They wake in shifts, first a child whining about stiffness in cramped legs, then a mother murmuring comfort. Soon more voices rouse, one after another.

Dawn comes.

No one screams this morning, no startled shouts as if something had clawed at their makeshift barricade.

Instead, they unpeel themselves from ragged blankets, blinking at dim light, stretching limbs that ache from sleeping on cold ground.

A few cough softly, others rub eyes crusted with old tears.

They survived another night.

Perhaps they expected worse.

Beyond their piled wagons and stones, I stand still, sword point-down, a silent presence against faint morning mists. Some of them notice me almost at once.

The father who threw a stone two nights ago sees my battered armor, the arrows still lodged in gaps, the dents and missing plates. He frowns, steps closer, cautious.

He remembers nothing attacked during the night, yet I look as if I have fought an army. He speaks low as if not wanting to frighten another.

"Dead thing, what happened out there?"

Of course, I cannot answer. I do not speak. I tilt my skull a fraction, letting him see I acknowledge him.

I could write the story in the dirt, but knowledge of evil past does no favors.

I could write in the dirt, tell them of the legion that marched from shadow. Show them how hundreds of dead rose against them.

But such knowledge would only breed fresh fears.

The father's question hangs in the morning air. My silence answers.

Behind him, Sarah helps Emmy fold a threadbare blanket, their movements quick, practiced.

None need to know how close death came while they slept.

Let them see only the aftermath, my battered form standing guard. Let them wonder, but not know. The horrors that stalk these lands are burden enough without tales of armies rising from forgotten graves.

I turn from the father, scanning the horizon. My sword remains ready, though the threat has passed.

A child, one of the youngest survivors, approaches with careful steps. Her small hand reaches toward my cloak, then pulls back. Fear wars with curiosity.

Better she stay curious than learn what makes my armor hang in pieces.

The others begin breaking camp, packing what little they salvaged from Joist. Their movements are easier than yesterday. They no longer jump at every shadow.

Sometimes protection means keeping silence. Let them heal without knowing what hunts in the dark.

My silence unsettles him, but he swallows hard and steps away, calling others to attention.

They gather in a loose circle near the embers of their fire, dusting ashes from their clothes. Children pull at sleeves, pointing at me. The adults keep glancing my way, uncertain.

Their shelter is intact, no sign of intrusion. Not even tracks leading toward their sleeping places.

So why do I stand covered in grime and broken mail? Why does my sword's edge look freshly notched?

They exchange guesses in hushed tones.

"Maybe it fought something off."

"It looks more battered than yesterday. Did something attack us while we slept?"

"Did we not hear anything?"

"We were all dead exhausted. The children didn't wake crying?"

"No. Nothing."

An older woman, limping from old injuries, moves forward with caution. She holds no weapon, only a length of cloth she uses as a scarf.

"Undead knight," she says, voice trembling slightly, "if you have done, if you guarded us again, we owe you thanks."

She waits, perhaps hoping for a nod or some sign. I remain still. A subtle inclination of my skull might mean acknowledgment. Perhaps she sees it. Her face softens.

The father who first spoke to me nudges a companion. "We should check the ground around our camp," he says. "See if something came."

A few men pick up crude spears and step past the wagons. They move carefully, expecting to find footprints, signs of struggle.

Instead, the soil looks oddly churned in places, as if plowed by restless plowshares that never finished their rows.

Here and there, bits of old bone dust, crushed into powder so fine it might pass as ash, cling to bent weeds.

They find no intact corpses, no fresh bodies, no scattered limbs. Just a strange, gritty residue in small patches, and a silence that weighs on them.

They return, baffled.

"Strange marks out there," one says. "The ground's disturbed, like someone dug it, or something broke apart and vanished. No fresh corpses. Just dust and scraps."

They look to me, seeking explanation. I offer none. Let them guess.

Children tug at parents' sleeves. "Where do we go now?"

A mother wraps an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "We keep heading north," she says, glancing at me as if to confirm.

They remember I pointed them toward Haven. They remember I wear a shield crest, though my shield is now lost somewhere in that silent battlefield, bearing the mark of rising sun over walls.

Haven, a name that promised safety, stands somewhere beyond ruined roads and haunted fields.

"Right," agrees the father. "We can't stay here. We have to move. The undead knight guided us before."

He looks at me, then at the damaged armor. "Will you lead us again?"

He sounds almost apologetic now.

I kneel in the dirt, armor creaking from fresh damage. My skeletal fingers trace letters in the soil.

THE DEAD PROTECT THE LIVING STILL

I stand again. I lift my sword and tap its tip lightly against a loose stone. A simple gesture, but enough to show them I understand.

I turn slightly, facing the direction I remember: Haven lies that way, beyond fields of old strife and corruption.

They nod among themselves. Close enough to an answer.

