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

The road continues across dead lands. Dust, fine as powdered bone, rises with each step, coating my frame in gray shroud. On the third day, a new kind of order asserts itself.

Ahead, the road dips toward a deep ravine spanned by a bridge of crumbling, ancient stone. A crude barricade of sharpened stakes and rusted metal blocks the path. A dozen gnolls stand guard, extorting tolls from a pair of shivering, goblin-like creatures who offer up a handful of polished rocks.

This is the new economy of the wastes. Petty tyrants carving out tiny fiefdoms.

My approach halts their transaction. The goblins squeak and vanish into the rocks. The gnolls turn, baring yellowed fangs, their laughter turning to low growls as they register my size and form. Their leader, a brute with a notched axe and a necklace of finger bones, steps forward.

"None pass without paying the toll to the—"

He trails off, his bravado failing as his eyes pass over my divine-forged armor, the ancient power of Aeternus, and the blue flame burning in my skull, the spectral flesh, the cape, my towering form.

I do not slow my stride.

The gnoll's courage crumbles. He stumbles backward, slamming into his own barricade. His pack follows, a cascade of whimpering cowardice. One drops his weapon entirely. Another soils himself.

The leader tries to rally them with a halfhearted snarl, but his voice cracks. "You can't just—Pan's rules say—"

Pan's name stops my advance. Good. The demon's reach extends even to these worthless creatures. Structure builds on structure, hierarchy on hierarchy.

Pan still lives.

"Pan," I say, the word carrying across the bridge like a funeral bell. "Where."

The gnoll leader's finger trembles as he points south, toward the smoking ruins of what was once a fortified town. "The old garrison. He holds court there. Where the Duke used to be."

I step through their barricade. Wood splinters. Metal screams. Behind me, the gnolls flee.

The rest of the road takes less than a day to finish.

What has been rebuilt of the fortress rises up in the distance. But it is changed. The banners of the Duke, long torn down, have been replaced by crude flags of stitched hide and stolen silk, each bearing the hastily painted sigil of a grasping, three-armed figure.

Pan has been busy.

As I approach the outer walls, the chaos becomes more defined. The breach I along with Marnac's forces created in the wall has not been repaired. Instead, it has been widened, turned into a makeshift, chaotic gate. Demons of a dozen lesser breeds, gnolls with hyena laughs, imps with wings of leather, hulking brutes with more muscle than wit, flow in and out, dragging struggling plunder and arguing over spoils.

They fall silent as I near.

The smaller demons scatter. Imps take wing with shrill squeaks. Gnolls bare yellowed fangs but slink backward, hackles raised in submission more than threat.

But not all flee.

A hulking brute steps forward from the crowd, towering even over my frame. Its hide bears ritual scars, each one a claim of dominance over lesser creatures. Four arms end in claws.

"What manner of bone-thing dares approach Pan's territory without tribute?"

The creature's eyes burn with the kind of confidence that comes from never meeting a superior predator. Around us, the other demons form a loose circle, eager for violence but smart enough to stay clear of the first exchange.

"I come for Pan."

The brute starts to laugh. "Pan? Weak Pan needs skeleton guard?" It flexes all four arms, claws scraping against each other, and then it lunges, all bulk and fury and absolute certainty in its strength.

Aeternus meets its first claw mid-swing, severing the limb at the wrist. Before the creature can process the loss, my free hand closes around its skull. Dragon bone strength, amplified by divine forging, crushes through thick bone like rotted wood.

I drive its head into the fortress door.

The impact sends cracks radiating through ancient stone. The tyrant's roar becomes a wet gurgle.

Again.

The door frame buckles. Lesser demons stumble backward as debris rains down.

Again.

The skull caves inward. Dark ichor spatters across my bones, across the watching crowd.

Again.

What remains of the head is unrecognizable pulp. The body still twitches, nerves firing without purpose or thought.

I release the corpse and it crumples, three arms and then a stump spread wide in permanent surrender.

The silence that follows is absolute. Even the imps have stopped chittering.

I turn to face the circle of watchers, ichor dripping from my fingers. When I speak, my voice carries the weight of finality.

"Fetch Pan."

They scatter. The doorway lies open, unguarded, smeared with the remains of misplaced confidence.

