Darkness.

No up, no down, no then, no now. Only the endless press of nothing against nothing to be found.

Not the familiar dark of hollow eye sockets gazing out at twilight realms. This is deeper. Total. A void where even borrowed memories fade to nothing.

No sensation of bone against stone. No whisper of ancient magic through rusted chains. No weight of borrowed armor or pull of desperate purpose.

Time has no meaning here. No way to measure moments without physical form to mark their passage.

Consciousness drifts, untethered from the fragments that once gave it shape. Borrowed memories scatter like ash in a dead wind.

The compulsion that drove borrowed bones still echoes, but distant now. A fading ripple in endless dark.

Did they reach Haven? The question forms and dissolves in the void. Names slip away - who needed protection? Why did these borrowed pieces rise?

Purpose remains, even as memory fades. The drive to guard, to stand, to fight... but guard what? Stand where? Fight whom?

Darkness consumes even these questions.

Nothing remains but the dark and the slow dissolution of what once was duty given form.

Time passes. Or perhaps it doesn't. How does one measure its flow without bones to mark its passage?

The void deepens. Consciousness fragments further.

Nothing...

Awareness returns first. A single fragment of skull - my skull - lies in scorched earth. The familiar pulse of magic that once bound borrowed bones together now barely flickers, too weak to pull new fragments from battlefield soil.

North. The compulsion tugs at what remains of this consciousness. Haven. Refugees. Names blur together, but the drive remains.

I try to reform, to gather new pieces as I have countless times before. But the magic stretches too thin. The Duke's flames burned too much, turned too many fragments to ash.

A rat's vertebrae inches closer through blood-soaked dirt, drawn by dying purpose. But it stops short, unable to fuse with my remaining shard. A crow's hollow wing bone trembles nearby, yet refuses to join this broken form.

The pieces lie scattered, each one remembering its proper shape too strongly to merge into something wrong. Nature reasserts its laws in the demon's absence.

Still the compulsion pulls. North. Always north. But this fragment can only watch through a single empty socket as dawn paints the scorched battlefield grey. The magic pulses weaker with each moment, barely enough to maintain awareness.

Borrowed memories fade like morning mist. Combat forms dissolve into formless shadows. Ancient oaths blur into wordless need.

Only the drive remains. North. Protect. Stand. But what remains of this form can no longer answer duty's call.

To resist, to say no, has never been an option. Duty finds a way.

Through this single shard of skull, memories flicker.

A crown, heavy with duty rather than gold. Standing before twelve legion commanders, their banners snapping in the wind. Not my memory - this skull fragment must have belonged to someone who wore that crown. But which king? There were seven who gathered their people here.

The memories blur together: A dwarven thane pledging his mountain-folk to the cause. Elven arrow-singers promising their bows. The horse-lords of the eastern plains bringing their cavalry. Twelve legions strong. All waiting for the thirteenth that never arrived.

Who stood before twelve legions and spoke of duty, of sacrifice, of standing against the dark.

The crown meant nothing.

The title less.

What mattered were the faces looking back, farmers who'd left their plows, merchants who'd traded scales for steel, young boys who said goodbye to those left behind to wear armor that didn't fit.

Twelve legions.

Each one thousand strong. Not soldiers - people. People who knew what approached from the shadows. Who came together not for glory or gold.

The memory burns clearer now.

Standing on a hill overlooking the gathering armies.

Watching blacksmiths forge plowshares into swords. Seeing priests among the ranks giving last rites.

The thirteenth legion never arrived.

We waited three days, hoping to see their banners crest the eastern hills.

But the darkness didn't wait.

It never waits.

This skull fragment, it remembers giving the order.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

Remembers watching twelve thousand souls march toward what they knew was death. Remembers thinking a crown means nothing if you can't protect your people.

A king is not a king without those who choose to follow. And what follows now? Borrowed bones that refuse to join.

The memory begins to fade. But it leaves behind understanding, these borrowed pieces were never mine to command. They served because they chose to serve, just as those twelve legions chose to stand.

A crown of golden leaves lies buried somewhere in this blood-soaked soil. It matters as little now as it did then.

A king's memories belong to his people, and these borrowed bones are not mine to claim forever.

This skull-shard remembers addressing them: "A king is nothing without his people. Today we are all one people." But which king spoke those words? The memory slips away like water through bone fingers I no longer possess.

A king's memories belong to his people, and these borrowed bones are not mine to claim forever.

I remember - no, this fragment remembers - the night before the final battle. Walking among campfires, seeing families who followed their soldiers to this last stand. Children sleeping under wagon wheels. Old men sharpening plowshares into weapons. Women singing ancient hymns of protection.

These weren't just armies. They were entire kingdoms, their people carrying everything they could save on their backs. Following their kings to what they hoped would be salvation.

The magic pulses weaker now, but still this skull-shard holds one clear memory: standing on a hill, watching twelve legion banners dip in salute. Not as king and soldiers, but as people united by desperate hope.

This shard cannot recall the ending.

Perhaps it's better that way.

A king is not a king without his people.

And these fragments are not whole with what they borrow.

And it's these borrowed bones that remember because they were there - not as rulers or commanders, but as the ones who stood and fell together.

