No roosters crow, no dogs bark. The houses and sheds remain still as tombstones.

Only a shallow grave stirs.

I lie beneath a thin covering of dirt and broken thatch, damp lumps pressing against my ribs. My sword rests beside these bones, its edge sharp against yellowed femur. The demon shield covers my chest, its scorched surface hidden under soil.

Perfect stillness comes easy to the dead.

No breath to hold, no heart to quiet.

Through gaps in the thatch, dawn's first light creeps across empty streets. The hamlet waits, each building a monument to false life. Tripwires glint with morning dew. Pits hunger beneath innocent dirt.

Hook-lines hang patient above doorways.

The balverines will return soon. They always return to their false den by sunrise, shedding bestial forms like old clothes. They'll walk these streets wearing kind faces, neighborly smiles hiding blood-stained teeth.

They'll tend their props and prepare new lies.

These bones remember siege warfare. Patient warriors who lay still for days, waiting for the perfect moment. That knowledge serves now as I remain motionless, covered in soil that has known too many victims.

The larder's bones whisper of similar mornings. Dawn bringing false peace while death wore pleasant masks.

Not this dawn. This time the hunters become prey.

I lie beneath a thin covering of dirt and broken thatch, damp lumps pressing against my ribs. Over me, a half-rotten cloak masks risen bones. Through a single watchhole, I watch the hamlet gates.

In borrowed memory, I recall men who once waited in shallow graves to ambush the unwary.

A scavenger's tunic drapes across my ribcage, its fabric stiff with old stains. Rope binds the garment tight against yellowed bone, creating the illusion of flesh beneath cloth. The larder provided these trappings, final outfits from final meals.

I adjust the hood over my skull, arranging its tattered front to cast proper shadows where eyes should be. Filthy rags wrap my arms, tied carefully at each wrist.

From across the street, these bones might pass for living limbs.

The disguise feels familiar. These borrowed memories know the art of deception, of appearing weak to draw in the overconfident.

No hint of tripwires or pitfalls shows.

I settle deeper into my shallow grave, adjusting the cloak to better hide these death-white bones. When at last revealed, the Balverines will only see in me an enemy of soft flesh.

They won't notice what cannot be killed beneath these rags.

Bones that refuse to break.

Footsteps approach the hamlet gates. The soft pad of bare feet on grass. They return as they always have, shells of humanity wrapped around monster hearts.

These bones know patience.

Each fragment of my form lies still beneath dirt and thatch.

At last, distant shapes move beyond the gate. As they near, fur disappears. Muscles twitch, jaws retract. The half-shift that leaves them looking more or less human.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Not all change at once. Three remain crouched on powerful haunches, scanning tree lines with amber eyes. Their shoulders still bristle with dark fur, as the others transform.

A broad-shouldered male with sharp cheekbones pulls clothing from a hidden cache. A farmer's coat, well-worn.

He puts it on. His movements are precise, practiced.

He's done this countless times before.

Others join him at the cache, retrieving their human disguises. A woman with graying hair smooths down a simple dress. A younger male adjusts leather work boots.

They move as if changing from one set of clothes to another.

The guards begin their own transformation, fur melting away like frost in sun. Bones crack and reform. Spines straighten.

All that remain are strong men who work the fields.

Twenty-three shapes become twenty-three villagers. They speak in low voices, sharing news of the hunt. Some laugh. Some yawn as if tired from honest labor rather than fresh hunt.

These bones remain still beneath dirt and thatch.

The trap is set.

The prey returns to its den thinking itself the hunter.

They have no reason to suspect anything has changed. No reason to look too closely at disturbed earth or shadowed doorways.

They pass through the gates in twos and threes, speaking in gentle voices about mundane things. Bread to be baked. Fields to be tended. Children to be fed.

Their faces wear peace while smiles and light catch on teeth too sharp for human mouths.

A woman, no, a thing wearing woman-shape, pauses near this shallow grave. Her bare feet leave red prints. She sniffs the air, nostrils flaring.

Searching for what cannot be found.

These bones carry no scent of life to betray their purpose.

They do not see the tripwires their feet will find. Cannot smell the oil soaked into innocent-looking ropes. Do not notice how certain patches of dirt lie looser than others, hiding sharpened stakes below.

The woman moves on, joining her pack as they disperse through the hamlet's streets. Twenty-three monsters wearing human skin, returning to their den.

They pass beneath hook-lines and over covered pits, confident in their safety.

These borrowed bones remember more. Remember the art of patience.

Remember how to turn a settlement into killing field.

I lie still in my shallow grave, still.

Waiting.

Twenty-three beasts left to hunt last night, and twenty-three return. I've set my traps with deliberate care - but not here, not at the threshold.

Let them enter deep into their false den first.

No easy escape this time.

Simple rope tangles dot the yards, but the main street remains pristinely clear until well past the gate. Their anchor lies in the cellar, with the 'children' that they tend.

Even if they sense danger, they won't abandon what they consider precious, though that precious thing is merely another part of their slaughter.

I wait.

They push the gate open.

The hinge squeals softly. A few linger behind, scanning rooftops.

If I stand now, they'll retreat.

Slowly, they move deeper in. One by one, they pass the threshold, stepping into the hamlet's main lane. My arrangement is subtle, the real snares lie deeper, wire across windows, angled stakes under certain porches, small pits covered with straw.

Let them come closer, near the center.

When about half of them are well inside, the others at the rear do an odd thing: they start to close the gate behind them. The alpha is not among them at first glance, but I see a hulking shape that might be she, lingering near the back.

I remain perfectly still, shallow-breathing the illusions of a living man crouched under cloth and straw.

My plan requires they see me eventually, so they chase me deeper.

One of them, a lean female with uncombed hair, steps to the side of a cottage. "We should check the cellar soon. You, go around that side. I'll meet you at the orchard fence," she says to a companion.

They break off in pairs, moving toward their own dwellings.

Another pair heads for the main hall near the bell tower.

Good.

More of them move in. Some keep scanning, but they suspect nothing yet.

I sense them drawing closer. The big shape near the rear, a half-shifted beast with a ragged shirt clinging to its chest, sniffs audibly.

He steps closer to me, scanning the ground.

Perhaps he caught a whiff of earth disturbed by these borrowed bones.

He does not know what lies below, or see how skeletal hand curves around sword.

One more step.

His foot plants beside my skull.

Perfect.

Aeternus moves. The blade parts flesh and bone before his transformed vocal cords can shape a warning.

Dark blood sprays across thatch and soil.

I surge upward, dirt and debris falling from my frame. My free hand catches his falling form, guiding the corpse into the shallow pit that concealed these bones moments ago.

The body settles with barely a sound, blood pooling beneath loose earth.

I drag loose soil over the corpse, covering dark blood and half-shifted limbs. Thatch and debris scatter across disturbed earth, masking signs of violence.

The shallow grave accepts its new occupant without protest.

These bones settle taking staged pose of a weary traveler. My cloak drapes over jutting ribs, concealing undeath beneath fabric.

Twenty-two remain.

None glance this way.

The grave holds its secret.