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

Pan polishes a skull as he grows bored of the waiting.

The dirty silk in his hands has worn through in places, threads catching on bone ridges as he works. He sits upon his trough throne, trying to project authority to an audience of moldering straw and rusted chains. The skull shines, its empty sockets reflecting his nervous energy.

I stand motionless in the corner, conserving purpose for what comes.

The stable door crashes open.

An imp struts through, this one different from the rabble we encountered on the road. Silk robes, relatively clean. Gold rings on each finger.

A curved blade at his hip that has tasted blood recently enough to still carry the scent.

He looks around the converted stable with theatrical disgust.

"The kingdom of Pan," he announces, voice dripping contempt. "Built on horse shit and decorated with much the same."

Pan's hands still on the skull. His yellow eyes narrow, but he doesn't rise from his makeshift throne.

The imp continues, stepping carefully to avoid the worst of the soiled straw. "The conclave summons all candidates. The time approaches."

He pauses, nose wrinkling. "Duke Halcyon sends word that attendance requires something fresh for the feast. A fresh kill, not the carrion you're accustomed to scavenging."

"I'll acquire something suitable," Pan says, voice tight.

The imp laughs. "You? You'll crawl to the kitchens of your betters and beg for scraps like always. They're taking wagers on whether you'll even show, or if you'll finally accept your place among the—"

He notices me.

The words die in his throat. His hand moves to the curved blade, fingers wrapping around the hilt.

"What is that?"

"My champion," Pan says, attempting confidence.

The imp's laugh returns, sharper now. "A skeleton? You brought bones to fight demons who've torn apart armies?"

He shakes his head. "Even for you, Pan, this is pathetic. At least when you grovel, you usually show more creativity."

He turns back to Pan, dismissing me entirely.

Mistake.

The dragon bones within my frame pulse with ancient irritation. To be dismissed by prey. To be deemed unworthy by something that would have been a snack in ages past.

The fragments remember soaring above armies, casting shadows that sent entire legions fleeing.

The Arkashoth fragment stirs with darker amusement. Let him turn his back. The soft flesh between spine and skull makes for easy gripping.

"The feast begins at full dark. Don't be late. Duke Halcyon particularly wants to see you fail in person this time."

The imp heads for the door, still chuckling at his own wit.

I move.

My hand closes on his shoulder before he reaches the threshold. The silk tears under my grip as I spin him around. His eyes widen, the curved blade half-drawn before my other hand finds his throat.

"Fresh meat," I say.

Understanding dawns in his eyes just before I squeeze. Not quickly. Not a merciful snap.

The Arkashoth fragment purrs its approval. Yes. Let him understand.

Let the terror season the meat.

His feet drum against the floor. The blade falls from nerveless fingers. His hands claw at my wrist, gold rings clicking against bone.

Pan watches from his throne, the skull forgotten in his lap.

The imp's face darkens from red to purple to something deeper. Vessels burst in his eyes, turning white to crimson. His tongue protrudes, swelling as he fights for air that will never come.

I maintain eye contact throughout. The dragon bones within me remember this, the moment prey realizes it has become food. The acceptance that follows resistance.

The submission to a superior predator.

When he finally stills, I don't release him immediately. I hold the corpse upright, studying the way life drains from the features. How personality becomes mere meat.

Without Carida's voice to temper the observation, I find it educational.

Fresh meat.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

I drop the body.

Pan stares at the corpse, then at me.

"He was Halcyon's messenger."

"Was."

The Arkashoth fragment stirs with satisfaction. The first declaration. Others will follow.

Pan's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"We need to bring fresh meat to the feast."

I gesture at the corpse.

"Fresh."

The logic settles over him slowly. His three hands fidget with the skull, turning it over and over as he processes.

"You want to bring Halcyon's own messenger as our contribution?"

I don't answer. The corpse speaks for itself.

Pan sets the skull aside and stands. His movements are careful, deliberate. He's learning to navigate the space between my violence and his survival.

"There's a sled in the back stall. For hauling feed."

He retrieves it, a crude thing of warped wood and bent iron. The runners scrape against stone as he drags it to the corpse. Together, we load the imp's body, arranging the limbs to prevent them dragging.

"Bring more. The troll," I say.

Pan's eyes widen. "From the junction?"

I'm already moving toward the door. Pan scrambles to follow, pulling the sled behind him. The corpse shifts with each bump, silk robes fluttering like broken wings.

The streets have grown busier as full dark approaches. Demons of every breed move toward the center of Acre, drawn by the promise of spectacle and slaughter. They part before us, noting the corpse on the sled.

Word spreads.

The junction where I killed the toll collector has been picked clean of all worth taking, but the troll's corpse remains. Too heavy for easy scavenging, too fresh for the patient carrion feeders.

I grab one massive leg and begin dragging.

The body leaves a dark smear on the stones as we move. Six hundred pounds of dead muscle and bone, grinding against the road. The head bounces against irregularities in the cobblestone.

Pan struggles with the sled, the added weight of our journey making each step laborious.

Other demons watch our procession. Some understand what it means, death has come to Acre. They grow wise in their wariness.

