I walk among the procession that carries Brannug's body through Maha Marr's rising streets.

  Stone yields to stone.

  Dwarven hands shaped both, touched both, know both.

  Where before I met fear, now I find different eyes. Reverence. Silence. Respect.

  News travels faster than our steps.

  Word of the king's return moving upward through brass speaking-tubes and mechanical messengers. Curious onlookers gather along terraced streets, their words hushed against the rhythmic tread of the honor guard.

  The body does not burn now.

  It cools.

  It rests.

  They carry him on shield-back, six warriors of ancient lines supporting their monarch's final journey.

  Eimhar limps beside me, his exo-frame wheezing with each step. The bone shard I placed within his chest pulses with faint blue light beneath his beard-covered skin.

  He catches me watching.

  "Will you take it back?" he asks, tapping the place where my fragment keeps his heart beating.

  I shake my head.

  The shard is his now, freely given.

  A gift.

  Gears turn in the walls. Steam hisses through brass pipes. The living heart of Maha Marr beats around us.

  In borrowed form I follow three paces behind. Permanent fragments adjusting to new balance after divine flame tested their limits. Dragon vertebrae still remember heat.

  Commander Ikkert's presence stands firm at core.

  Eimhar struggles as we go.

  He speaks when we pass a shrine to Domhrann.

  "The Forge God's gone too," he says quietly.

  The shrine bears hammer-and-anvil sigils.

  Fresh offerings lie scattered, small metal figurines, ingots of precious metals, tools worn from use but polished with reverence.

  "Both sacrificed," Eimhar continues. "God and king together."

  I do not respond. No words needed.

  The procession climbs higher, leaving working districts behind. Forge-fires dim as we ascend, replaced by rune-light embedded in polished walls. The honor guard maintains formation, each step that carries fallen king bearing cadence.

  Left right then left again.

  I walk beside the procession, my permanent fragments settling into their new configuration after the divine forging. The bone-dragon plates along my spine remember flame, yet hold firm. Commander Ikkert's fragment remains at my core, steadfast as ever.

  The honor guard begins a low, rhythmic chant. Their voices rise and fall in military precision, each syllable measured against the cadence of their steps.

  "Gods of our fathers, known of old,"

  Thump-thump

  "Lords of the deep and mountain hall,"

  Thump-thump

  "Soul of iron, heart of stone,"

  Thump-thump

  "Burning king, we bring you home."

  Thump-thump

  "Through the dark and through the flame,"

  Thump-thump

  "Honor bound to speak your name,"

  Thump-thump

  "Gods of fathers, anvils old,"

  Thump-thump

  "Lords of mountain's deepest hall,"

  Thump-thump

  "Where our king's brave tale is told,"

  Thump-thump

  "The path where royal flame stands tall,"

  Thump-thump

  "Forge awaits beyond the veil,"

  Thump-thump

  "Hammer strikes where mortals fail,"

  Thump-thump

  "Stand your watch on distant shore,"

  Thump-thump

  "Till the mountains rise no more,"

  Thump-thump

  "Beneath whose anvil sparks unfold,"

  Thump-thump

  "The paths where dwarven warriors fall,"

  Thump-thump

  "On forge and flame our strength decays,"

  Thump-thump

  "The fire burns, the embers fade,"

  Thump-thump

  "The craftsmen and their works depart,"

  Thump-thump

  "Yet we remain."

  Dwarven citizens line the terraces above, some holding small hammers that they strike against their breastplates in time with the cadence.

  The metallic percussion joins the solemn chant.

  I follow three paces behind, a guardian of death escorting a king to his final rest.

  We reach the High Hall, heart of dwarven government since retreat to Maha Marr. Massive doors stand open, their surfaces etched with the history of kings past.

  Brannug's likeness appears last, his face taken from kinder days, his arms upraised as he marches into flame.

  Those doors will need recarving now.

  Within, the Dwarven Council waits. Twelve seats arranged in semicircle, each occupied by clan representative. Their beards display rank through intricate braids and metal decorations.

  Their eyes widen as the honor guard enters with royal burden.

  The high priest of Veradin stands at chamber's center, staff planted firmly before him. His eyes meet mine across the distance, divine recognition passing between us.

  "Behold," the captain announces. "King Brannug returns to his people."

  The council rises as one, newer chairs scraping ancient stone.

