These Hallowed Bones - [Monster Evolution, Dark Fantasy, Heroic Undead]

Ancient magic stirs, reaching through stained soil. There is potential here, possibility. His bones remember purpose just as all warriors' remains do.

Ikert's men shift their weight, armor creaking. Spears tremble. The scent of fear rises, sharp and acrid to wolf-bone senses.

"Light preserve us," an old guard utters. His prayer trails into silence as he fixes his gaze on distant walls, anywhere but the ritual unfolding at his feet. Faith collides with ancient magic, with powers older than their crumbling temples.

I remain still, while power builds in the blood-soaked ground. The soldiers' hearts echo through wolf-bone sensors. Their fear has a scent now, bitter and cold. They witness what should not be possible, death speaking to death across the void.

Extending skeletal fingers, I touch Merik's skull. Magic flows through borrowed bones into the remains. Blue light flickers along the seams where fragments join, pulsing with the same energy that animates my own frame. The power seeks resonance, connection, echo.

Commander Ikert steps closer, tension visible in her frame. Questions burn in her eyes, though duty keeps them unspoken. She has witnessed too much to be shocked, yet this ritual pushes boundaries even she hesitates to cross.

I scratch in the dirt.

IF HE CHOOSES TO RISE, HE CAN. BONES HOLD ENOUGH ECHO FOR FIELD.

Her slight nod carries the weight of command decisions. She swallows hard but maintains her stance. Practical even in this moment of impossible ritual, she weighs potential gain against broken natural law.

"A sin against nature," utters the old guard. The others nod agreement, though none interfere. Their faith condemns while duty compels observation.

Ikert's eyes close briefly. The wolf-bones sense her struggling with conflicting duties - to the living who need defenders, to natural order that demands the dead rest in peace.

More magic pours through my frame into the earth. The soil shifts and ripples, red dust rising in spiral patterns. Half-buried banners stir without wind. The ritual deepens, power seeking response from Merik's remains.

Something touches the hollow where memories should be. Not sound - more like shadows of thought across bone. Images flash through my consciousness: Merik holding Emmy, making promises of safety. Leading survivors from Joist's as the endless rot claimed it. Standing guard through long nights while others slept.

Then darker memories surface - the Harvester in the dark, the thing that wore the faces. Learning to trust these clicking bones that now cradle his remains. His final moments in balverine jaws, fighting to the last.

The echo fades to silence. I withdraw my hand, letting the magic settle around his bones. The choice must be his alone. No compulsion, no demand. True guardians rise from willing sacrifice, not forced service.

Commander Ikert releases a held breath. Torchlight catches unshed tears in her eyes as we wait. The moment stretches, time itself seeming to hold its breath.

"We shouldn't watch this," a soldier mutters, but none move from their posts. Fascination overrides fear as they witness death's communion.

The ground shifts again beneath my claws. Ancient magic pulses through borrowed bones, resonance seeking connection with Merik's remains. The wolf-bones sense power building, while dragon fragments recognize the cusp of transformation.

Merik's bones rattle softly, a hollow sound against packed earth. Fragments of his ribcage click together, then apart. For a moment, blue light flickers within empty eye sockets.

Then they fall still.

Moments stretch into minutes. The earth waits. Magic lingers, potential unrealized.

Finally, the runes I drew flicker and die. Blue light fades to nothing, leaving only torch-lit darkness. Merik's remains lie quiet in the soil where so many others sleep. No spark ignites within the hollow spaces. No ancient purpose stirs.

I tilt my wolf-skull, waiting, but the echo that might have awakened him remains silent. The magic falls away, leaving only bones that hold no memory of duty. No resonance answers my call.

Commander Ikert's shoulders sag. Her hand drops from her sword hilt. "So, that's it?" she asks, voice hushed.

I nod, not in sadness but in truth. Death has its own wisdom, and Merik has made his choice. Rest calls him more strongly than continued service. Peace claims him where duty might have.