This is the only language corruption understands. The only currency that guarantees respect in these lands.

Violence, absolute and undeniable.

The delegation emerges from the broken doorway like scavengers from a fresh carcass. Not soldiers—Pan lacks the authority to command respect through force alone. Lesser demons, minor monsters, opportunists. The sort who thrive in the spaces between fallen powers.

They bow. Not from reverence, but from the practiced calculation of creatures who understand the food chain.

Stolen story; please report.

"Death's Champion." The speaker is a hunched imp with too many eyes. "The Lord Pan awaits your presence."

Lord Pan. The creature has elevated himself quickly. I step over the corpse of his former enforcer, noting how none of the delegation spare it a glance. Already forgotten. Already irrelevant.

The imp scuttles backward, maintaining its bow while leading me through corridors I remember well. They have recovered more of it than I thought possible.

We pass through chambers where lesser demons sort through looted treasures. They freeze as I walk by, their conversations dying mid-word. A gnoll drops a golden chalice. The clatter echoes like a death knell in the silence.

The throne room doors stand open. No guards challenge our approach, they learned their lesson from the corpse outside. The imp gestures me forward with too many arms, each ending in malformed hands.

"The Lord awaits within."

I enter and find Pan perched on a throne of sorts. He has grown since our last meeting, not in size, but in presence. Better fed. Better dressed.

Three arms gesture expansively as I approach. The third hand, I notice, wears a signet ring.

"Death's Champion! Welcome to my humble domain."

His smile is too wide, too eager. The kind of expression worn by creatures who know they are outmatched but hope their usefulness will preserve them.

Behind him, arranged like trophies, are the heads of those who challenged his claim to this place. Some monsters I recognize, others are new, likely rival contenders for the fortress.

Pan has been busy establishing his legitimacy through the only means available.

Blood.

Pan rises when I enter. His bearing has changed. The desperate hunger has been replaced by satisfaction, though his eyes still hold the wariness of a scavenger who knows larger predators hunt these lands.

"You honor my humble domain," he says. "I trust the journey was easy for you, Death's Champion."

"Empty roads. No resistance. No retribution." I let the words hang between us. "The King's silence troubles me."

Pan's expression shifts. The practiced smile falters for just a moment, replaced by something that might be genuine concern.

"Ah. You have noticed." He settles back into his makeshift throne, each arm finding its rest. "Yes. The silence. It has been... problematic for those of us who depend on predictable hierarchies."

He gestures to the throne room, to the chaos beyond. "This is not order. Not the way things ought to be. When a Duke falls and the King does not respond, when territories go unclaimed and retribution never comes, the lesser powers begin to wonder if perhaps the King has... larger concerns."

"It is not safe to know. The King dreams, and in his dreams, he walks roads that lead beyond this world. Some whisper he seeks..." Pan pauses, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Other conquests. Other realms to claim. As if this broken shell of a world no longer holds sufficient challenge."

The scratched message on the crossroads stone echoes in my awareness. He dreams of other worlds.

Not metaphor after all.

"Who knows where to find him?" My voice carries the weight of certainty that this question has an answer.

Pan's three hands fidget with his rings, each finger adorned with trinkets of his new station. The wariness in his eyes deepens.

"There is... a conclave. The Demon Dukes gather to choose a successor." He pauses, watching my reaction carefully. "For the position left vacant by your... intervention."

The Duke I killed. The one whose skull became my shield before Carida's essence rejected it. Pan now holds that blood-soaked territory, but the formal rank remains empty.

"A successor," I repeat. "Who decides?"

"The remaining Dukes. Seven of them, though rumors speak of absences. Empty thrones where once great powers held court." Pan leans forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "The conclave is not merely ceremony. It is... revelation."

I wait. Pan has more to say, and the silence will draw it from him like poison from a wound.

"Who is the front runner?"

Pan's smile returns, but it holds no warmth. Only the bitter acknowledgment of ambition met with impossible odds.

"Just me."

Of course. The three-armed opportunist, elevated from scavenging the battlefield to claiming a Duke's domain. The mathematics of succession in the infernal hierarchy.

"Becoming a Demon Duke doesn't just mean you're the strongest," Pan continues, all pretense of casual conversation abandoned. "It is a way to become the strongest. There is an evolution."