  The shield-bearers lower their burden onto central dais where discussions of state once occurred. Now it serves as royal bier.

  Silence fills the chamber. Neither weeping nor whispers break it.

  Then the high priest approaches, staff tapping against stone floor. He pauses beside the king's body, one hand hovering above cooled armor.

  "The flame is extinguished," he pronounces. "The burning ends."

  The councilors remain standing, uncertainty written across weathered faces. They expected many outcomes from my journey below, but not this, not my return, or their king returned, his three-year burning finally quenched.

  The eldest councilor steps forward.

  "How?" she asks simply.

  All eyes turn to me, a dead thing standing amid dwarven nobility, bone plates still bearing scorch marks from divine flame.

  "He asked for release," my grave-voice scrapes. The chamber's acoustics carry the words without effort. "He burned to contain what lurked below."

  Eimhar steps forward, his mechanical frame wheezing with effort. "The skeleton speaks truth," he confirms. "King Brannug sacrificed himself. Merged with Domhrann to save us all."

  The councilors exchange glances, centuries of suspicion warring with evidence before them.

  "For three years," Eimhar continues, "while we thought him mad, gone to us, he burned, but burned AWARE, all holding back deeper darkness."

  The high priest nods slowly, staff tapping once against stone. "The Champion has fulfilled its task. The deep darkness is destroyed. The burning king released."

  "All this time," the eldest councilor mutters, approaching Brannug's body with halting steps. "We believed divine fire consumed his reason along with his flesh."

  She places gnarled fingers against cooled royal armor. "But he was guardian all along."

  The council bows as one, heads lowered in shame and reverence. The knowledge settles, their king never went mad, he sacrificed and suffered to protect them.

  I stand apart from their grief, observer to emotions these bones cannot share. Yet borrowed memories understand the weight of revelation, how histories must be rewritten, how shame must be carried forward alongside honor.

  The high priest speaks words of ceremony over Brannug's body.

  Dwarven councilors kneel in reverence.

  What if I had come sooner?

  The thought rises unbidden from Commander Ikkert's fragment. A strategist's instinct, evaluating alternate paths.

  Three years Brannug burned. Three years Haven fought removed from dwarves.

  Regret is not an emotion I should possess. I am purpose made manifest, duty bound to bone.

  Yet still it seeps through borrowed marrow.

  What if Haven had known of Maha Marr's existence sooner? What if dwarven steel had reinforced human walls?

  Eimhar catches my gaze, seeing something in the hollow sockets where eyes should be.

  "You couldn't have known," he consoles.

  Maybe not, but would the compulsion that drives these bones have brought me sooner? If not for three years it took bones to reform after Demon Duke scorched them?

  I feel the weight of time wasted. Years spent as scattered fragments while Brannug burned alone in divine agony. While Haven's walls crumbled. While corruption spread unchecked.

  These regrets serve no purpose. They cannot change what has passed. Yet they persist, different paths, of choices unmade.

  I stand motionless as the council debates what comes next. Their voices rise and fall around me, words of succession, of proper burial rites, of what this means for Maha Marr's future.

  The high priest approaches.

  "Death's Champion," he addresses me. "Veradin has marked you. You have done what gods could not."

  I incline my skull slightly.

  Acknowledgment, not pride.

  "Haven still stands," I rasp.

  "Yes," the priest nods.

  The eldest councilor joins us. "The trade routes shall reopen. Dwarven steel will strengthen human walls, and food and ale to strengthen the humans on it."

  This is what I sought when I entered these tunnels, aid for Haven. Yet victory feels hollow.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Three years sooner would dwarven soldiers, not just goods been bound for the walls?

  Eimhar limps to my side. "The king would thank you," he says quietly. "For ending his vigil."

  The high priest turns to address me directly, his voice taking on formal tone.

  "Death's Champion," he says. "You have completed what was asked. The pact between our peoples stands fulfilled."

  He strikes his staff against stone, the sound resonating with divine weight. "The routes between Haven and Maha Marr shall open. Trade will flow. Alliance stands."

  The councilors straighten, business of survival reasserting itself amid grief. The eldest speaks again, her voice steadier.

  "We lack numbers to guard all tunnels," she states. "The old roads stretch far, and many dangers still dwell between here and surface lands."

  I incline my skull, acknowledging her concern. "Haven has few defenders," my grave-voice answers. "Some will come. Share burden."

