The village of Bonedell, one of the oldest settlements in the Hollowed Realm, sat cocooned between the jagged cliffs of the Bone Peaks. It was here that ancient rulers once stood, looking out across the many biomes that made up the second-oldest realm in all of Haidvent.

  Wind funnelled through the valleys, echoing the beat of drums rising from the village below. Their rhythm mirrored the pulse of tradition itself. In the village square, the Bonecallers Kin—a tribe nearly as old as the empire it served—performed their ritualistic dance. A dozen skeletons moved in eerie unison, their steps telling stories of past battles, lost leaders, and the evolution of their kind.

  This performance, usually reserved for tribal gatherings, was now held before a far more sacred audience. Atop a bone-carved dais sat Queen Dorothya of House Oszaryn, wife to the Great King Oszaryn the Pale. Seated beside her was her daughter, Princess Megna, and the ever-stoic royal advisor, Sir Drythar. All three were cloaked in dark purple, the colour of their realm and legacy.

  The Queen watched with dignified pride. Princess Megna, however, shifted in her seat, visibly uneasy. Newly come of age, she wore her title like an ill-fitting cloak, her discomfort masked only by royal grace.

  “How much longer does this festivity last?” she asked her mother in a low, elegant tone.

  Queen Dorothya responded with a sharp glance, enough to silence further complaint.

  The dancers finished their final movements and disappeared behind one of the ceremonial tents that bordered the ritual circle. When they returned, each held a leather sheath, visibly full. They formed a line, six deep and two wide, and shuffled forward with ritual precision, a dance step only achievable through years of disciplined practice.

  One by one, the sheaths were emptied at the feet of the royal family. Bones tumbled out, long, weathered, sacred. An ancestral offering. By the time the final two skeletons stepped forward, the pile had grown to a small mound.

  Queen Dorothya rose gracefully and bowed her head in solemn thanks. Megna followed her mother’s lead, though with the awkwardness of someone witnessing the weight of tradition for the first time.

  The tribal leader stepped into the centre, his leather chest plate marked by three dark purple lines, symbols of his allegiance to the crown.

  “My Queen. My Princess,” he declared, voice ringing clear through the mountain air, “we give thanks for your presence. We pledge loyalty to the crown, to the dead, and to the bones. May your reign prosper as we offer you the remains of our kin. Let our marrow become your harvest. Let our dead make your soil bloom. I bow to you, and to your King.”

  With that, he dropped to one knee. The rest of the tribe followed without hesitation, the wind carrying the silence like a hymn.

  Queen Dorothya stood once more, raising her skeletal arm in a gesture of gratitude.

  “Dear tribe skeletons of the Bonecallers Kin,” she declared, her voice firm and echoing off the mountain walls, “we accept your hospitality with immense gratitude. May you continue to prosper and uphold the values of our realm in their purest form. Tribes such as yours are the bedrock of the Hollowed Realm, the reason it has flourished since the dawn of time.

  “Your bones shall carry on the sacred ritual: death feeding life. This tradition, as old as memory itself, has not only allowed us to thrive, but has nourished the fields of neighbouring factions who depend so dearly on our bonemeal.

  “Never forget your origin. For as long as you serve the skeletons of this realm, we shall protect you, preserve you, and honour your name. Now, before we conclude our stay,” she announced, her voice echoing across the tribe, “your princess Megna would like to offer her thanks for your sacred donation.”

  She turned her gaze downward toward her daughter, regal and expectant. There was no room to refuse.

  Megna stood slowly, robes shifting against the carved bone of the dais. Her throat felt tight. The entire village square watched her—tribesfolk who had given their ancestors, skeletal warriors who had danced for her legacy.

  She cleared her voice and spoke, soft but clear.

  “We accept your bones, that we may… sow something better. Something… more than loyalty.”

  A silence fell like snow. The Queen’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes snapped to her daughter. One of the tribal elders lifted his head, confused. Drythar, ever still, flexed his bony fingers.

  Then, without missing a beat, Queen Dorothya stepped forward and raised a hand.

  “As my daughter grows into her role, she sees a future filled with new promise,” she said, voice cool and commanding. “Let her words remind us that tradition thrives only when it finds meaning in each new heart.”

