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

I follow Commander Ikert through Haven's twisting passages.

The demon shield scrapes occasionally, its edge catching on narrow turns. Centuries of wear have smoothed these stones, yet they still resist demonic material. The shield almost seems to recoil from contact with Haven's blessed foundations.

Guards flatten themselves against walls as we pass. Their hands drift to weapons, eyes fixed on my monstrous changes. Some recognize the skull-knight that once walked these corridors.

Word has not yet passed around of my becoming.

Their hearts beat faster as we pass, a rhythm the wolf-bones sense clearly.

One young soldier's blade rattles in its scabbard as trembling fingers fail to maintain their grip. Commander Ikert takes it from him with practiced ease.

"Steady, Arman," she says. "It serves Haven."

The guard nods, though his eyes never leave my passing form. The wolf-bones catch his scent, fearful but prideful.

A good combination for survival.

The winding stair poses no challenge to bones that need no breath. Tattered banners brush my frame as we pass, ancient heraldry now faded beyond recognition. The dragon fragments recognize some symbols, kingdoms long fallen, houses extinct, alliances broken by betrayal or death.

Through arrow slits, I glimpse the Field of Broken Banners stretching dark beneath stars. From this height, the ancient battlefield appears peaceful, its horrors hidden by distance and darkness. Only these borrowed bones remember the screams that once filled that space, the desperation of final stands.

The borrowed bones within me pulse with recognition - how many died there, staring at these same windows? How many watched comrades fall while taking refuge behind these very walls? The memories surface like bubbles in still water, fragmentary yet vivid.

Commander Ikert's boot heels strike stone with military precision. Her head turns slightly every dozen steps, watching my movement.

Testing.

Measuring.

Her hand never strays far from her sword hilt. The commander knows what I am, a weapon that chose its own purpose. Not entirely trustworthy, but necessary. The wolf-bones sense calculation beneath her confident stride, how quickly could she retreat if these bones turned hostile? What defenses wait ahead?

The iron door above draws closer. Voices leak through its gap, the war council gathering for night assembly. Discussions of supplies, defenses, threats - the business of survival in a world where darkness presses against every wall.

Commander Ikert pauses at the final turn, her shoulders squaring beneath worn leather armor. She draws a slow breath, then gestures toward the torchlit chamber beyond.

"They won't all welcome you," she says quietly. "Some have lost too much to trust anything that walks without a heartbeat."

These borrowed bones remember protocols of rank and ceremony, but such things matter little now. Court etiquette died with the kingdoms it served. What remains is purpose, function, necessity.

I am what I am. Death's guardian. Haven's shield.

A monster that serves.

I follow Commander Ikert toward the war council chamber. The dragon fragments recall ancient councils where great wyrms debated territory and hunting rights. The wolf-bones remember pack hierarchy, the careful positioning that establishes dominance.

Older still, knightly fragments recall holding stations behind thrones, silent guardians during delicate negotiations.

All these memories guide my movements as we approach Haven's leadership.

Commander Ikert halts before the iron-bound door. Her voice drops low, meant for my hollow sense alone. The borrowed wolf-ears catch every word despite her hushed tone.

"These are my most trusted advisors. Berta Volstadt, our Master-at-Arms - she'll recognize your combat stance. That steel jaw of hers came from a corrupted beast she killed with her bare hands."

She points through a crack in the door. "Eren Falkreid, the bitter one with the metal fist, he lost his patrol years back. Everyone but him taken by the shadows. Hartger Amsell, youngest of the lot, missing half an ear. The corruption almost took his mind when it burned his face. We've all lost a lot. You'll see them all around the table."

Her finger traces other figures visible through the narrow gap. "Hilde Gerwynn runs our supplies, keeps us fed through the dwarven tunnels. Lost her whole family when the Endless Rot came for the first of our farms we took back. Jermaine Dulluth, is our stratgist."

"Maralda Kreiz, our runner, she's quick despite losing part of herself."