  Practical matters discussed while their king lies cooling before them. These bones understand priorities of survival. The living require arrangements while tending their dead.

  Agreements form.

  Eimhar speaks again, mechanical voice harsh in formal chamber. "There's more," he says, fingers touching bone shard embedded in his chest. "The deep darkness, Arkashoth, is truly destroyed. The Champion descended beyond the crack where corruption first emerged. It is more than rumor."

  Dwarven eyes widen. The high priest steps closer.

  "Destroyed? Completely?" He studies my form with renewed interest. "Such a thing was thought impossible."

  "Fallen." I confirm.

  Ceremony follows. Dwarven ritual for fallen king, words I do not track, fragments within me recognizing patterns of funeral rites across cultures and ages.

  They place Brannug's hands over his heart, arranging his beard in royal patterns. Engineers approach with brass tools, measuring royal armor for preservation.

  "The armor must be sanctified," the high priest explains. "His sacrifice memorialized for all generations."

  Plans form for royal entombment, for statues to replace broken ones, for histories to be corrected. The council speaks of restoration projects, of reclaiming portions of old city now that divine flame no longer prevents approach.

  Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.

  This is how dwarves mourn, with plans and purpose, with future-building alongside remembrance.

  The proceedings continue until the eldest councilor raises her hand for silence.

  "What of the Forge?" she asks. "Does Domhrann's fire still burn?"

  I shake my skull. "No divinity remains. Ordinary flame only."

  Murmurs pass through gathered nobles. The forge's divine nature provided protection.

  Its loss represents significant blow to dwarven power.

  "But the forge itself remains," Eimhar interjects. "The workings intact. The patterns preserved."

  The high priest nods slowly. "Mortal flames can still forge extraordinary works. Perhaps this is fitting, we relied too long on divine gifts."

  The council accepts this with grace.

  Divine power lost, but independence gained.

  The exchange seems balanced in their reckoning.

  Hours pass as arrangements finalize. Trade routes mapped. Guard rotations planned. Supply lists compiled with mechanical efficiency. Even in mourning, dwarven practicality maintains priority.

  Eventually, formal proceedings conclude. The council withdraws to prepare royal funeral. Craftsmen enter to begin preservation work on Brannug's remains.

  The high priest approaches me, staff held respectfully at his side.

  "Your task is complete, Death's Champion," he says. "Haven will find supplies waiting at the first checkpoint within two days. Our engineers already have word to clear the main tunnels that blocked your path on the way here."

  I nod, borrowed bones shifting with the motion. The fragments within my frame have accomplished their purpose here. Commander Ikkert's memories urge return to Haven's walls. Wolf instincts yearn for open sky after too long beneath stone. Dragon fragments remain content, mountains hold no terror for them.

  Yet something feels unfinished.

  The high priest studies me with practiced eye. "You bear weight still," he observes. "What troubles Death's Champion after task complete?"

  Aeternus shifts against my spine, blade sensing purpose not yet fulfilled. The Arkashoth fragment stirs within my core, ancient awareness recognizing patterns and connections beyond mortal comprehension.

  "Eimhar," I rasp, turning toward the dwarf.

  He approaches, mechanical joints grinding with each step. The bone shard pulses in his chest, visible through gaps in plate armor.

  "Aye?" he asks, expression hidden behind visor.

  "Linked," I explain, pointing to the shard. "Unless released."

  Understanding dawns in his posture. The bone fragment within him represents both life and chain, preservation and limitation intertwined.

  "Can it be removed?" he asks cautiously.

  Within this form memories stir, something from the hollow space where thoughts form, but more, something else.

  "Yes," I confirm. "But price remains."

  The high priest moves closer, curiosity evident in his stance. "What price?" he inquires, professional interest overcoming political concern.

  "Death," I state simply. "Then life's return. Different than before."

  Eimhar's mechanical hand rises to touch the shard embedded in his chest. "You're saying I'd die," he clarifies. "Then return?"

  "Yes."

  "But not undead?" His voice carries quiet dread. "Not like?"

  "No," I interrupt. "Mortal still. But changed."

  The high priest's staff taps contemplatively against stone. "A transformation, then. Death as doorway rather than destination."

  I nod. These bones understand the distinction.