  The final words hung in the air like a vow.

  A moment later, bone met bone—skeletal hands clacking together in solemn applause, the echo of reverence rising like a brittle storm through the high mountain air.

  The bonemeal offering now behind them, the royal tour descended Bonedell’s chiseled paths. The air was thinner here, and the drumbeats faded into a ghostly hush that seemed to trail them through the mountain winds

  The royal tour pressed onward, hooves echoing across the wind-bitten cliffs. Normally, King Oszaryn would have joined them, but with the Day of Peace unfolding in Ardanova, his duties kept him in the human capital.

  Princess Megna rode in silence for a time, the distant drumbeats still echoing in her thoughts. Beside her, Sir Drythar sat tall in his saddle, his posture impeccable even after decades of service. She had known him her entire life—more than a knight, more than an advisor. To her, he was like a second father.

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  “Something about that felt wrong,” Megna muttered after a long silence. “All of it. The dance, the pledges. It didn’t feel like reverence. It felt like… submission.”

  Drythar turned his skull slightly toward her. “It is submission, in part. But also remembrance. The dance is not just for you, or the Queen. It is for the dead. For the tribe’s own history. Their promise to their ancestors that they have not strayed.”

  Megna let out a slight sigh. She understood Drythar’s comments, respected them even, but something in her chest still disagreed.

  “You remember the stories I used to tell you when you were a child?” Drythar asked.

  “About the first skeletons?” Megna replied.

  “Yes. How before the humans, before the creepers, before the endermen—before all the greed, the wars, the losses and the tragedies, there were the zombies. And shortly after, us. The skeletons.”

  “Yes, I remember. Back when we used to burn at the first light of dawn, when we hid in the shade like shadows of the night.”

  Drythar nodded slowly, the reins slack in his bony grip. “Well, I’d like to expand on that tale. You see, skeletons hold a very important role in this world we call Haidvent. Humans learned to shoot a bow and arrow by watching us. Villagers learned to farm by studying how we turned bones to bonemeal. Even the endermen, those watchers from the void, learned from us. They saw how we honoured the past, present, and future. How we treated death not as an end, but as the seed of something new.”

  “Those rituals aren’t just for show,” Drythar said. “They remind us who we are—and why we are. The soil beneath your horse’s hooves? Fed by the bones of ancestors. The wheat in your bread? Grown from their sacrifice. We skeletons, unlike many others, remember. That’s what makes us strong.”

  He paused, his voice now sharper with pride. “To this day, our military is the only one in Haidvent that rivals the human army in sheer force.”

  Megna didn’t look at him. Her gaze lingered on the road ahead, wide and pale across the Primal Plain.

  “What’s the point of such strength,” she asked, “if the prophecy says that any faction who succumbs to greed will awaken Notch in the form of Herobrine? If Notch will return and reset everything to a primitive world, then why even build armies?”

  Drythar glanced at her with something like a smirk behind his hollow eyes. “How do you think Notch brought down the humans during his first coming—when the Kingdom of Ardalor tried to seize the entire world?”

  He continued before she could answer. “Notch, the creator of all, could have snapped his fingers and undone the world. But he didn’t. He chose not to. Instead, he marched on Ardanova not alone, but with our wither skeletons, our wither ghasts, forces drawn from the Hollowed Realm. He gathered warriors from every corner of Haidvent. The message was clear: the world didn’t belong to the humans. And Notch didn’t need to fight, he needed only to remind them.”

  Megna’s brow furrowed. “So… we were part of that army. The ones who marched on Ardanova?”

  “We were the spearhead,” Drythar said, with no small amount of pride. “And we will be again, if the world dares lean toward conquest. Not every realm thrives like ours. That’s why our strength matters more than ever. If Herobrine returns and finds the other factions silent, complacent, while another realm pillages and conquers, then we too shall be punished.”

  Megna’s voice softened. “Do you think… we might go to war again?”

  Drythar’s reply came without hesitation. “It is always better to be prepared.”

  She hesitated, then said quietly, “Do you fear the angry king? Filippo… King of Ardalor. From what I’ve heard, his father Adrian was far more composed before his passing.”