The Arkashoth fragment stirs, ancient knowledge bubbling to the surface. Evolution. Transformation. The ranks of demonhood are not merely titles but fundamental changes to one's very essence.

"What manner of evolution?"

Pan's expression grows more serious, the opportunistic shining replaced by genuine explanation.

"Physical transformation. Complete reconstruction of form and power." His three arms spread wide, encompassing his current state. "What I am now would be unmade entirely. Reforged. The weakest imp can become a Balrog if the ritual succeeds."

"What do you hope to become?"

Pan's three hands still for a moment, the constant fidgeting ceasing as he considers the question. When he speaks, his voice lacks the usual scheming undertones.

"Strong enough to not have to cower every time one of the Dukes, or you, come around."

The honesty surprises me. Not the ambition, that was always clear, but the admission of fear. The acknowledgment that his current position is built on terror, not strength.

"I tire of calculating which words might preserve my existence," he continues. "Tired of measuring every gesture to avoid triggering something more powerful than myself. The transformation would grant me the strength to speak without fear."

His eyes meet mine, unflinching for once. "You understand this. You were remade into something that answers to no authority save your own purpose. I seek the same freedom, though perhaps with less noble intentions."

The Arkashoth fragment whispers its assessment: Pan speaks truth. A desire for power rooted in exhaustion of constant submission.

The hollow space within my ribcage stills as I draw inward, seeking the counsel of those who remain.

Carida's essence manifests first, her purpose unwavering as starlight. "Go with him," she says without hesitation. "Knowledge of the King's absence serves Haven's protection."

The Arkashoth fragment coalesces beside her, ancient and patient. "The conclave will reveal truths older than this corruption. The Dukes gather not just to choose successors, but to address the vacuum left by their master's... distraction."

"Pan will betray you the moment it serves his ambition," Carida warns. "Trust nothing he says beyond his fear."

"Yet his fear makes him useful," the fragment counters. "He needs protection more than he needs treachery. For now."

Both essences pulse with agreement on the central truth: I need to understand what commands the Demon King's attention before I can confront him directly.

I turn back to Pan, who watches nervously as my flames flicker with inner deliberation.

"Then, for the conclave, I will be your champion."

Pan's relief is immediate, though his three hands still tremble slightly.

"When do we leave?"

Pan's relief transforms into urgency, his three hands gesturing rapidly as he speaks.

"Immediately. Tonight, if possible." He rises from his makeshift throne, already reaching for travel preparations. "The only reason I haven't departed yet is I needed a stronger second to escort me. The journey to the conclave is dangerous, the conclave itself more so."

His eyes dart toward the shadows beyond the throne room, as if expecting threats to materialize from the darkness itself.

"The other candidates have been traveling for days. Each Duke brings their own champion, their own protection."

"I thought you said you were the candidate."

Pan's expression shifts. His three hands still their nervous fidgeting, caught in the moment between truth and deception.

"Oh, did I?" The words come too quickly, too casual. "I meant one of many, naturally. A front runner among several worthy aspirants."

Already Pan lies.

The Arkashoth fragment stirs with dark amusement. Predictable, it whispers. Fear makes creatures stupid, and stupidity makes them transparent.

Carida's essence pulses with irritation. She has no patience for dishonesty, especially when lives depend on accurate information.

Pan continues, his voice gaining false confidence as he builds upon the deception. "Surely you understand, Death's Champion, that such positions require... negotiation. Political maneuvering. It is rarely a simple declaration of worthiness."

His smile returns, wider than before, desperate to convince. "I merely possess the strongest claim among the contenders. The best chance of success."

The truth radiates from his fear. Pan is one candidate among many, possibly the weakest. His survival depends entirely on arriving with protection that exceeds his rivals' champions.

He needs me more than he admits. Which makes him useful, if carefully managed.

"Where do we go?"

"The ruins of Acre," Pan replies, his voice dropping with reverence and dread. "A grand castle of the humans, deeper down the King's Road. Once it housed their greatest lords, now it serves as neutral ground for infernal politics."

The dragon fragments within my frame stir with recognition. Acre. The bones remember.

Now it hosts the choosing of demons.