She pauses, watching shadows shift beneath the door. "Old Thedir, blind now, but he was our best scout. Lost his eyes to the Harpy Queen's talons. Can't see you, but he'll have questions. Says he can sense intent now, whatever that means. Wayfried Anselm handles our armor, doesn't trust anything he didn't forge himself. Waynus Johhans leads our elite guard, even after losing most of his leg to a wolf bite."

The commander's hand rests on the door latch. "They've all lost something to this war. Each carries their own nightmares. But they keep Haven standing."

Her eyes fix on my skull. "Show them you're worth their trust, and that I haven't lost my mind by bringing you here."

The door groans open, ancient hinges protesting movement.

Light spills from the chamber, not bright torchlight, but the dim glow of carefully rationed candles. Maps cover a massive oak table, marked with colored stones and metal fragments. The air smells of old sweat, ink, and determination.

Conversation dies.

Ten sets of eyes, save Thedir's sightless ones, lock onto my altered form. These are warriors, survivors, guardians in their own right. Each bears scars visible or hidden. Each has faced darkness and lived to plan another day's defense.

I incline my skull in a warrior's greeting, careful to keep my movements slow

No sudden gestures to provoke their fear.

The wolf bones in my frame want to assert dominance. Here, I am simply Haven's shield, nothing more. The dragon fragments burn with ancient pride, but I suppress their urge to stand tall. This is no place for displays of power.

"By the gods, Ikert. When you said skeleton, I expected bones. Not, whatever the hell this is," says Eren Falkreid, his metal stump arm tapping against the table's edge. His good hand reaches for a dagger.

Berta Volstadt's steel jaw clicks as she studies my frame. Her fingers flex around a war hammer's haft. The wolf-bones sense her combat readiness, muscles tensed for immediate response.

I stand motionless as the council members process my presence. Their reactions, instinctive reach for weapons, subtle shifting of stance to defensive positions.

All expected.

All reasonable. The bones within me understand survival's first rule, trust nothing unfamiliar.

"This is what killed the Demon Duke?" Berta Volstadt's words are harshly spoken through forged jaw.

Suspicion edges.

I nod once, the gesture deliberate.

The dragon fragments remember the battle.

"Show them," Commander Ikert says.

I unsling the demon shield from my back. Brittle pieces flake off where the shield has been secured. The borrowed bones feel the demonic material's resistance, its inherent opposition to the magic that animates my frame. Yet it serves, just as these bones serve.

I place it carefully on the table, avoiding sudden movements that might startle these battle-hardened veterans. The shield's surface catches candlelight, revealing intricate patterns beneath corruption, and in the center, Haven's mark.

Jermaine Dulluth leans forward and looks over the Haven symbol I carved into the bone. "The Duke's own skull?"

"Fascinating," Wayfried Anselm mutters, his wooden peg leg scraping stone as he circles the table for a closer look. "Never knew you could work demon bone like this. The material properties must be remarkable." A craftsman's appreciation overrides momentary fear.

Old Thedir's blind eyes turn toward the sound of bone settling on wood. His head tilts, as if listening to something beyond normal hearing. "It carries power. I can feel it from here."

His gnarled hands grip his staff tighter. "I'll reserve judgment till I know more. Time will tell its true nature." His milky eyes seem to focus regardless of blindness, sensing what others merely see.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Maralda Kreiz, the runner, steps closer. Her movements are fluid despite missing toes, body adapted to compensate for what corruption stole. "Can it speak?"

I shake my skull once.

Speech remains beyond these bones. The magic that animates this form grants many abilities, but vocal communication lies beyond its scope. These fragments remember speech but cannot reproduce it.

"Then how the hell are we supposed to talk to it?" Waynus Johhans demands, his limp forgotten as he leans forward over the war table. His hand rests on a cavalry saber, knuckles white with tension.

The answer is simple enough. I reach down with my right hand, gripping at the wrist joint. The bone connections here remain flexible, designed for separation if necessary.

Ancient magic pulses as I twist.

Bone separates from bone.

Swords flash from scabbards. Chairs scrape stone as council members leap back. Hilde Gerwynn overturns her seat in her haste to create distance.