  Eimhar considers the proposition. "Would I still be dwarf?" he asks finally. "Still myself?"

  "Yes," I answer. "But stronger. Different."

  The bone shard pulses as if in confirmation, its glow visible through seams in his exo-harness.

  The necrotic energy that preserved him these past days would transform rather than withdraw, changing him without destroying essential nature.

  "He would be first of his kind," the high priest observes. "Neither fully mortal nor undead."

  Eimhar straightens.

  "Do it," he says firmly. "I've been half-dead since you found me anyway."

  The high priest raises a hand. "This requires proper setting," he cautions. "Sacred space. Witnesses. If you truly create something new, it must be documented, understood."

  The high priest raises his staff between us, his expression hardening.

  "Not here," he says, voice dropping to dangerous depths. "Not in sacred halls."

  I tilt my skull, confusion rippling through borrowed fragments.

  "The bone shard may be removed," the priest clarifies, "but should monster or abomination follow, extinction awaits. Destruction for desecration."

  His meaning is clear.

  He fears what Eimhar might become.

  What I might create.

  "This is no ordinary healing," the priest continues, addressing the council members who remain. "This is transformation through death's power. Our laws are clear on such matters."

  Eimhar's mechanical frame wheezes as he steps forward. "I consent," he argues.

  "Your consent matters not against divine law," the priest counters. "Death's Champion has fulfilled its purpose. We honor that service. But necromancy remains forbidden in these halls."

  The Arkashoth fragment within me stirs, ancient knowledge recognizing patterns of fear that transcend cultures. The living always fear death's power, even when it offers salvation.

  "Not necromancy," I rasp. "Transformation."

  The priest's eyes narrow. "The distinction matters little when the starting point is death itself."

  I step forward, dragon plates and wolf bone shifting with the movement. The sound of metal against stone echoes through the chamber.

  "Not necromancy," I insist, grave-voice scraping. "Not undead."

  The fragments within me stir with ancient knowledge. The Arkashoth piece pulses, its consciousness offering understanding beyond what these borrowed bones should know.

  "Something else," I continue. "Something in the moment between dying and death."

  The high priest's eyes narrow, but I sense his curiosity beneath the suspicion.

  This I understand, this liminal space between existence and void. It is elder, an echo, a stirring of something that stirs these bones from rest. The knowledge feels primal, older than the borrowed fragments that compose this form, yet somehow integral to what I am.

  Eimhar's mechanical hand presses against his chest where my bone fragment pulses. "I'm already changed," he argues. "Already walking between states."

  The council members exchange uncertain glances. The eldest leans forward.

  "Explain this distinction," she demands.

  Words form slowly, concepts difficult to translate through grave-speech.

  "Necromancy binds corpse to earth," I rasp. "This binds life to new form. Continuous, not broken."

  The Arkashoth fragment supplies concepts my borrowed soldier memories cannot articulate. This knowledge feels ancient, primordial, from before names and boundaries existed between states of being.

  The high priest considers my words, his ancient eyes narrowing as he weighs matters beyond mortal concern.

  "The sanctum beneath the forge," he finally pronounces. "It remains untouched. Sacred, yet separate from our halls of governance."

  The eldest councilor nods agreement. "A fitting compromise. The Champion's work can be observed there without risk to our people."

  Eimhar's mechanical frame wheezes as he straightens. "When?"

  "Now," the priest answers. "Before doubt clouds purpose."

  I incline my skull, acknowledging wisdom in his words. Such transformation should not occur hastily nor without record.

  "The Pantheon," the priest decides, changing his mind. "Veradin should witness this."

  Preparations move with dwarven efficiency. While royal funeral arrangements continue in High Hall, a smaller procession forms to accompany us to the Last Pantheon.

  Engineers attempt repairs on Eimhar's failing exo-frame.

  Scribes gather with recording tools.

  Witnesses selected from various clans.

  We walk through Maha Marr's upper tiers, passing shrines where dwarves already place offerings to their returned king.

  The Last Pantheon lays ahead.

  Eleven empty thrones await inside, surrounding Veradin's seat. The doors dissolve as we approach, barrier between mortal and divine reforming itself.

  Within, divine light still emanates from Veradin's throne, though the god himself remains invisible to mortal perception. His presence fills the chamber nonetheless, pressing against bone and borrowed memory alike.

  We gather.

