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

Pan's urgency manifests in frantic preparation. His lesser demons scatter through the fortress, gathering supplies and armaments with the desperate competence of creatures who understand failure means death.

"The journey takes three days through contested territory," Pan explains, watching a pair of gnolls load provisions onto a makeshift cart. "Other candidates will attempt to eliminate rivals before reaching the conclave. Fewer challengers mean better odds for those who survive."

I observe the preparations with growing assessment.

Pan's forces that actually assemble number perhaps thirty creatures, a mix of opportunistic scavengers and minor predators. Gnolls, imps, a crude succubus not capable of vanity and a handful of corrupted demi-humans bearing crude weapons.

Nothing that would survive contact with a true challenge.

"Your escort," I say, gesturing toward the assembling rabble. "They will not suffice."

Pan's confidence wavers. "They serve their purpose. They've served me well."

"They will flee when the danger comes."

Pan knows it as truth.

His three hands fidget with his rings, calculating odds that grow worse with each consideration.

"Perhaps," he admits. "But appearances matter at the conclave. Some is better than none."

The Arkashoth laughs in the hollow space. Appearance over substance.

The folly of lesser predators.

I continue. "What form does the selection take for the next Duke?"

Pan's expression shifts, relief mostly. Then calculation.

Here, at least, he possesses useful knowledge.

"The conclave follows the old ways. Each candidate presents their claim, their worthiness, their vision for the vacant territory." His voice drops. "Then comes the trial by champions."

Of course.

I should have anticipated this.

"Single combat between each candidate's chosen representative," Pan continues. "Winner claims the rank and power for their patron. As for the losers?"

He shrugs, the gesture encompassing death, consumption, or worse fates.

The answer is clear.

Pan expects me to fight and win his elevation through violence. His survival, his transformation, depends entirely on my willingness to serve his ambition.

But why should I?

I turn toward him, the blue flames in my sockets brightening with sudden focus. The question emerges from deeper consideration, from the place where strategy meets fundamental purpose.

"Why would I let you ascend?"

Pan freezes.

His three hands still their constant motion. Around us, the lesser demons pause in their preparations, sensing the shift and readying to scurry.

The silence stretches.

Pan's breathing becomes rapid and shallow.

"I," he swallows, his voice cracking slightly. "You could. Obviously. I cannot stop you."

The admission is undeniable.

"But you need information," he continues, grasping for relevance. "I know the infernal, the way of the court, the names, the demons, the way things are."

His confidence builds as he speaks, desperation transforming into calculation.

Pan's expression changes, the desperate scheming replaced by sudden motivation.

"You killed the Demon Duke when you were not as strong as you are now. Did you even know his name?" He chuckles. "Not Marnac who tried to replace him, but the original? His name was Kazud, and you wore his arm."

I had never learned the Duke's name. To me, he was the first true obstacle. A threat to Haven that required elimination.

But Pan speaks truth. I had fashioned a shield from Kazud's skull, worn his corrupted essence until Carida's rejection burned it away. I had carried pieces of a being whose identity meant nothing to me.

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"Kazud of the Scorching," Pan continues, "Duke."

"I offer partnership." Pan gestures toward the preparations continuing around us. "Help me ascend, and I share everything I learn about the King's plans, his weaknesses, his true location."

"And after your ascension?"

Pan's expression shifts. His three hands fold, and when he speaks, his voice carries the flat honesty of absolute pragmatism.

"After I ascend?" He meets my gaze then flinches even as words come out. "If you're still stronger than me, the partnership continues. I'll provide information, territory, whatever resources you need."

His shoulders straighten, three arms spreading in a gesture of inevitability.

"If I'm stronger? Well."

He doesn't finish the sentence.

He doesn't need to.

Around the throne room, lesser demons pretend not to listen while absorbing every word. This conversation will echo through the wasteland's power structure within days.

Pan leans forward, his voice dropping but losing none of its certainty.

"That's how it works down here. Strength determines everything. Alliances last exactly as long as they serve the stronger party's interests."

The Arkashoth fragment stirs with approval.

Honest discourse.

Carida's essence remains unmoved. She suspects Pan will test his new strength against me immediately after transformation, regardless of the odds.

"Then we understand each other," I say.

Pan's smile returns.

"Perfectly. A partnership."

But not perfect.

The hollow space within my ribcage stirs. Not with the balverine alpha's presence, those bones have taken form elsewhere, leading the Wild Hunt against prowling darkness. The pack's wisdom echoes through borrowed marrow.

Establish dominance.

Make the hierarchy clear.

He mistakes my agreement for partnership. Mistakes understanding for equality.