Even Commander Ikert prepares to fight before she catches herself. Her hand halts halfway to her sword hilt, recognition overriding instinct.

I place my severed hand on the rough-hewn table. It stands on fingertips, each bone segment clicking as it orients itself. The fingers flex experimentally, testing range of motion while separated from the main frame.

The council watches as my hand skitters across maps toward an inkwell and quill. It moves with purpose, independent yet connected to my will through the same magic that animates the whole.

"Sweet mercy," Wayfried Anselm pales, his wooden peg leg thumping as he backs away. "That's, uh, quite something."

His craftsman's appreciation gives way to primal discomfort.

The hand grasps the quill. These bones remember the weight of a pen, though the memories belong scribes who recorded battles, knights who sent final messages home, commanders who issued last orders. Their collective knowledge guides my fingers now.

"Well," Berta Volstadt says through her steel jaw, "that's one way to make a point." Her grip on her war hammer eases slightly, though wariness remains in her stance.

The rest of the council remains frozen, weapons half-drawn, as my severed hand begins to write. The quill scratches across parchment, leaving bold strokes in its wake.

My detached hand scratches bold letters across parchment.

I AM HAVEN'S GUARDIAN

Writing proves easier than scratching on stone and marks in dirt. The quill flows smoothly, allowing clearer communication than crude letters carved in earth.

Eren Falkreid leans forward, metal stump forgotten as he reads. "Well, that's, direct." His remaining hand relaxes its grip on his dagger.

My fingers adjust their grip on the quill, continuing.

I HUNT. I PROTECT. I SERVE.

"At least it's literate," Hilde Gerwynn mutters, her scarred arms crossed tight. She retakes her seat, though she positions it farther from the table than before.

My detached hand pauses over the parchment as Hartger Amsell steps forward, his remaining half-ear twitching. The burn scars across his young face pull tight as he frowns.

"Why are you here? Inside our walls?" He gestures at my towering form. "You're clearly built for the battlefield, for hunting monsters. What purpose does standing in this chamber serve?"

The question catches me off guard. These bones have no answer prepared. Commander Ikert commanded me within Haven's walls, but my purpose lies in combat, in protection from threats. I belong in the darkness beyond the walls, hunting what would threaten the living.

Out in the wastes and the wilds, the killing grounds where bone and marrow cleanse corrupted ground.

My severed hand hovers uncertainly over the parchment.

I AM WHERE HAVEN NEEDS ME

The Field of Broken Banners birthed me for battle. Not council chambers. Yet purpose demands adaptation, even for this form. Yet all these thoughts are mine alone.

"The skeleton has a point," Waynus Johhans says, leaning on his cane. "It's done more good outside our walls than in them. Why bring a weapon of war to our war room?"

Jermaine Dulluth's steel-capped fingers tap against the table. His eyes narrow. "Perhaps it means to betray us? Learn our secrets? Finish us all off for its dark master?"

The wolf-bones sense fear beneath his accusation, but dragon fragments recognize strategic thinking.

A wise commander considers all possibilities, even betrayal from trusted sources.

My skull turns toward Maralda Kreiz as she laughs.

"I saw that damned thing beat a Gargoyle to death mid-flight three years past," she says. "If it wanted to kill us all, it would have done it long ago. It's had plenty of chances."

The borrowed bones within me remember that battle, the crumbling stone wings, the height above Haven's walls, the need to protect those below. Dragon fragments recall aerial combat tactics. Wolf-bones remember the impact against stone flesh. Knight fragments recall the desperate defense of innocents below.

Berta Volstadt nods. "I was on the west wall that day. Saw it rip the statue's wings off, then ride the thing down. No demon servant fights like that for humans."

The assessment is accurate. No demon ally would sacrifice itself for mortal lives. The Gargoyle would have breached Haven's walls had these bones not intervened.

My hand scratches quickly across the paper.

I SERVE HAVEN. NOTHING MORE.

"But serve how?" Maralda Kreiz asks, her damaged fingers flexing. "What can you do within these walls that you couldn't do better outside them?"

