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

The feast hall doors stood open. Light and noise spilled across the threshold, casting our shadows long behind us. The sound of demons in celebration carries, harsh laughter, the crack of bone between teeth, the wet slap of meat hitting plates.

Pan hesitates at the entrance.

I walk through.

Every eye turns to us. The conversation dies.

The hall stretched before us, a grand chamber filled with burning torches. Long tables, hewn from the petrified bones of some massive beast, stretched toward a raised platform where the candidates for Duke sat. Lesser demons and corrupted servants scurried between the tables, carrying platters piled high with charred meats and goblets filled with a liquid that steamed.

But my attention fixes on the raised platform.

Demons sit at the high table, each radiating the dark authority that marks their kind. Power flows from them like heat from forge-coals, bending lesser demons to their will through proximity alone.

Some Dukes. Some Candidates.

Yet none match the Duke whose skull I once wore. These are lesser.

One, massive and bull-horned, carries himself with the swagger of a conqueror. His armor bears the stains of a hundred battlefields. Strength enough to crush armies, but no deeper fire.

No spark of true dominion.

Beside him, a serpentine figure coils. Ancient eyes that have watched empires rise and fall. Cunning, but a cunning that relied on the predictability of mortals, a skill less useful in a world where only monsters remained standing.

To his right, perched on a high-backed chair of polished bone, was Mavren, the Harpy Queen. Black feathers trailed from her scalp and along her arms, mingling with pale skin. Her eyes held the sharp, predatory focus of a raptor, and her smile was a thin, cruel line.

Her champion? Another harpy with similar feathers, a male, slightly bigger, perhaps the consort.

Across from her slouched Baldred. He was a small, hunched thing, more craftsman than warrior. His hands, stained with chemicals and old blood, were never still, constantly adjusting the wires and tubes that snaked from a pack on his back to the creature beside him.

His champion was a mountain of mismatched flesh, a golem of stitched-together parts that stood ten feet tall. Its skin, a patchwork of a dozen different creatures, glistened with preservative fluids. It had no eyes, only a single, weeping slit in the center of its face.

It smelled of the grave and the alchemist's workshop.

The center seat holds a winged demon. Powerful, but not as powerful.

Duke Halcyon.

Other, lesser candidates filled the remaining seats, each with their own grotesque champions. They were a collection of warlords and opportunists, scavengers picking over the corpse of a fallen kingdom.

There is an absence.

Where are the other Dukes?

When I faced the Duke whose skull became my shield, there was hierarchy that stretched from these lesser seats to the Demon King's throne. Yet here, only Halcyon bears the true mark of Duke-hood.

The rest are pretenders.

Candidates, aspirants, survivors clawing for scraps of power in a crumbling order.

Pan shuffles behind me, unaware. His knowledge extends only to local politics, the scramble for territory after the Duke I killed left a vacuum. He sees opportunity where I see collapse.

Still the Demon King sees silence.

What remains are these lesser demons, while the true darkness retreats.

Or prepares.

Halcyon's eyes find mine across the hall and thinks me Pan's champion to soon fall.

He raises his goblet in mock salute.

The feast continues, but underneath runs a current of unease.

They know their time grows short.

Still lesser.

The Arkashoth fragment stirs with dismissive hunger as my gaze sweeps the high table.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The words fade to meaningless noise.

The dragon bones show contempt.

These demons sit at tables. They feast on scraps.

True monsters need not project strength.

They simply are.

Duke Halcyon rose from his seat.

"Pan. I had high hopes you would show. And this, a single skeleton? The conclave will not last long for you."

Laughter rippled through the hall. Demons at the lower tables banged goblets against wood, approving of their betters' mockery. The sound echoed off stone walls like breaking bones.

Pan shrank beside me under their attention.

I remained still.

The bull-horned demon at Halcyon's left leaned forward, armor plates grinding together. "A skeleton for a champion? Pan, even your desperation has standards."

More laughter. Crueler now.

The serpentine figure uncoils slightly, eyes fixing on me.

The hall erupts. Demons slap tables hard enough to crack wood. Wine spills across stone floors as they celebrate the jest.

They see bone and assume fragility. They remember skeletons that crumbled at their touch, mindless undead that serve in demon legions. Shambling things animated by crude necromancy and simple hunger.

They do not see what stands before them as anything but.

Pan straightened, forcing a swagger he did not feel. "I have as much right to be here as any."

The laughter faded as protocol asserted itself. Even demons maintain structure when it serves them. Duke Halcyon gestured with obvious distaste toward an empty chair at the far end of the high table.

The least prestigious position. Where the weakest sit.