I rise from the ritual, bones clicking softly. The hollow remains silent. Merik chooses rest, not service. Some burdens end at death. The wolf-bones sense disappointment, while dragon fragments burn with disdain for weakness. Yet deeper memories counsel acceptance.

Ikert kneels beside the bones, though her men flinch at her proximity to the failed ritual. She sets the torch in place for light. Then, with careful hands, she gathers Merik's remains. "Then we bury him," she says. "That was his choice."

I nod, understanding. Some duties end at death. Others continue. His burden lifts while mine remains. The distinction carries no judgment, merely truth. Each soul charts its own course, even beyond life's boundaries.

I slip back a step, letting her attend to the bones. Her guards shift, uncertain, but they see nothing hostile in me now. The threat of unnatural resurrection has passed, leaving only solemn burial duties.

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One soldier helps her find a patch of soil free from rusted blades. They dig with gauntleted hands, scooping shallow earth. The work proves difficult - packed soil resists, metal fragments surface with each handful removed.

I stand watch, shield strapped to my arm, sword tip resting on a battered shield half-buried in the dirt. The wolf-bones scan darkness beyond torch light, while dragon fragments sense air currents shifting above. Guardian duty continues even during burial rites.

Night deepens, the only light from her abandoned torch. Scrape by scrape, they carve out a final resting place for Merik. The shallow scraping pauses. Commander Ikert wipes dirt from her gauntlets and stands.

"No. He deserves better than this." She looks at the meager hole they've managed with bare hands. "You two, fetch proper tools from the storehouse. Shovels, picks if the ground's hard. Make it quick."

Two guards snap to attention and hurry toward Haven's gates. I remain motionless, watching. The wolf bones in my frame pick up their rapid heartbeats fading into distance. My enhanced senses catch fragments of their words as they go, relief at leaving this dark ritual behind, if only briefly.

The remaining soldiers shift their weight from foot to foot. None speak. The torch flickers, sending shadows dancing across weathered armor and bleached bone. The silence stretches, heavy with unasked questions.

Commander Ikert kneels again beside the bones. She's buried too many soldiers not to know the proper way to care for them. "We'll do this right," she says, more to herself than to me or her men. "A true grave, marked and proper."

Emmy will want to know where her father rests.

The thought surfaces unbidden.

The borrowed wolf bones hold contempt - a pack member lost, refusing the hunt. Dragon fragments stir with ancient pride - another warrior choosing eternal sleep over continued battle. Their instincts pull in different directions, disparaging weakness while honoring warrior's choice.

I silence these competing voices. Their instincts are not mine. Yet, something deeper than borrowed memories registers loss. Not grief - these bones know no such emotion. Perhaps respect for paths not taken, for burdens set down at last.

I scratch words in the dirt for Ikert to read.

HE WOULD HAVE MADE STRONG KNIGHT.

The commander studies the scratched message. "Perhaps. But most are given but one life to serve." Her voice holds no judgment, merely acceptance of natural order. "Those who rise again are rare. Perhaps it's better that way."

My claws flex involuntarily. The wolf bones want to dig, to unearth, to try again. The dragon fragments bristle - if he lacks the will to rise, he deserves nothing further. Their hunger for allies, for shared purpose, conflicts with deeper truths.

Deeper still, the oldest fragment stirs - bones that dragged themselves across earth when the Demon Duke's flames scorched everything else away. That ancient echo remembers duty's weight. Not all are meant to carry it beyond death's threshold. Some find peace in letting go.

Through borrowed senses, I hear returning guards. Their boots scrape stone as they hurry back, tools rattling with each step. The wolf bones twitch, wanting to track their movements. Dragon fragments burn with disdain for this mortal ritual.

But deeper memories surface - ancient knights laying fallen brothers to rest, ceremonies older than these borrowed bones. Final rites performed countless times on battlefields now forgotten. Honors paid to those who fell but would not rise again.