A fair question. These bones belong in combat, not council chambers. The wolf fragments grow restless, sensing open space beyond stone walls. Dragon memories recall flying free above mountain peaks. Old knight bones remember standing outside chamber doors, not participating in governance.

Before my hand can respond, Commander Ikert steps forward. Her boots scrape stone as she puts a palm on the table to study the map. Her authority reasserts itself through simple positioning.

"You're all asking the wrong question," she says. Fingers trace paths beneath Haven's marked walls. "We've been thinking of our guardian as a wall defender, a monster hunter. But what if?"

She taps a point where old ink marks tunnels beneath the fortress.

"What if we had a warrior who doesn't need light?" Her finger moves on the map. "Or air?"

Another tap. "Or rest?"

The council falls silent as understanding dawns.

Even Old Thedir's blind eyes widen slightly.

"The old passages beneath Haven," she continues. "The ones we had to abandon because they were too dangerous to keep open. Our skeleton friend here doesn't need any of the things that limited us down there. And most importantly,"

She taps the demon shield. "It's proven it can handle whatever horrors lurk in the dark."

The wolf bones in my frame bristle at the implied weakness, but I remain still. Instinct suggests showing strength, but wisdom counsels restraint. These are Haven's defenders, their doubts are earned. They have sacrificed limbs, loved ones, futures to stand against darkness.

"We can watch the walls," Waynus Johhans says, his damaged leg creaking as he shifts weight. "The skeleton can't do everything. We need to remember that."

My detached hand pauses over the parchment, then writes:

HAVEN NEEDS ALL GUARDIANS. LIVING AND DEAD.

Waynus's face hardens.

"Pretty words from something that doesn't bleed."

The accusation strikes deeper than he knows.

These bones remember bleeding. Remember pain. Remember death. N

ot as concepts, but as experiences etched into marrow.

I tap the quill against parchment, considering.

My hand scratches across the parchment, bones clicking against wood.

I REMEMBER BLEEDING.

"What is it saying?" Old Thedir asks, blind eyes turning toward the scratching sound.

The council leans forward as my fingers continue writing. Commander Ikert begins reading aloud for Thedir's benefit.

"BLED ONCE. FIELD OF BROKEN BANNERS REMEMBERS. EACH DROP OF BLOOD CARRIED FINAL WISH, THAT SOMETHING WOULD STAND WHEN WE COULD NOT."

Waynus's grip tightens on his cane. His eyes narrow, but he makes no move to interrupt.

"REMEMBER WEIGHT OF FLESH. BURN OF DEMON FIRE IN LUNGS. COPPER TASTE AS BLOOD FILLED THROAT. REMEMBER WATCHING BROTHERS FALL. SISTERS BROKEN. FRIENDS TORN APART. REMEMBER FINAL CHARGE WHEN DEATH STOOD BEFORE US. REMEMBER DEMON KING HOLDING SEVERED HEADS OF DRAGON LORDS."

"REMEMBER BLEEDING OUT ON THIS VERY GROUND. REMEMBER LAST BREATH."

"NOW I STAND AGAIN. DIFFERENT FORM. SAME PURPOSE."

Old Thedir's unseeing eyes glisten. His gnarled hand reaches for his staff, knuckles white with emotion.

The room falls silent save for the clicking of my detached hand returning the quill to its well. Even Waynus looks away, discomfort plain on his weathered features.

These battle-hardened veterans recognize the weight of sacrifice in those words. The borrowed bones speak truth they cannot deny. They've all bled for Haven. They all bear scars visible or hidden.

They know the price of protection.

My detached hand retrieves the quill once more.

THE LIVING TOO FEW TO WASTE IN DARK TUNNELS WHERE CORRUPTION FESTERS. LET THESE BONES GO WHERE FLESH CANNOT.

Commander Ikert nods, satisfaction visible in her posture. The strategy makes sense - use the undead guardian where living soldiers would perish.

"And if it finds something down there it can't handle?" Eren Falkreid asks. His eyes dart to the demon shield, then back to my skeletal frame.

