Purpose compels me and compels me still.

Many bones have been chosen from the larder, yet the larder stands not empty. Purpose drives these bones to stay. These beasts, these monsters, these things that wear kind faces during day, they represent danger that must not persist.

The bones in the larder tell their stories through fragments and scraps. But not all listen, not all have echoes that remain.

More questions surface as I sort through the remains. Some bones bear the weathering of distant shores, others the stains of mountain minerals. These victims weren't all local travelers.

The balverines have been drawing prey from far beyond their territory.

The larder's silence holds more questions than answers.

How many other places like Haven exist?"

Duty turns toward one answer alone. Slay them all at break of day. Let none remain.

This rebuilt form knows killing. Knows death. Yet knowledge demands certainty. None can escape. None can flee to build another false den, to draw more scavengers to death.

Some duties require absolute completion.

Merick's bones rest secure in the sack. His return must wait.

Compulsion drives towards an ending.

Rebuilt frame steps out from the larder.

The hamlet holds tools. Real tools, taken from dead scavengers. Rope, hooks, blades. The balverines keep them, thinking like hunters.

The workshop holds everything needed to make their lies more convincing. During the day, they use these tools like the humans they pretend to be. They repair roofs, tend gardens, maintain their stolen tool, all to better avoid discovery and lure other bones.

Their is more than one way to lure.

These bones remember traps and snares.

The hamlet is silent. Twenty-three balverines hunt distant prey. Poor predators leaving their lair unguarded and false homesteads empty.

Their children remain locked in the cellar. Yet no sounds stir from beneath that thick door. A certainty grows in these fragments: no innocence dwells here. If there were children, they’re already gone or never were true children at all.

I gather strong cord, braid it stronger. Ancient memory guides these damaged hands. Fingers that once led armies now fashion loops that will hold monster-flesh.

Simple lanes between humble cottages, every yard, every threshold, all waiting to become killing ground.

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My shield scrapes stone as I crouch, rigging tripwires across the main threshold. A tangle of barbed nails waits in a shallow pit beside the entrance. The simplest snare can break an ankle or tear muscle.

Human form proves fragile. These borrowed bones remember how easily living flesh tears, how quickly blood flows when cut and stabbed by steel.

I set many.

Skeletal fingers work with precision, muscle memory from muscles that no longer exist. The cords groan as I test their tension.

It is a beginning.

These bones remember. A soldier once shaped farmland into battlefields, building false fences and muddy trenches to funnel cavalry. Another died forging pitfalls, bringing down giant beasts on sharpened stakes.

Their lessons linger in chosen marrow.

At the well, I find a heavy bucket, its iron bands rusted but strong. Perfect as a pivot for a swinging trap. The ancient wood groans as I test its weight, remembering similar mechanisms from sieges long past.

A few loose stones wedge beneath the lip, angled for momentum. I set a blade at chest height, tied to the bucket's rope with knots that will not yield.

A single touch to hurl it forward. Sharped steel through flesh and bone.

More to maim, more to cripple.

These traps need not kill, only slow.

These bones can do the rest.

I move between cottages.

Straw roofs, tidy fences, and gardens never harvested

Glass glints as I wedge shards beneath windowsills. The fragments like teeth waiting to bite. My bones creak as I angle each piece upward, remembering a farmer who once lined his fields against raiders.

The memory of how he planted glass and iron instead of grain that final season.

His knowledge guides these hands.

Hooks and wire found in dead hunter's kit. The metal scratches against bone fingers as I stretch lethal lines above doorframes. Any beast that leaps through will find steel waiting across exposed throats.

Each strand must be perfect - too loose and it will only wound, too tight and it might snap.

The shed door splits under my grip.

Inside, broken fence posts lie forgotten in shadow. Perfect. Each one already sports a natural point, carved by weather and neglect. I drag them out one by one, scraping furrows in the dirt.

My shield rests against a wall as I dig. Shallow pits take shape, just deep enough to hide from sight. The posts sink easily into soft earth, angled to catch charging legs. A thin layer of soil conceals killing purpose, making the ground appear undisturbed.

The ground remembers this work and remembers spilled blood in familiar dirt.

Borrowed memories guide each placement. A soldier who died defending mountain passes shows me how to angle the stakes. A hunter chosen from the larder directs the spacing.

Near the cottages, I tie old lanterns to shutters, each stuffed with rancid oil. A single pull on the fuse-line, and all the buildings go up in flame. Let them burn, their will be no hiding spaces.

Baskets of old tools become spiked traps perched on rafters, set to drop at the faintest push. Every window frame I reinforce with sharpened stakes or broken blades.

Near the center, I gather rope soaked in lamp oil. I wrap it around door I cannot enter. Let them discover flames after they've stumbled into snares. No one escapes.

Sun will bring the returning shapes of men and women wearing human skins again. They’ll greet strangers, lure them inside. Then the feast begins. Not this time.

The hamlet becomes its own snare.

At last, I stand near the main hall. The crude bell tower above me sways. I climb, rung by rung, bones clicking on slick wood. At the top, I find the bell’s rope. Perfect vantage. When the beasts return at dawn, they’ll shift again into their false skins. They’ll amble through these traps like unsuspecting prey.

I sever the rope near the bell, tying it to a rig along the rafters. One strong yank from below, and the heavy brass drops. Weighted properly, it’ll shatter the entrance or crush any who try to flee. They’ll find no safe path or sanctuary here.

Hinges protest as I descend, the bell tower creaking under battered nails. My feet land in the dusty hall, ankles brushing scattered straw. I step outside, scanning the hamlet. Traps wait in every corner.

No structure remains free of hazards.