I scratch new words into soil.

JUSTICE ECHOES IN PROPER BURIAL.

Commander Ikert reads the message, then nods. "Even in death, there are codes to follow." She takes a shovel from a returning guard. "The right way matters."

This is right. This is proper. This is justice for the fallen. I do not stir. The wolf bones settle. The dragon fragments quiet. In this moment, older purposes prevail. Ancient codes of honor transcend the instincts of borrowed parts.

Some duties persist beyond death. But so too does justice for those whose duties end. This purpose belongs to these borrowed bones alone. We are the shield between Haven and darkness. No other need rise to share this burden.

Dark soil takes Merik's bones. Each fragment settles into darkness as Ikert arranges them with the care of one who understands final dignity. My enhanced senses catch the subtle tremors in her hands, though her face remains composed. This is not her first burial, nor will it be her last.

"Light guide this soul to peace." The guard's prayer wavers, faith colliding with my presence, with all that defies natural order in this field of ancient dead. His words hold power nonetheless, marking passage from one state to another.

Another soldier bows his head. "Thank you," he mutters, "for bringing him home." The words catch in his throat, gratitude warring with fear of what I represent.

Earth falls in steady measures. The wolf bones in my frame register each impact as Merik vanishes beneath the soil. Each shovelful marks finality, completion of life's cycle. The proper order of things restored through ritual and respect.

The older guard's tears reflect torchlight. He never knew Merik, yet something in this moment breaks through. Perhaps he sees all the unmarked graves, all the bones that never found proper rest. Or perhaps he remembers comrades whose remains were never recovered.

The last earth settles. Commander Ikert rises, brushing dark soil from her gauntlets with methodical precision. Her gaze finds mine. Questions war behind her eyes, but she holds them back. The time for questions has passed.

I scratch a single word near the fresh mound.

HONORED

She nods, mouth drawing tight against unspoken thoughts. The silence stretches between us, heavy with implications neither wishes to voice. Her eyes move from my altered form to the grave and back again.

The burial complete, she draws her sword and plants it point-down beside the grave. "Let this mark him," she declares. The blade stands sentinel, temporary marker until something more permanent can be arranged.

We turn toward Haven. Our procession moves in silence through the dark. Commander Ikert's stride never wavers, though resolution has hardened her features. The weight of command shows in the set of her shoulders, in eyes that have seen too much yet continue to look forward.

Her men cast furtive glances my way. They are uncertain - am I protector or threat? The wolf bones sense their heartbeats quicken when I move too suddenly. The dragon fragments burn with irritation at their mortal weakness.

At the gate, Ikert halts. "Thank you," she says. Simple words for a complex act.

I drop to one knee, angling Aeternus in the ancient gesture of peace. The sword points downward, mirroring her blade at Merik's grave. One warrior's salute to another.

Tension eases from her frame, though wariness remains. "I'll inspect those maps," she states. Her eyes trace the new wolf bones grafted to my frame. "Your shape, the wolf bones, does it bother you?"

My skull moves in negation. The pack-limbs serve their purpose. Form follows function. These bones care nothing for appearance, only effectiveness.

I scratch in the dust.

I REMAIN.

Understanding crosses her features. Whatever shape these bones take, the purpose endures. The guardian remains, regardless of form's evolution.

Her guards part reluctantly. She gestures toward Haven's gate. "Come on then," Commander Ikert commands, practical even in the face of death's mysteries.

I follow, passing through stone archways that separate Haven's fragile life from surrounding darkness. Behind us, Merik rests in proper earth. Before us, walls shield the living from gathering threats.

The wolf bones pad silently across stone. The dragon fragments sense confined spaces. But deeper parts remember duty, remember purpose.

My skull turns briefly toward the memorial wall where Haven records its fallen. Soon Merik's name will join others, properly remembered, properly honored. His daughter will have somewhere to lay flowers.

Let him rest. Let others find peace.

These bones will stand guard.