I depart the ceremonial hall.

  My purpose in Maha Marr is complete. The path ahead lies toward Haven's walls.

  Footsteps echo behind me, lighter than before, a curious blend of flesh and mechanism.

  I turn my skull to find Eimhar approaching.

  "Death's Champion," he calls. Steam hisses softly from vents at his shoulders. "I'll walk you to the outer gates."

  I nod.

  Together we travel through Maha Marr's levels, passing through workshops where forges glow and hammers ring against metal. Dwarves pause in their labor, watching our passage.

  "They'll grow accustomed to change," Eimhar says. "To me, to you, to this new alliance."

  My bone claws click against stone as we descend through carved passages. The weight of mountain above feels different now.

  "The first caravan should leave in three days," Eimhar explains. "Food stores, metals, tools, things your people need."

  We reach the massive outer gates. Guards stand at attention, their exo-frames. They eye me warily but offer respectful nods to Eimhar. His transformation has granted him a unique position, neither fully dwarf nor something else, yet accepted as guardian of the new path.

  Eimhar walks beside me through winding tunnels. His body transformed.

  Brass components no longer grind, no longer against stone. Instead, their is silence where metal and flesh merged into singular purpose.

  "Not that way," he says when I turn toward familiar passage. The route that led through deeper dark, crypts, drowning place and sewers.

  The path I descended to find dwarven realm.

  He gestures toward different tunnel. Wider. Higher ceiling. Smoother floor.

  "That route was never meant for proper travel," he explains.

  Steam vents softly from shoulder joints as he speaks. "Sewers, crypts, tight passages, those weren't built for carts and supplies. They're for maintenance and desperate escapes, not commerce."

  I tilt my skull, questioning without words.

  "For trade, we need roads," Eimhar continues, his speech still dwarven despite his transformation. "Real roads with proper supports and drainage. Built by master engineers, not cobbled together from forgotten passages."

  We turn down broader passage. Here, dwarven craft shows clearly. Walls smoothed to precise angles. Support beams of polished iron reinforcing natural stone. Runes of preservation glowing faintly at regular intervals.

  This tunnel breathes purpose.

  Designed for movement between realms. For commerce for connection.

  "Been here all along?" My grave voice rasps and questions.

  Eimhar's face turns away.

  His expression difficult to read with brass components fused to skin, yet shame evident beneath mechanical parts.

  "Aye, it has," he admits. "It's not directly beneath Haven, but close enough. We sealed it decades ago when we thought the surface all but lost. Strategic decision, though not one I agreed with."

  His mechanical hand points out dwarven marking on wall. "In the time of my grandfather, we withdrew our kind deeper and abandoned outposts. We closed passages like this one."

  The tunnel curves upward at slight angle. Designed for laden carts to climb without strain. Dwarven engineers calculated ascent and decent.

  "Where does it lead?" I rasp.

  "To the surface," Eimhar answers. "But not where you'd expect."

  We walk in silence broken only by his occasional venting of steam.

  The tunnel widens further.

  Side chambers appear at regular intervals.

  Way stations for travelers to rest.

  Storage rooms for supplies.

  Guard posts now empty of sentries.

  Dragon fragments remember when wyrms once collected tribute. Wolf bones recognize well-used trails, the paths that prey follow.

  Arkashoth fragment remains silent.

  These paths hold no memory for ancient darkness that never traveled beyond depths.

  "It leads to an outpost," Eimhar says finally. "On the surface. Humans wouldn't recognize the way down if they saw it, just looks like a pile of weathered rocks amid the trees. Our stonemasons crafted it generations ago."

  He pauses and thinks.

  "Maybe its about two days' march from Haven's western gate," he continues. "Not directly on any patrol path. The outpost is concealed, and the way away from it is good for for avoiding whatever haunts your roads."

  "Sewers?" I ask, thinking of the old way.

  Eimhar's mechanical hand gestures dismissively.