The lesser demons around us resume their preparations, their earlier terror fading into routine subservience. They too forget what I am. What I represent.

This requires correction.

I reach out with one hand, fingers closing around Pan's throat before he can react. Not the killing grip I used on his former enforcer, just enough pressure to lift him from his throne until his feet dangle above the stone floor.

His arms flail, claws scratching uselessly against my wrist. Around us, the entire throne room freezes. Every demon, every imp, every scavenger stops moving.

"Survival," I say, "does not mean partnership."

Pan's eyes bulge.

He stops his desperate scrabbling, hanging limp as understanding floods through him.

Pack hierarchy demands demonstration.

"You serve me until ascension. Afterward, we discover what you become."

I let blue flames flare again. "But make no mistake about our arrangement."

I release him. He drops to the throne, gasping, three hands clutching at his bruised throat. The confident scheming has evaporated, replaced by the familiar terror that keeps creatures like him alive.

Around us, lesser demons prostrate themselves. Gnolls press their muzzles to the floor. Imps fold their wings in submission.

Good.

Fear provides clarity where words fail.

Pan wheezes, struggling to regain composure. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the rasp of near-strangulation.

"Understood," he croaks though hatred shimmers. "Perfectly understood."

The rasp in Pan's voice carries more than pain from my grip. Something coils beneath his submission, a promise wrapped in poisonous acceptance.

I lower myself, bone joints folding until I squat and look over him. The position brings my burning sockets close to him.

"You need me."

He cowers.

Something cold stirs within me. Not the Arkashoth's ancient hunger. Not Carida's righteous fire. Not the wolf bones' pack instincts.

Something divine.

Something that remembers judgment without mercy.

The presence of Aeternus responds from where the blade rests against my spine. Not the weapon itself, but the principle it embodies. The law that cuts through deception.

"I need nothing," I say as the words emerge. "But what serves."

The blue flames in my sockets flare.

"I have killed gods. I have killed Dukes. Your service will continue."

I lean closer, until divine authority presses against his skin.

He recoils, pained as if burning.

"Or your bones will join the others."

Pan's three mouths open.

Close.

No sound emerges.

Around us, lesser demons flee.

He blinks.

"Of course."

Hierarchy established.

Terms clarified.

"When do we leave?"

Pan's response comes immediately, automatically. "One hour."

No more scheming. No more calculations.

Only submission to the stronger predator.

As it should be.

The preparations continue, he stands and brushes himself off, the scavenger survivor who suddenly remembers what it takes to survive. Then, Pan looks across my towering frame, lingering on the spectral flesh that wraps around bone, the draconic ridges that crown my skull, the wolf-bone claws that extend from my fingers.

His three hands gesture nervously as he speaks.

"Your current presentation might complicate matters at the conclave."

I understand immediately. Twenty-five feet of bone and shadow, wreathed in cold fire, will draw attention I do not yet want. The other candidates' champions will measure themselves against me before we even arrive.

Better to appear lesser until the moment requires otherwise.

"You are magnificent," he says carefully. "But perhaps too magnificent for our purposes."

His three hands gesture uncertainly at my form. "The other candidates will bring champions, yes, but they will be demons. Fallen angels. Corrupted knights still clinging to some semblance of their former humanity."

He swallows, his throat working visibly. "You appear as something beyond categorization. But also beyond me. The lie won't be believed."

The truth beneath his words: if I appear too formidable, the other candidates will unite against Pan before the selection even begins.

Political suicide through intimidation.

I draw inward, feeling the various fragments that compose my being. The spectral flesh responds to my will, withdrawing within. The draconic plates fold inward, becoming simple bone. The wolf claws retract to normal finger length.

My frame contracts, the titan's height compressing down to a more manageable seven feet. Still imposing, still powerful, but subdued.

The bones resist the change, each fragment wanting to maintain distinct form and not be contained.

Carida's steady presence helps me maintain focus.

The transformation completes. I stand before Pan as something approaching a traditional skeletal knight, still massive, still dangerous, but recognizably within the realm of possible rather than mythical.

Pan visibly relaxes. "Much better. Now you appear as a powerful champion rather than a direct threat to the dukes."

"And you?" I ask, watching his hurried preparations. "What form will you take for this gathering?"

Pan pauses, his three hands stilling their nervous motion. For a moment, something genuine flickers across his features, not fear or ambition, but a deeper uncertainty about what he truly is beneath the desperate scrambling for position.

"I will be what I have always been," he says finally. "A survivor wearing the mask of nobility."

We are what we are.

Nothing less.

Nothing more.