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

The rest of the journey passes in silence.

Pan's chattering died after the first hour. He learned the shape of my new quiet. When he spoke, I did not answer.

When he stopped to rest, I waited without acknowledgment.

When he pulled dried meat from his pack, I watched him chew and didn't comment.

The road carried us through landscapes that had forgotten their names. Burned orchards where fruit hung black and sweet with rot. A bridge made from the spine of something that had crawled out of the earth to die in sunlight.

Villages reduced to foundations and the occasional chimney, standing like grave markers over bones ground too fine for scavenging.

No living thing crossed our path.

On the second morning, Pan tried once more.

"The conclave rules," he began, voice hoarse. "There are protocols."

I turned my skull toward him. The blue flame in my sockets sank lower.

He swallowed his words and walked faster.

Words are for the living, the human, the humane.

I am none of these things.

At times, Pan stops, consulting a map that trembles in his grip.

His mouth opens, closes.

No sound emerges. He has learned.

All roads lead to Acre.

Beneath my feet, skulls crack like eggshells. Ribcages collapse into powder. The causeway was built from the remains of armies, mortared with grave dirt and the promises of the defeated.

The wind carries no prayers, no pleas for mercy. Only the dry whisper of dust returning to dust.

This is the language I understand now.

Not words, but endings.

We climb toward Acre.

Behind us, the King's Road and its bones reform, erasing our passage.

The silence suited me. Without Sister Carida's voice, the echoes and fragments grow louder.

All of them hungry.

None of them kind.

By the second evening, the horizon had begun to change. Where once empty wasteland stretched, now towers rose against the skyline. Not the clean towers of the old kingdom, but growths.

Bone and iron and flesh.

Acre.

A thing of the old Kingdom. Where now demons squatted in the ruins and called themselves lords.

Pan quickened his pace as the walls came into view.

"We should discuss strategy," he said. "The other candidates, they have preparations."

"Walk," I said.

He walked.

The city's outer defenses had been reimagined. The original walls still stood, but they had been reinforced with materials the old builders never intended. Rib cages large enough to house giants.

Chains linked tower to tower, and from those chains hung tribute, the remains of those who had displeased the current inhabitants.

The air grew thick as we approached. Not just with smoke and corruption, but with presence.

Things that had never been human clustered behind those walls.

Pan's breathing quickened. His stolen rings clicked against each other as his hands shook.

Smart demon. He could feel what waited beyond those gates.

The gate itself was an old dragon's skull.

Massive beyond comprehension, large enough that wagons could pass through its opened jaws without scraping the fangs. Time had bleached the bone white.

The eye sockets gaped empty, dark tunnels leading into the city beyond.

Pan stopped before it, trembling.

Within my frame, the dragon bone fragments stirred. Recognition. Memory fragments of ancient kinship.

Guards moved in the shadows beyond those bone teeth, demons in rusted armor, watching our approach with wary eyes.

Pan glanced back at me, seeking reassurance I would not give.

"State your business," came a voice from within the skull's maw.

"Lord Pan," Pan said, straightening. "Candidate for the conclave. Champion at my side."

"Tribute," said the guard.

Pan reached into his robes and produced a handful of cloudy stones with clotted black.

Soul-gems, harvested from somewhere I didn't ask about. The guard took one and bit down, testing the quality.

"Quality work," came the reply.

The stone disappeared into a pouch made from something's stomach.

We stepped through the dragon's jaws.

The city beyond defied reason. A place of monsters living as monsters.

Market stalls lined the main thoroughfare, their wares displayed on tables made from debris, from skulls. Demons haggled over flesh in a dozen languages that were mostly growls.

It is a place of sulfur and old blood.

Pan hurried ahead, trying to project confidence he didn't possess. His stolen rings caught torchlight as he gestured, pointing toward the city's heart where larger towers clustered around what had once been a palace.

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Now it was something else entirely.

The structure twisted skyward in spirals of bone and black stone, its surface crawling with carved faces. Each one different.

Demons moved through the streets with purpose. Not the mindless brutes I'd encountered before, but creatures of intelligence and malice. They wore armor, carried weapons, conducted business with the casual brutality of predators who had grown comfortable in their supremacy.

Their eyes tracked us as we passed.

Some showed recognition when they looked upon Pan. Others lingered on my skeletal frame, measuring threat and opportunity in equal measure.

The conclave was close now.

Hooks hung where lanterns once swung, now draped with offerings to whatever powers claimed this place.

Severed hands, mostly, though some bore stranger gifts.

Carts rattled along pulled by broods of smaller demons. Their cargo wrapped in oiled cloth that couldn't quite contain the smell of rot.

Banners of Demon Dukes, strips of flesh and hide marked with territorial claims stand.

A line of goblins hauled a butchered balverine on an iron sled, its massive corpse sectioned and wrapped. They argued over whose bite-rights came first, voices rising to shrieks before falling back to sullen muttering. One bore fresh claw marks across his face, payment for reaching too early.

A stitched ogre lumbered across the intersection below us, wearing a shrine on his back like a massive pack. An imp-priest rode in the shrine's center, shaking a tin of finger bones.

No humans walked here. Only eaters.

Pan kept moving, watching his steps.

"Eyes up," he muttered.

Then we reached the first major junction where six streets converged around a fountain that had been converted into an altar. A troll with copper rings hammered through his jaw lifted a bucket and blocked our path.

"Turn toll," he rumbled. "Halycon's grace demands tribute."

Halycon. One of the Dukes, then. This was his territory within the greater chaos.

The troll's bucket clanged as he shook it, copper rings glowing in his jaw.

"Turn toll," he repeated, stepping closer. "Halycon's grace demands payment."