They break their fast with what little bread and dried meat remain.

It's not much.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

An old man scrapes green mold from a loaf and divides it into meager portions.

A few sips of water from leather skins.

They share in silence that once held bitterness.

Every crumb counts.

The children eat quietly, as if some instinct warns them not to complain.

After their poor meal, they gather their belongings. Ropes tighten around wagon frames.

Wheels squeak as someone tries to push a cart free of a rut in the soil.

A pair of younger men strain at the wagon's handles, grunting, until it rolls forward again.

The group's size is small.

They look to me once more, waiting for direction. I set off at a measured pace, sword resting across my shoulder now, my armor rattling softly.

They follow behind. None question my leadership, though I never claimed it. They have seen me fight off threats they did not witness, protected them twice now from horrors that would have ended them.

Some cast worried glances at my damaged frame. They wonder if I can still fight as fiercely if something else comes.

Their concern is wasted. My bones will reassemble, flesh or no flesh. Armor can be repaired or discarded. My sword remains, and if it shatters, I'll replace it. That should be enough.

As we walk, the fields open wider.

The silence sits heavy, broken only by wagon wheels grinding pebbles and hushed voices urging children onward.

They take turns carrying the smallest, rotating burdens to spare each other's strength.

Yesterday they might have argued more, but after a quiet, terror-free night, and seeing my silent vigil, they cooperate more smoothly.

Fear and gratitude shape them, forging unity where none existed.

I watch them form up behind me, a line of weary travelers facing uncertain roads.

An hour later, we reach a fork where a stone pillar lies toppled. Once it might have borne a carving of directions or a family crest. Now it's cracked in half, moss and vines claiming its surface.

I pause, examining faint lines in the dirt. Animal tracks cross here, but twisted shapes left by corruption's creatures as well.

The travelers whisper, nervous.

They know the dangers of straying into wrong paths. They look to me, waiting.

I raise my sword and point along the track.

They trust my silent advice. The father who watched me this morning clears his throat.

"We follow the dead knight," he says.

Others nod. They know no better guide.

As we go on, scattered stones and old fragments of what might have been walls appear. The forest line looms not far off. Tall, twisted trunks, their bark dark and knotted.

Corruption lingers there, I sense it. They must skirt its edges. I lead them carefully along paths where grass still grows, avoiding deeper shadows.

The children tire quickly. An older boy carries a younger sibling.

Their pace slows.

I adjust mine, never pulling too far ahead. No predators show themselves, though I sense eyes beneath tangled branches.

Around midday, the group halts to rest at a clearing where sunlight breaks through thin clouds.

A few men check their meager supplies. Women soothe crying infants. An old man stretches, grimacing at a sore back.

They all look leaner than before. Hunger gnaws at them. They pick at scraps of dried meat, rationing carefully.

I watch them ration their dwindling supplies. Sarah breaks a piece of bread into thirds, passing two portions to younger children before taking the smallest for herself.

Emmy shakes an almost empty waterskin.

Merik examines their food stores, his weathered face grim. He counts portions, recounts, then shakes his head at the father who threw stones days ago.

"A days," he mouths silently, holding up fingers. "Maybe two if we stretch it."

The children don't notice, focused on their tiny meals. But the adults exchange worried glances.

They know what empty bags mean on these corrupted roads.

A mother presses dried meat between her palms, trying to make it seem larger before giving it to her daughter. The girl takes it without complaint, having learned that whining brings no more food.

Haven lies somewhere ahead.

Living things tire.

They require sleep, food, water, things I barely remember needing.

Soon their supplies will be gone. The children will cry from empty stomachs. The adults will grow weak, stumbling more often. Their pace will slow when we most need speed.

Soon there will be nothing more.

Some think back to their old settlement, to gardens and fields now lost.

A father mutters, "If Haven has markets, or farms, I'd work day and night for a loaf of fresh bread."

Another agrees softly. Hope flickers in their tired eyes. They must believe that somewhere ahead lies shelter.

The endless emptiness of these lands has nearly broken them.

Only the silent presence of a protector who does not tire or complain keeps them from despair.

A pair of brothers approach me, each carrying a makeshift spear. They stand a few steps away, uncertain how to address a warrior of bone and tattered mail.

One clears his throat, then speaks as if to a statue.

"We can scout a bit if you show us where to look," he says. "See if there's a stream or berries."

I make no move. They interpret my stillness as permission. They pick a direction and depart, returning a quarter hour later with a handful of bitter berries they're not sure are safe.

An older woman inspects them, shakes her head. "Might be poisonous," she says.

They discard them reluctantly.

None blame me. They know I gave no sign of approval. This is their trial, not mine.

A child approaches me, clutching a rag doll. She stares up into the hollows of my skull, unafraid.

"Are you tired, knight?" she asks.