My hand scratches across parchment.

THEN SCATTER. REFORM. CONTINUE. UNTIL THREAT ENDS.

"That's unsettling," Hartger Amsell mutters, touching his damaged ear. The burn scars on his face flush darker.

BETTER SCATTERED BONES THAN DEAD SOLDIERS. HAVEN NEEDS ITS DEFENDERS.

Berta Volstadt nods as she considers. Her steel jaw clicks as she works through the implications. "True enough. Lost too many good fighters trying to keep those tunnels clear. At least bones don't suffocate when passages collapse."

"Seventeen of them." Eren Falkreid answers, his metal stump arm clenching. "Last count was seventeen dead in the deep dark. Good men and women, all of them." His remaining fingers trace a pattern on the table, perhaps a memorial gesture.

Jermaine Dulluth's points on the map where tunnel systems are marked. "The eastern passages lead to three potential water sources. The northern tunnels connect to old storage chambers where supplies might remain. The western..."

He pauses, glancing at my skeletal frame. "The western tunnels lead to places we dare not speak of. Things moved there, before we sealed the entrances."

My hand writes again, quill pressing firm against parchment.

SEND ME.

The council exchanges glances. Silent communication passes between veterans who have fought together, bled together, survived together.

Hilde Gerwynn breaks the silence. "We need those water sources. The eastern well runs lower every week."

Maralda Kreiz nods. "Storage chambers might hold preserved foods, weapons, medicines. Things we desperately need."

Old Thedir taps his staff against stone. "And the western tunnels hold threats that grow stronger in darkness. Better to face them now than when they break through to us."

Commander Ikert looks to each council member in turn. "Then we agree? Our guardian will explore the tunnels while we maintain surface defenses? Maybe even the dwarves?"

DWARVES?

The council members exchange glances. Hilde Gerwynn's scarred arms tighten across her chest.

"We haven't had contact with the dwarven kingdoms in nearly three years," she says. "The secret tunnel route they maintained, the one that occasionally brought supplies went dark. Sealed. Nobody has come back from checking into it."

Old Thedir nods.

I write.

COULD REESTABLISH CONTACT. SUPPLIES. ALLIES.

Commander Ikert studies the map, her finger tracing the faded line that marks the dwarven supply route. "If you could find a way through, if they still exist."

"It's been years now," Wayfried Anselm interrupts,. "No messengers, no signals. For all we know, their halls are overrun."

I tap the demon shield, then write:

HAVE FACED WORSE. WILL FIND THEM IF THEY STAND.

Hilde Gerwynn leans forward, hope briefly overcoming caution. "The dwarven supplies kept us alive. Their metalwork reinforced our walls. Their medicines saved dozens."

My hand scratches quickly across the parchment.

I WILL SEARCH. BONES NEED NO AIR. NO LIGHT. CAN GO WHERE LIVING CANNOT.

"The risk seems worth the potential reward," Jermaine Dulluth says, "At minimum, we learn what happened to them."

Nods answer her question, some reluctant, others certain. Even Waynus Johhans inclines his head after a moment's hesitation.

"Good," Commander Ikert says. "We've wasted enough time debating. The skeleton will begin with the eastern tunnels tomorrow. Hilde, prepare maps of what we remember. Jermaine, compile all reports from our last expeditions. Berta, see if you can find any weapons that might serve our guardian better in confined spaces."

The council moves with new purpose, debate transformed to action. These are survivors, pragmatists. Fear yields to necessity. Suspicion to function.

I watch their efficient movements, my detached hand writing one final message before returning to its proper place.

PURPOSE SHARED. STRENGTH UNITED. HAVEN STANDS.

My hand skitters back across the table, quill deposited in its well. It climbs my frame, reconnecting to my wrist with a soft click of bone against bone.

The council watches, still wary but now accepting. These are Haven's guardians, its leaders, its heart. They understand sacrifice, duty, purpose.

They recognize the same in these borrowed bones.

Tomorrow, the tunnels. The darkness.

These bones stand ready.