  Eimhar stands at its center, mechanical parts now silent, all systems failed except those kept functioning by necrotic energy.

  The high priest establishes ritual space, staff marking boundaries between mortal and divine.

  Witnesses form circle around periphery, scribes positioning themselves.

  "Begin," the priest instructs, stepping back to respect transformation's mystery.

  I approach Eimhar, bone claws extended.

  Eimhar removes his helmet, revealing face lined with pain and exhaustion. His beard hangs limp, streaked with sweat and soot from divine forge.

  "I'm ready," he says. "Do what must be done."

  My claws press against his chest plate, finding the bone shard embedded there. It recognizes the main pieces.

  I withdraw the shard.

  Eimhar gasps once, eyes widening as necrotic energy withdraws.

  His body stiffens, mechanical parts locking as heart stutters without supernatural support.

  For moment, mortal systems struggle to reassert themselves without magical intervention.

  They fail.

  He collapses, eyes glazing as life departs.

  Not violently, not painfully.

  The witnesses murmur, some moving as if to intervene.

  The high priest's staff strikes stone, keeping them back.

  "Wait," he commands. "The transformation begins."

  I kneel beside Eimhar's still form, bone fingers positioning limb. The shard I removed pulses against my palm, eager to return but in different configuration.

  From within my rib cage, I withdraw small fragment of dragon bone, ancient memory of transformation and rebirth. Alongside it, sliver of wolf bone, carrying hunter's resilience and instinct for survival.

  I place these fragments alongside the original shard, forming triangle of power and purpose. Commander Ikkert's essence guides placement, soldier's precision in field medicine.

  Then, from deepest core, I draw forth smallest piece of Arkashoth fragment. Not corruption, but ancient knowledge, understanding of transitions between states of being.

  The pattern forms on Eimhar's chest.

  I press my hand over the arrangement, directing death's current.

  Light emanates from contact point, not blinding divine radiance, but subtle glow that spreads through Eimhar's stilled form. His flesh absorbs the fragments, incorporating them into mortal frame.

  The spectators fall silent.

  Even scribes pause in their documentation, witnessing something beyond conventional understanding.

  Eimhar's chest rises suddenly, sharp inhalation breaking chamber's hush. His eyes open, not dwarven brown but amber tinged with wolf-sight. His beard shifts from limp strands to something more similar to dragon scales in texture if not appearance.

  He sits upright without assistance.

  "I feel," he says, "Good. Different."

  The high priest approaches cautiously. "What are you?" he asks formally.

  Eimhar stands, easily damaged frame.

  "Dwarf still," he answers. "But more."

  The fragments within me sense something profound in Eimhar's transformation. Not undeath as mortals understand it, but something between existences.

  Eimhar flexes his hand.

  "The pain," he says, wonder filling his voice. "It's gone."

  "Extraordinary," he murmurs. "Life continues, but altered.

  Veradin's presence intensifies, divine attention focusing on Eimhar's transformed state. Though invisible to others, I know of the god's curiosity, perhaps even approval.

  The Arkashoth fragment within me stirs with satisfaction. This knowledge feels ancient, predating even the gravemind's corruption.

  Creation rather than consumption.

  Transformation rather than destruction.

  Eimhar stands straighter.

  Eimhar's eyes widen as he examines his arms. The damaged exo-frame no longer hangs like dead weight upon his form. The metal plates shift, edges softening as they press into his flesh.

  "What's happening?" he gasps, watching brass components sink beneath skin.

  I recognize the pattern immediately. The Arkashoth fragment within me pulses with ancient understanding. This transformation follows natural progression.

  "Integration," my grave-voice explains. "Becoming one."

  The dwarven witnesses step back as Eimhar's mechanical harness melds with his body. Steam vents that once required external power now connect directly to his lungs. Brass pistons sink into muscle, becoming new sinew.

  Gears that drove artificial joints now turn with each movement of his limbs, powered by his own life force.

  The high priest circles Eimhar, staff held defensively. "The machine becomes flesh," he murmurs. "Or flesh becomes machine."

  "Both," I correct. "Neither."

  Eimhar flexes his hand. Metal plates that once formed gauntlets now emerge from beneath his skin, rising and falling.

  When relaxed, they settle flush against flesh. When tensed, they form perfect armor.

  "I feel them," he says in wonder. "The gears, the pistons. They're... me now."