Not the Duke who burned these pieces, but their master.

The one who broke the world.

Three times the height of a man, armor fused with corrupted flesh, a crown of twisted horns.

Wings torn from different creatures, each one a trophy of worlds devoured.

I was there.

The Demon King without a name.

Memory gains sudden clarity through this single skull fragment. Not on the hill where kings gathered, but in a valley not yet known for its broken banners, where the final charge broke against darkness incarnate.

I, this piece of me, was not in the front ranks.

Near enough to watch champions fall.

The horns that crown his head weren't trophies then, but fresh-torn from dragon lords who'd answered humanity's call. The Demon King his size, he dwarfed them all.

I remember the sound they made hitting the ground, not metal or bone, but something between.

His sword... no, not a sword. He reached into the chest of our first champion and pulled out darkness and shaped it into a sword.

Each swing killed a hundred soldiers.

We charged anyway.

What choice remained? Behind us lay everything.

This fragment remembers where a crown once touched it. That crown fell somewhere in this blood-soaked earth as it charged with the common soldiers, fine armor doing no better to keep blood from spilling in the soil.

The memories flood through this single shard.

Standing before the army not as their ruler, but as one of them. Twelve thousand souls who chose to follow.

The crown meant nothing. The title less. What mattered were the lives we tried to protect, the future we hoped to preserve. I died not as a king, but as one more soldier falling among thousands, our blood mixing together in soil that would never forget.

This fragment remembers the final charge, my voice joining countless others in one last defiant cry. No special grave marked the fall, no monument recorded the end. Just another corpse on the Field of Broken Banners.

Through this single skull fragment, a new memory surfaces - not of the final battle, but of the after.

Yet Haven remained.

Not because of strength or walls, but because of something far more basic.

Hope.

This fragment remembers its purpose now. Not just to protect, but to stand against him.

Against the one who broke the world.

The compulsion surges through my remaining shard, stronger than before. These bones remember their purpose.

Even scorched and shattered, they answer duty's call. The magic may be weak, but the drive remains unbroken.

I must return to the Field of Broken Banners.

The pull is impossible to resist, not that this consciousness would try. Purpose flows through every fragment, even when a single fragment is all to be found.

Haven's survival was never meant to be permanent.

The thought sends a pulse through my magical core. Even scattered and burned, these borrowed bones remember their original purpose. We died protecting the living.

My consciousness expands beyond this skull shard, reaching for any fragment that might still serve. The Duke's flames destroyed much, but not everything.

Not purpose.

Never that.

The magic may be weak, but the compulsion remains strong. Haven must survive. Must grow beyond mere sport for demons. These bones remember standing against the Demon King himself - not as heroes or champions, but as common soldiers who chose to fight rather than submit.

That same choice drives what remains of this form.

To protect. To stand. To grow strong enough to kill a god.

The dead remember. The dead protect. And through borrowed bone and ancient memory, the dead will rise again.

The compulsion pulls stronger now.

Through my remaining skull fragment, I reach out with what little magic remains. There. A finger bone, blackened but intact.

The connection forms weakly, not enough to properly fuse, but still enough to move.

More fragments answer the call. A half a rib, a single tooth. The magic stretches between them, barely strong enough to hold.

I focus on the finger bone first. It scrapes across scorched earth, dragging my skull shard with it. The pull northward demands motion.

The other fragments follow, connected by threads of failing magic. Not a skeleton or even something monstrous, just broken pieces moved by purpose.

The finger bone leads, scraping through ash and scorched earth. My skull fragment follows, connected by magic too weak to properly fuse the pieces together. A single tooth trails behind, barely held in this broken formation by failing power.

North. The compulsion pulls these fragments forward. Distance becomes meaningless - only the next fraction of movement matters. The finger bone catches on debris, twists, keeps dragging.

Each fragment-length gained costs precious energy. The tooth sometimes loses connection.

Still these pieces refuse surrender. Still they answer purpose's call.

Time blurs. Day and night lose meaning when awareness narrows to just three bones fighting for minimal motion.

Grey fog settles over the battlefield. Or perhaps my vision dims as magic fades further. Hard to tell when consciousness fragments like these borrowed bones.

Only the pull remains constant. North. Always north.

The finger bone catches on a root, struggles, breaks free. My skull scrapes after it, the empty socket collecting dirt.

The tooth, the tooth may have fallen behind. The magic stretches too thin to tell anymore.

Motion becomes automated.

Thoughtless. A desperate shuffle of bone against earth. Forward. Forward. The compulsion allows nothing else.

Grey fog thickens. Or maybe that's just awareness failing as the magic dims to nearly nothing.

These pieces continue their broken journey as time forgets to count its passage. Nothing exists except the next fragment-length gained. The next desperate pull toward purpose.

North...

But slower now, the finger bone's scraping growing weaker as it fights to drag two burdens instead of one.

Purpose demands forward motion. Memory begs to keep the tooth. The finger bone cannot move.

Duty wins. It must. The connection breaks, and with it goes some crucial fragment of remembrance.

The finger bone resumes its dragging. Always north.

But somehow less than we were before.