The monastery's spires fade behind these bones. Ancient stones give way to wilderness once more. The king's road stretches ahead, but purpose pulls elsewhere.

I turn from the marked path. Something calls through these borrowed bones, not north toward the World Tree's corruption, but east where shadows gather differently.

A compulsion not to slay but save.

Where life still struggles against the dark.

Hooves have carved new trails through tall grass. Deer perhaps, or things that used to be deer. Their paths wind between weathered stones and fallen trees. I follow, letting the pull guide these steps.

Here and there, older stones break the earth's surface, remnants of buildings long forgotten. A fallen column bears markings these fragments almost remember. This land held settlements before the road, before the monastery. Before the breaking of the world.

Time means nothing to the dead. The sun rises, sets, rises again. Stars wheel overhead. My bones click against stone and soil, marking distances without counting them.

The king's road vanishes behind brambles and wild growth. This path grows less certain. Animal tracks cross and merge, splitting into countless options.

Signs of recent passage grow more frequent. Broken branches. Disturbed earth. Ash from cook fires no more than days old. Living feet still walk these paths, though they take care to hide their presence.

I am surprised any remain at all.

A broken shrine catches these hollow sockets ,weathered stone wrapped in fresh cloth. Names carved beneath offerings of dried flowers. These fragments recognize the pattern.

The king's road vanishes behind brambles and wild growth. This path grows less certain. Animal tracks cross and merge, splitting into countless options.

A fallen tree has been deliberately placed to block one trail. Another shows signs of careful misdirection, false tracks meant to lead followers astray.

Yet the pull remains, east and slightly south, where purpose knows it must go. These fragments sense desperation in the attempts at concealment. Whatever these people hide from, they fear it greatly.

The shield pulses warning at odd intervals, sensing things that watch from shadows but dare not approach.

A bird takes flight suddenly, startled by something these fragments cannot see. Its call sounds wrong, too many notes, held too long. The corruption reaches even here, though its touch seems lighter than in other places.

The grass parts beneath my stride. The air carries sounds of those alive - but wrong sounds. No dogs bark. No livestock calls. No children shout at play. Only wind through empty spaces where life should be.

My borrowed bones pause at a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. Below, a collection of wooden buildings huddles against the growing dark. Farmland stretches in uneven patches around the settlement, protected by crude wooden walls.

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The crops grow but are untended.

No movement between the buildings. No livestock in the pens. But signs of recent life remain, laundry still hangs from lines, a wagon stands half-loaded with crates.

A cooking fire smolders in a yard, its embers not yet cold

The wrongness feels stronger now. My sword hand tightens on swords' hilt.

The pull grows stronger here, different from the duty that first roused these bones. Living fear calls to ancient oaths. Protection demands answer.

Tracks mar the mud near the closest building, multiple sets of boots, all heading in. None coming out. More concerning are the other marks, long furrows in the earth as if something massive dragged itself through.

A child's doll lies face-down in a puddle. Beyond it, a door hangs from broken hinges. The wood bears marks of something forcing its way inside.

The settlement's silence speaks of violence delayed, not completed. Whatever drove these people to hide still hunts. The pull that drew me here grows urgent, pulling and pulling at each bone and joint. A compulsion down beneath the surface.

I drop from the ledge down into the valley, these wyrm-bound bones landing with barely a sound despite their weight. The reinforced skeleton absorbs the impact, these bones do not break. New plates of ancient ivory flex and settle, adapted now to this form's purpose.

My cloak settles around these shoulders as I rise, sword already drawn. The settlement's wooden walls offer no real protection, whatever breached them did so with casual force.

Splintered boards and torn posts mark its passing.

The closest home beckons. Fresh scratches mar its doorframe, deep gouges in solid oak. Blood stains the threshold, but no bodies. The pull grows stronger, drawing me past the broken entrance toward the settlement's heart.

More tracks that went unobserved. Converging from all directions. Boots, claws, and strange furrows in the earth. They lead toward what appears to be a meeting hall, its double doors torn completely free.

Inside, overturned benches create a maze of wooden barriers. Signs of struggle mark every surface, slash marks in walls, arrows embedded in support beams, dropped weapons scattered across bloodied floorboards. The villagers tried to fight. To defend. But against what?

These borrowed bones pause, sensing movement below. The floor itself seems to shift, settling in ways wood should not move.

The floor creaks beneath my weight as I approach a trapdoor set into the corner. Its heavy iron handle bears fresh scrapes.

The pull resonates through every enchanted bone now, drawing me downward. Whatever purpose brought me here, it waits below.

My shield slides into place as I grip the handle.

Purpose demands that I descend.

I pull the trapdoor open. The ladder descends into darkness, though these dead eyes need no light to see.

My bones click softly against each rung as I climb down. The cellar stretches wider than the building above, rough-hewn walls suggesting multiple basements connected through hastily dug tunnels.

Makeshift supports groan under the weight of earth and timber.

Movement echoes through the tunnels, breathing, whispered prayers, the shuffle of many bodies pressed together. But beneath those human sounds, something else scrapes against stone.

Something massive. Something patient.

I step from the ladder, shield raised. My sword glows with a faint blue light, casting strange shadows across dirt walls. The tunnels branch in three directions, each showing signs of recent passage.

The new bone plates across my shoulders scrape stone walls, too wide for spaces meant for human passage. Yet they respond to threat, contracting like scales against my frame.

The wyrm's essence remembers how to move through tight spaces, how to stalk prey in darkness. These borrowed bones adapt, learning from the ancient hunter's remains.

The scratching stops.

A child's whimper carries from the leftmost passage. The pull yanks at these bones, drawing me toward that sound. My steps quicken, purpose driving this frame forward.

The tunnel opens into a larger chamber. Villagers huddle against the far wall, men, women, children pressed together in terrified silence. Their eyes fix on my skeletal form, but greater fear holds them still.

Now I see why.