice as tall as the gate."

Emmy's bow remains lowered while others draw their arrows. Her eyes trace the familiar blue glow in the titan's skull, the same light she's searched for across the killing fields each dawn.

"That's him," she mutters as the wind carries her words away.

Archers draw their bows as the titan's steps shake loose stones from Haven's walls. Memories of previous giant attacks flash through the defenders' minds. Just last month, a stone giant had swept half a dozen men from the western rampart with a single swing of its club.

"Range in thirty paces," calls out a spotter.

Commander Ikert raises her hand, ready to give the order. The massive sword in the skeleton's grip could clear the entire wall in one arc. They've seen it before - the devastation of letting such creatures get too close.

"Twenty-five paces!"

Emmy's fingers tighten on her bow but she doesn't draw. The other archers eye her with concern, their own arrows trained on vital points - joints, skull, anywhere that might slow such a monster.

"Twenty paces! Commander?"

Steel creaks as the ballista crews crank their weapons to full draw. The massive bolts could punch through stone walls, but against dragonbone and ancient armor, no one seems certain.

"Fifteen paces!"

The titan's sword reflects the morning light, its runes pulsing with each step. Veterans remember how other giants used such weapons - how they'd sweep entire sections of wall clear of defenders, how they'd hammer through stonework that had stood for centuries.

"Ten paces! Commander, give the word!"

Bowstrings creak at full draw. Sweat drips down fingers despite the morning chill. The skeletal titan towers over Haven's walls now, its skull level with the highest rampart, those pinpricks of blue-white light visible to all.

Commander Ikert raises her hand, ready to give the signal. The massive ballista creaks as its crew adjusts their aim, the steel-tipped bolt longer than a man is tall.

"Ready!" Her voice carries across the walls. The bowstrings draw tighter.

Emmy steps forward. "Commander, wait-"

"Get back to your post, soldier." Ikert's eyes never leave the titan.

"Fire the ballista," Ikert commands.

The mechanism releases with a thunderous crack. The massive bolt splits the air, aimed at the titan's chest where bone plates meet ancient armor.

The massive bolt moves faster, but the titan's sword is faster. Steel meets steel with a sound like thunder, and the ballista bolt splits cleanly in half, its pieces tumbling harmlessly to the earth.

A second bolt follows the first, but meets the same fate, cleaved apart by the rune-lit blade, splitting steel and wood like parchment.

Arrows rain against bone and armor. Veterans target joints, skull seams, gaps between plates - all the weaknesses they've learned to exploit in three years of endless battles. But their arrows find no purchase.

Some shatter against dragonbone, others just bounce off armor. The few that wedge between plates simply hang there, causing no apparent damage to the massive figure.

Emmy watches each futile impact, her own bow still lowered. The blue-white glow in the titan's eye sockets remains steady, unchanged by the assault. It's the same light she remembers from years ago, when a smaller skeleton led her people to safety through monster-filled tunnels.

Commander Ikert signals for another volley. More arrows follow, and then nothing more as a third bolt is cut down.

Then stillness descends over the battlefield. The titanic skeleton stands motionless before Haven's walls.

But rather than advance, it turns its massive sword and plants it in the once blood-soaked earth. The titan raises its arms slowly, deliberately.

Bone plates shift and ancient armor creaks in a remembered gesture of a knight's parley - hands crossed over the chest, then raised with palms outward. The movement carries the weight of memories.

Recognition ripples through Haven's defenders. The older guards remember this same gesture from years past, when a smaller skeleton had stood before their walls offering peace.

Commander Ikert's hand tightens on her sword hilt as she studies the familiar motion.

Emmy steps forward again, her voice carrying across the sudden silence. "It's him, it has to be!"

The guards glance between the young archer and the towering figure. The titan's hands remain raised.

Blue-white pinpricks in its skull stay fixed on Haven's walls, unwavering despite the arsenal still aimed at its frame. Dragonbone gleams beneath patches of ancient armor as the skeleton maintains the formal pose.

The gesture speaks of discipline and training, of battlefield courtesy preserved through death itself. It's not the movement of a mindless giant or corrupted beast, but the precise signal of a warrior bound by older codes.

Commander Ikert studies the titan and considers. She's seen too many tricks, too many monsters wearing familiar shapes. But she's also seen this exact scene before, on a smaller scale. Only once.

The titan waits, hands raised in that ancient gesture of peace, as Haven's defenders look to their commander for guidance.

"Hold," Ikert orders, though no one seems eager to loose their arrows.

Emmy steps forward, running toward the edge to yell even as some try to restrain her. "Knight?"

The titan's skull turns slightly - that same motion she's remembered for three years. The same gesture that once acknowledged a child's question about whether skeletal warriors never tired.

The titan waits, hands raised in the ancient gesture, while Haven wrestles with a truth some chose to forget:

Not all remain lost. Some return to protect.