"Take your place then, Pan. Let us see what entertainment your champion provides."

Pan walks to his assigned seat, movements careful and measured. He knows every eye tracks his approach, waiting for him to stumble or show weakness.

I follow.

My approach draws different attention. The bull-demon's champion, a massive brute with stone-plated skin, shifts position. Muscles bunch beneath rocky hide as he evaluates threat and though he sees simple bones, he still feels the tension.

The serpent's champion, a multi-armed thing of scales and venom.

Both warning and greeting.

But it's Baldred's creation that interests me most.

The flesh golem stands motionless beside its master's chair, the pinnacle of the alchemist's craft.

I take my position beside Pan's chair.

The golem and I regard each other across the narrow space between our masters' seats. Animated flesh meets animated bone. Two creatures that should not exist, standing apart serving different purposes.

The Arkashoth fragment studies the construction.

Dangerous.

Time stretches.

I stand motionless beside Pan's chair, cataloging details while demons feast around us.

Pan picked at his food, tearing bread into smaller pieces without eating.

The Arkashoth fragment noted the conversation. Boasts of conquest. Territory claimed. Human settlements enslaved or slaughtered.

Each candidate tried to impress the others with tales of brutality.

None mentioned the silence from the south. None spoke of their King's absence. None mentioned Haven.

The silence around that topic spread like spilled wine across cloth. The Arkashoth fragment tasted their careful avoidance. They knew the Duke who claimed that territory was dead.

They knew something killed him in his own fortress.

They didn't know what.

The conversation shifts.

Territories are divided. Borders drawn between the candidates' claims. I listen as they carve up the Duke's former lands like butchers splitting a carcass.

But gaps emerge in their mapping.

The bull-demon claims the eastern reaches. "Aorghi's territory lies empty. Has for months."

Silence follows.

The serpent's tongue flicks nervously. "Duke Priviae's domain remains unclaimed."

More silence.

The Arkashoth fragment counts the absences. Three Dukes dead. Perhaps more.

These lesser demons feast while their superiors vanish.

The winged Duke Halcyon shifts in his seat.

"The south remains off-limits."

No one questions why.

No one mentions the King.

The careful avoidance speaks louder than boasts. They know the hierarchy crumbles above them. True power retreats or dies, leaving scraps for pretenders to fight over.

Empires don't collapse overnight.

They hollow out from within, leaving only shells for the desperate to inhabit.

The demons feast on the remains of something already dead.

They change the subject.

The bull-demon spoke of fresh captures. "The cattle have grown to four hundred after the last culling."

The serpent described her coastal holdings. "The fishing villages provide excellent sport. We are still able to take handfuls every season and they refill their numbers."

Duke Halcyon raised his goblet. "To proper management of our resources."

None asked Pan about his new holdings.

The absence of questions spoke louder than boasts.

"Pan." Duke Halcyon finally says. "You've been unusually quiet about your contributions to our gathering."

Conversations halt. Every demon in the hall turns toward our end of the table. Pan's hands still on his untouched bread, crumbs falling between his fingers.

"Perhaps," Halcyon continues, smile widening to show rows of yellowed fangs, "you'd honor us with a display of your tribute. I believe my kitchen staff should have prepared whatever you've managed to scrounge up."

The other candidates lean forward. The bull-demon laughs. The serpent's tongue flicks out.

Pan swallows hard. His yellow eyes dart to me, seeking guidance.

I give none.

This moment was always coming.

Halcyon gestures grandly toward the kitchens. "Bring forth Pan's offering to the conclave!"

The butcher-demon emerges, flanked by his assistants. They wheel a cart between the tables, iron wheels grinding against stone. Steam rises from covered platters, the scent of cooked meat mingling with something else.

Something familiar.

The hall falls silent except for the cart's approach.

The butcher stops before the high table and bows low to Halcyon. "Your Grace's tribute, prepared as requested."

Halcyon's smile becomes a grin. "Remove the covers. Let us see what Pan considers worthy of this conclave."

The butcher pulls away the first cloth.

The imp's head stares up from a bed of roasted vegetables, gold rings still adorning his fingers where they've been arranged around the platter's edge. His face, frozen in that final moment of terror, has been glazed to a rich brown.

Silence stretches like a held breath.

Halcyon's grin falters.

The second cover comes away, revealing the troll's massive haunches, carved with professional precision. The meat glistens with rendered fat and herbs.

Understanding dawns across demonic faces.

Duke Halcyon stares at his messenger's severed head.

When he looks up, his eyes find mine.

The blue fire in my sockets flares brighter.

"Fresh meat," I say, breaking my silence. "As requested."