"They're staring," Pan whispers, voice strained from exertion.

"Good."

Let them stare.

We reach the old palace of Acre as the last light fades.

Demon Guards flank the entrance, massive brutes in overlapping armor plates. They eye our cargo on the sled. One steps forward, blocking our path.

"Tribute?"

I gesture to the sled and then to the troll's corpse.

The guard examines the imp first, noting the silk robes, the gold rings, the way his face froze in terror. Recognition flickers across brutish features.

"Halcyon's boy."

"Was."

The guard laughs, but there's nervousness beneath the sound. He circles the troll, cataloging the damage.

"Quality work," he admits. "Fresh killed, properly presented."

The second guard approaches, armor clanking. "Duke Halcyon's expecting his messenger."

"He'll receive him," I say.

They exchange glances. Understanding passes between them.

The guards step aside without another word. They know better.

They always do.

Death walks where it will.

I drag the troll's corpse across the threshold, leaving a wet trail of blood and gristle behind us. Pan follows, wheezing as he tugs the sled with Halcyon's murdered messenger.

The demon guard points a clawed finger toward a side passage. "Kitchens are that way," he says, voice gruff but with an edge I recognize, caution. He's smart enough to fear what he doesn't understand.

"Bring your offerings there first."

His nostrils flare as he eyes the troll's corpse. The scent of fresh blood makes his pupils dilate, but he doesn't lunge. Doesn't demand a taste.

Discipline wars with hunger, and discipline wins.

Good instinct.

I tilt my skull toward him. The blue flames in my sockets flicker lower, acknowledging his survival. "Remember Pan," I say. "When this is over."

The guard's throat works as he swallows. He nods once, sharp.

The dragon bones approve. Mark the clever ones. They make better servants than corpses.

Pan shuffles behind me, the sled's runners scraping stone. His breath comes in quick, panicked bursts. The dead imp's arm flops against the wood with each bump.

The kitchen corridor slopes downward, the air thickening with the stench of rendered fat and charred meat.

Iron torches light the way.

Ahead, voices argue in guttural tones.

"There's not enough for the high tables!"

"You heard them! Duke Halcyon wants fresh kills, not your rotting—"

The words cut off as we round the bend.

Four butcher-demons freeze mid-argument. Their cleavers hover above blood-slicked blocks. Behind them, carcasses hang from hooks, some recognizable, some not.

All stripped to muscle and sinew.

Their eyes lock onto our cargo.

The largest, a hulking thing with a boar's tusks and a butcher's apron made from stitched-together faces, steps forward. "What's this?"

"Tribute," I say.

The butcher's gaze flicks from the troll to the imp, then to Pan. His lips peel back in a grin. "Pan brought his own dinner?"

Laughter ripples through the kitchen.

Pan's hands tremble.

I drop the troll's leg. The impact shakes the floor. Bones rattle in their hooks.

Silence falls.

The butcher's grin falters.

I step forward. The blue fire in my sockets flares bright enough to cast shadows on the ceiling. "Prepare them," I say. "For the high table."

The butcher looks at the imp's gold rings. At the troll's shattered neck. At me.

The Arkashoth fragment whispers its assessment. He calculates odds. Measures threat against pride.

Watch him choose survival.

He swallows. "Yes," he says. "Of course."

Smart demon.

He might live the night.

The butcher gestures to his assistants with a cleaver. "You heard. Fresh meat for the high table. Duke Halcyon's messenger gets the place of honor."

One of the smaller demons, covered in burns and scars from years of kitchen work, dares to speak. "But that's—"

The butcher's cleaver embeds itself in the cutting block with enough force to split the wood. "That's fresh meat. Nothing more."

Understanding ripples through the kitchen. They know what game is being played now. What statement is being made.

I turn to Pan. "We go to the feast."

He nods rapidly, eager to leave the blood-thick air of the kitchens.

As we climb back toward the main hall, the sounds of butchery begin behind us. The wet work of reduction. Meat being separated from meaning.

Without Carida's presence, duty requires no mercy apart from Haven.

The Arkashoth fragment stirs. Efficiency without distraction.

The dragon bones know anticipation. Soon, we will enter a hall full of demons who style themselves lords. This is what they were before, dominance, apex.

Here among monsters, they return to their truest nature.

These fragments that remain, they were never meant for gentle work. They are the tools for monsters, for the killing floor.

The feast hall doors loom ahead.

Pan stops beside me, all nerves. "The other candidates will have their champions with them," he says. "Each one a killer. Each one proven."

"Good," I say.

Let them bring their killers.

I am not here to become like them. I am here to end them.

The distinction matters.

The Vigilant Sister guards those who need protection. The Graveking leads the dead against the Endless Rot.

The Wild Hunt prowls the wastes beyond Haven, culling threats before they gather.

Each fragment went where it was needed most.

What remains with me are the bones meant for this work. The Arkashoth's hunger for endings. The dragon's memory of supremacy.

The nameless soldiers who died in violence and understand no other language.

Those that remain are only for monsters.

Death walks where it wills.