  “That’s true,” Drythar said. “But Adrian also saw his own father, Filippo’s grandfather, decapitated by Notch’s army as a consequence of his greed.”

  “What about his tariffs?” she asked. “He keeps imposing them on trade routes across the realm. Isn’t that… an act of war?”

  “Not quite,” Drythar replied carefully. “Unjust, perhaps. Aggressive, definitely. But not war.”

  Megna scoffed. “From my perspective, he’s just another greedy brute of a human. The kind who thinks the world is his for the taking.”

  Drythar nodded slowly. “The humans were gifted with sharp minds and relentless determination. But with great intellect comes great responsibility. It’s a double-edged sword.”

  “And as you always say…” Megna added, a tired smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, “All power corrupts.”

  Drythar looked at her and smiled. “And absolute power?”

  “Corrupts absolutely,” she finished, her voice somber.

  “Your awareness of power will make you a great queen one day.”

  “Oh, shush.”

  The group of cavaliers came to a halt as, in the distance from the west, a lone skeleton atop a skeleton horse raced toward them, carrying a flag bearing the Hollowed Realm’s crest.

  “A messenger!” one of the guards at the front called out.

  Several minutes passed before the messenger reached them. His skeletal mount snorted, mist curling from its nostrils as it slowed to a halt. The rider’s breath fogged the mountain air as he leaned forward, frantically opening his bone-jawed mouth.

  “Your Highness, Queen Dorothya,” he rasped, “I bring an urgent message from the King—I’ve just ridden from Ardanova.”

  “What is it?” the Queen asked, her voice tense, eyes narrowing.

  “King Filippo, ruler of the Kingdom of Ardalor, has slain Empress Ethmila of the Infernal Order… along with the army she brought to the Day of Peace. He struck without warning. All faction leaders have fled back to their realms. King Oszaryn is already en route to Marrow’s End. He commands your immediate return to the capital, the Realm must prepare for potential war.”

  He paused, his voice trembling. “Filippo’s true intentions remain unclear… but he has attacked our ally. And that cannot go unanswered.”

  “Very well,” said Queen Dorothya. “Thank you, messenger. You are to join our ranks as we return to the capital.”

  Silence settled over the group as they turned south, retracing their path through the Bone Peaks, then crossing the Faded Sands, toward the capital of Marrow’s End—rising proudly on the southern coast, its gaze fixed upon the vast South Sea.

  Megna’s voice broke the quiet.

  “What does this all mean?” she asked Drythar, her tone uncertain.

  “I suppose,” he sighed, “it follows on perfectly from our previous conversation, unfortunately.”

  “Are we going to war now?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “But the Infernal Order are our allies, aren’t they?”

  “Allies, yes. However, charging into battle is not something our realm does lightly.”

  “Why not?” Megna asked, her frustration rising. “They’ve stood by us for generations. And now they’ve been attacked.”

  Drythar kept his voice calm, measured. “Ethmila’s death is a grave matter, yes, but we must think with reason, not impulse. Our realm is vast, spread thin across mountains, plains, and desert. If we march east, we leave our towns and borders unguarded. We shall wait for your father’s judgement first”

  “I don’t agree with that,” Megna said sharply. “The Infernal Order has always stood by us” she said, voice hardening. “When I was younger, Empress Ethmila visited Marrow’s End. She brought offerings from the Nether, bent her knee to my father. She called us kin. That meant something. And now she’s gone.”

  Drythar’s tone turned colder. “Simmer down, Megna. You're letting passion get ahead of wisdom.”

  “No,” she snapped. “We must stand for our allies. Our strongest soldiers, The Wither Ghasts and Wither Skeletons, they were gifts from the Nether. Given to us so their kind could return to the Overworld through purpose, not conquest.”

  “Yes, our bond runs deep,” Drythar admitted. “But with Ethmila gone, her brother Tomaryck now rules. And may I remind you he is no diplomat. He will want blood. Vengeance. War. And if we follow too quickly, we risk becoming pawns in his fury.”

  “And so be it,” Megna replied sternly, her voice low with conviction.

  Drythar turned to her, his tone heavy with warning. “I advise you, Princess, to remain silent for the rest of this journey. Save your passionate words for your father. He, not you, will decide whether we draw swords.”