  The scribes frantically document the transformation.

  One engineer approaches cautiously, professional curiosity overcoming fear.

  "The fuel chambers," she observes. "They're adapting to your body's systems."

  Eimhar nods, steam venting from small ports at his shoulders as he inhales deeply. "Coal and breath becoming one," he confirms.

  The brass reinforcements along his spine ripple, adjusting to his posture as he straightens. What were once exterior plates now form an internal framework, strengthening without restricting.

  "A living golem," the high priest pronounces, wonder replacing caution in his voice.

  Eimhar takes a step forward. The sound is different now, not the heavy clank of mechanical parts.

  The witnesses murmur among themselves, scribes frantically documenting every detail of the transformation. This is something new in their long history, neither divine miracle nor necromantic horror, but something that walks the boundary between.

  "First of new kind," I rasp, bone fingers gesturing toward Eimhar. "Neither dead nor unchanged."

  The high priest nods slowly. "A twilight dwarf," he names it.

  "I will serve as guardian between our peoples," he announces. "Neither fully of Maha Marr nor of surface realms, but able to walk both paths."

  I study Eimhar's transformed state. The bone fragments I placed within him have integrated, not consuming him as Arkashoth would have done, but enhancing what was already there.

  "I will keep the path clear," Eimhar declares, his voice stronger than before the transformation. "A guardian against deeper dark to make sure the pact remains. Haven will have its supplies, and I will keep the roads safe."

  The fragments within me resonate with his purpose.

  Commander Ikkert's memories recognize the strategic value of secured supply lines. Dragon bone appreciates the defense of territory. Wolf instinct approves of a pack-member guarding vital hunting grounds.

  Even the Arkashoth fragment stirs with something like satisfaction, not the gravemind's hunger for consumption, but an elder knowledge of balance between states of being.

  I incline my skull in acknowledgment. This was the missing piece, not just destroying threats or forging agreements, but establishing continuity. The path between Haven and Maha Marr requires more than guards, it needs a guardian.

  Eimhar meets my gaze, recognition passing between us. He belongs neither fully to death nor solely to life. Like me, he exists in the space between, though his path remains more anchored in mortality.

  The eldest councilor steps forward. "Then let it be recorded. The pact between Haven and Maha Marr shall have its first guardian in Eimhar Gearabhain, Twilight Dwarf."

  Divine light pulses from Veradin's throne, acknowledgment of transformation witnessed. Recognition of changed state.

  Acceptance and allowance.

  "Can others follow this path?" a council member asks from witness circle.

  I shake my skull.

  "Rare combination," my grave-voice explains. "Specific conditions."

  The fragment of Arkashoth within me confirms this assessment. What occurred is unique, cannot be repeated.

  Eimhar approaches me.

  He extends his hand.

  "Thank you," he says simply.

  I accept the gesture, bone claws meeting flesh in acknowledgment.

  The high priest strikes his staff against stone, bringing ceremony to conclusion.

  As we depart the Pantheon, Eimhar walks beside me his transformed body requiring no support.

  No aid.

  The bone fragments I provided have integrated fully, creating something unprecedented, not undead, not corrupted, but existing where boundaries blur.

  "I'll keep my promise, the road will be safe," he states as we descend toward lower levels. "My new form suits the task."

  I nod agreement. His transformation provides advantages for such duty, requiring neither sleep nor conventional sustenance, yet retaining dwarven knowledge, personage.

  We reach the checkpoint where main routes to surface begin. Dwarven engineers already clear debris, preparing paths for trade caravans. Guards in exo-frames establish first perimeter, mapping patrol routes alongside markers for human counterparts.

  "You'll return to Haven now?" Eimhar asks.

  I nod. These bones belong to sunlight and open sky, to walls that protect mortal lives against corruption.

  "Our paths will cross again," he states.

  I incline my skull in acknowledgment. The fragments within me have accomplished their purpose here.

  Arkashoth destroyed, burning king released, alliance secured.

  Haven's walls wait.

  "Safe passage, Death's Champion," Eimhar calls as I depart.

  I raise one hand in farewell. No words needed between those who understand thresholds.

  The tunnels await. Darkness gives way to lighter shadow as I ascend toward surface world. Toward Haven's walls, toward purpose that drives these borrowed bones onward.

  What was beneath falls behind. What remains above calls forward.