My skeletal hand closed around his throat before the words finished. The bucket tumbled from his grip, coins scattering across the intersection with metallic clatters.

His eyes bulged. Massive hands clawed at my arm, trying to break my grip on his windpipe. Muscle strained against bone, tendons crackling with the effort.

He outweighed me by hundreds of pounds, could have lifted boulders with those hands.

But he couldn't.

I squeezed.

The copper rings tore free from his jaw as his mouth gaped wider, seeking air that would never come. Black blood frothed between his lips, spattering the stones between us.

His neck snapped with a wet sound.

The corpse hit the ground, twitching once before going still.

Pan stared, frozen by the casual brutality.

"The coins," I said.

He scrambled forward, scooping handfuls of metal from the scattered pile. His fingers shook as he stuffed them into his robes, some slipping through to clatter on the stones again.

Other demons had stopped to watch from the safety of doorways and alcoves. They noted the corpse, noted us, and wisely chose different routes. The lesson was clear, this junction now belonged to whatever walked with Lord Pan.

I stepped over the troll's body.

Pan hurried to follow, coins jingling in his pockets like wind chimes made of avarice.

The troll's crew, two smaller specimens with similar copper decoration, measured me with their eyes and found the sum wanting. They parted without challenge, pressing themselves against the stone walls.

We passed through.

Pan steadied himself. "This way. The candidates quarter in the old Noble District."

What had once been mansions now served as lairs for the various powers vying for control. The architecture had adapted. Walls bulged outward to accommodate inhabitants never intended by the original builders.

Pan's "mansion" revealed itself as we rounded the corner.

A stable.

Horse stalls converted into living quarters, the original purpose unmistakable despite crude attempts at improvement. Rotting hay still clung to the corners where stone met timber. The stench of decades-old manure permeated everything, mixed with newer odors I didn't care to identify.

"Welcome to my estate," Pan said, voice tight with humiliation.

The other candidates had claimed actual mansions, their banners flying from proper towers. Here, Pan's territory consisted of four horse stalls and a feed trough that now served as his throne.

Deliberate insult.

The message was clear. Pan ranked below livestock in the hierarchy of this place. His claim to Dukedom was considered so laughable that they'd housed him where animals once relieved themselves.

Pan's hands trembled as he pushed open the stable door. Inside, moldy straw covered the floor. Iron rings where horses were once tethered now held chains and manacles.

A makeshift throne dominated the largest stall, the feed trough adorned with moth-eaten fabric and polished skulls. It looked exactly like what it was, garbage trying to wear a crown.

"I know what you're thinking," he began.

I wasn't thinking anything. This suited my purposes perfectly.

The other candidates expected Pan to bring shame to the conclave.

They would be correct, though not in the way they imagined.

Pan shuffled deeper into the converted stable. He gestured at the moldering straw with false pride.

"The others think this diminishes me," he said, motioning around. "But I see opportunity. When I become Duke, I'll remember who showed respect."

I said nothing.

He turned, yellow eyes searching my skull for some sign of approval.

"You understand, don't you?"

The Arkashoth fragment stirred, recognizing ambition wrapped in desperation. This creature wanted to matter. Wanted to rise above the stable they'd thrown him into.

Perhaps useful.

Perhaps not.

I walked to the makeshift throne and examined it. The trough was iron, solid despite the decorative additions. The skulls were genuine, trophies from Pan's past victories, small as they were.

Pan watched my inspection with nervous energy.

"The throne of a true Duke," he said, voice gaining confidence. "Built from conquest, not inheritance."

I placed one skeletal hand on the iron rim.

The metal was cold, but beneath it I felt something else. Ambition. Hunger.

The same desperate need that had driven men to greatness and ruin throughout history.

Pan was weak. But weakness, properly directed, could serve purpose.

Pan fidgeted.

His yellow eyes darted between me and the exits, calculating distances he'd never cover.

"The conclave," he began, then stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "The other candidates, they have champions. Real ones. Brutes who've torn apart armies."

I remained silent.

He paced the length of his converted stall, boots squelching in patches of ancient manure.

His breathing quickened with each step.

Considering.

I said nothing.

Pan stopped pacing. Turned to face me directly.

"Will I live through this?"

Not fear of the other champions or their masters. Not concern about the trials ahead or the politics of demon succession.

Fear of me.

I studied Pan's trembling form.

He feared the wrong enemy.

"You serve," I said with certainty. "You live."

Pan's shoulders sagged with relief.

His knees buckled, catching himself against the iron trough that served as his throne.

"But," he began, then stopped. Some remaining fragment of cunning warned him against pressing further.

I stepped closer. The blue flames in my sockets flared and I looked at him.

"You will not become Duke."

His mouth opened, closed. The elaborate fantasy he'd constructed, rising above his station, claiming power, transforming humiliation into dominion, crumbled in an instant.

"Then why?" he asks, voice cracking.

Pan's yellow eyes search my skull, seeking some logic in the chaos I've brought to his ambitions. The fetid air of his converted stable hangs heavy around us.

I step closer. The blue flames in my sockets cast shadows that dance across his trembling face.

"Because I'm going to kill them."

The words fall. Simple. Final. Without embellishment or explanation.

Pan's mouth works soundlessly. His hands clutch at the iron rim of his makeshift throne, knuckles white with strain.

"All of them?"

"All of them."

Pan's breathing steadies.

"And after?"

"After, you rule what remains."

Not because he deserves it. Not because he's earned it through strength or cunning.

Because someone must hold the reins.

And Pan, pathetic as he is, serves my purpose better than a corpse.

He nods slowly, understanding his role in the slaughter to come.