Purpose stirs within these bones to calm a child.

The child's question echoes where heart once beat. Her small form waits for an answer I cannot voice.

My bones creak as I lower myself to one knee, bringing my skull level with her eyes.

The motion feels ancient, drawn from memories of other knights comforting other children in ages past.

Her doll dangles from thin fingers, its cloth face worn smooth by worried touches.

She shows no fear of my hollow gaze or yellowed bones.

I extend my skeletal hand, palm up. After a moment's hesitation, she places her tiny palm against mine.

Purpose flows through these ancient fragments. Not to fight. Not to destroy. To protect. To guard. To shelter this spark of life that trusts without reason.

I trace letters in the dirt.

NEVER TIRED

ALWAYS WATCHING

She sounds out the words slowly, then smiles. "Like mama when I'm sick?"

I nod once, the gesture pulled from deeper memory.

She squeezes my bony fingers, as if trying to comfort me instead. "Good. Everyone else gets tired. But you stay strong."

My other hand moves again through the soil:

BE WITHOUT FEAR

I GUARD

"Promise?" she asks, clutching her doll closer.

Another nod.

Her small shoulders relax, tension flows away. She leans against my armored knee, unafraid of the rusted metal and ancient leather.

Purpose move through every bone. This is why I rose. This fragile trust, this innocent belief that darkness can be held at bay.

She yawns, "Thank you, knight."

Her mother hurries over, pulling her back gently, apologizing.

The child's question lingers in the silence. They know I do not tire. They see me stand watch without complaint.

It feels strange to them, but also reassuring.

Eventually, after some rest, they push on.

Afternoon light slants from the west. The sky remains gray, promising no easy warmth.

They journey across uneven ground, passing broken stumps and shallow pits. Now and then someone spots a distant figure in ragged armor, a corpse half-buried.

They steer wide of such sights. They have learned enough about these lands.

In late afternoon, they reach a spot where an old milestone stands upright. The letters are worn away, but the stone's shape suggests this was once a known path to civilized lands.

They brighten at this small sign of former order, as if even a broken milestone can promise structure.

They glance at me again, as if asking how much farther.

I cannot say.

Still, I raise a hand, pointing forward, trying to convey that their path leads onward.

Haven's memory sits in my bones like an old command.

I must guide them until they reach safer shores.

A young woman tries to share a story with a child as they walk, telling of better days inherited in story from her mother.

The child listens, wide-eyed.

The adults keep their voices low but steady, attempting to lift spirits by recalling human customs and old traditions.

I remain apart from that warmth, a sentinel shadowed by grim purpose. They do not invite me to join their conversations. I would not know how if they did.

Yet I sense less fear in their glances now. More acceptance.

Dusk approaches again. They must find a place to rest soon. The children tire, stumbling over roots. The adults look anxiously at the dimming light.

The father from this morning steps toward me once more.

"Dead knight," he says, voice careful and respectful, "can we camp soon? The children can't march through another night."

He seems to think I might object. I simply turn my head, scanning the area for a suitable spot.

Ahead, a small rise offers clearer ground, fewer hiding places for threats. I walk toward it, pointing my sword and they follow.

They settle on a slope overlooking a shallow depression where dry grass shivers in a breeze.

Wagons form a half-circle. Stones and logs form a barrier. A few gather kindling for a small fire.

One man, a former farmer by his talk, inspects the soil, shakes his head, and sighs.

He dreams of gardens.

Another climbs onto the wagon to keep watch, spear in hand, though he glances at me, as if to say he knows who the real watchman is.

They have no proper meal tonight, just stale bread and water that tastes of old leather from the skins.

Children complain of hunger, but no one can help that. The mother holding her daughter's doll hums softly, a lullaby missing half its words.

The night grows quiet again.

I take my position at the perimeter, sword at my side, a dark shape against darker trees.

They watch me.

No attacks this day. No horrors emerged.

Yet they know too well how quickly things can change.

They rely on me. Some whisper prayers. Others stare at the fading sky, silent.

As darkness thickens, a few approach me timidly.

"Dead knight," a man says, "if you stood guard again tonight, we'd be grateful. We don't know what monsters roam, but with you here, we rest easier."

I do not speak.

He takes this for agreement.

"Thank you," he says, and returns to his family.

They settle into their meager bedding. Children snuggle close to parents. The aged lie down with creaking bones.

Younger men and women keep weapons close, but they know such sticks and blunted blades offer little defense compared to my silent vigil.

They trust me now. Strange, how quickly they learned. Two nights ago, they feared me as another monster.

Tonight, they know rest and silence, guarded by something that cannot tire or falter. They will dream beneath my watchful emptiness, and in the morning wake to continue forward, braver than before.

I shift my sword slightly, adjusting its weight. The night hushes. The living breathe.

I remain.