  "Aye. You found one route through filth and darkness, but there were others." His brass-fused face holds regrett. "In the past, we'd occasionally send small shipments. Something, but never enough."

  I stop walking.

  Eimhar meets my gaze, his own eyes steady.

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  "It won't be like it was before," he says firmly. "This will be true aid, not the meager afterthoughts we used to send up through your sewers."

  He steps close.

  "The council believed the surface lost to corruption. That any supplies sent would only delay the inevitable. Why waste resources on those meant to die anyway?"

  His voice hardens. "But they were wrong. I always thought they were wrong."

  I remember

  Haven's newest farms scraped from hard soil.

  The careful rationing of every morsel.

  Children with hollow cheeks.

  "We'll share it properly. Grain, metals, medicine. Engineers to help strengthen Haven's walls. Knowledge and things we've hoarded too long." His transformed hand clenches. "My king burned to protect us, and through you protects us still."

  I stand motionless.

  The alliance is formed, the path secured. Haven will receive aid.

  Yet something in his brass-fused face suggests more remains unsaid.

  Eimhar vents steam from shoulder joints, a mechanical sigh.

  His transformed eyes, neither fully dwarf nor something else, this twilight dwarf studies my skeletal frame.

  "There's something else," he says, voice low. "Something I believe but couldn't say before the council."

  I wait.

  "We believe, at least I believe, so long as Death's Champion is with Haven, Haven stands a chance." His hand clenches. "Not just Haven. The world stands a chance."

  I tilt my skull, questioning.

  "A real chance," he continues, there is conviction. "To push back the dark, and that is worth supporting."

  The Arkashoth fragment within me stirs at these words.

  Ancient knowledge recognizing truth.

  Dragon bones remember a time before corruption.

  Wolf fragments sense the sincerity in his stance.

  "Haven is not just another settlement waiting to fall," Eimhar says. "With you guarding its walls, it becomes something more. You are the starting point, the end point, the only one we have left."

  His transformed hand reaches out, touches my armored bone shoulder.

  Metal against bone, neither fully what they once were.

  "The council sees trade routes and strategic advantage," he admits. "But I see the beginning of something greater. Something worth burning for, as my king did."

  I nod once, accepting his words without need for speech.

  I stand motionless in the tunnel, processing Eimhar's words. His brass-fused face watches me, awaiting response.

  "Why reveal now?" My question echoes.

  "Because you've kept faith with us. You changed everything. You defeated Arkashoth. You freed our king from his burning. You proved something that the fight isn't lost."

  His transformed eyes meet my hollow sockets. "That someone still stands against the darkness. That there's purpose in resistance."

  I feel Carida's remains shift within my ribcage.

  The vow that binds me resonates with Eimhar's words.

  "We dwarves repay our debts. Always have, always will. You've proven yourself trustworthy, even if your form unsettles most of my kind."

  We resume walking.

  The tunnel slopes more steeply now. Air changes subtly. Fresher. Carrying hints of surface world. Pine. Soil. Air filtering through concealed vents.

  "The dwarves trust us now?" I ask.

  "Not the humans," Eimhar corrects. "You specifically. Death's Champion. The one who kept vows when even gods failed us. I say again, while human walls crumble and human courage fail, I believe in you."

  We reach junction where multiple tunnels converge.

  All wider than passages I descended through.

  All bearing signs of recent maintenance.

  Dwarven workmanship evident in freshly carved support arches.

  The path continues upward.

  Stone gradually gives way to packed earth reinforced with dwarven metals. Tree roots penetrate ceiling in places reaching downward.

  "The outpost has been abandoned awhile," Eimhar says, expression troubled. "Be aware, it could have unwelcome visitors nesting within. Bears, monsters, worse things."

  I understand his unspoken request.

  "I will scout," grave-voice answers. "Clearway if needed."

  Relief crosses brass-fused features. "Good!"

  We walk final stretch in silence.

  The tunnel opens to chamber unlike others.

  Natural cave expanded by dwarven picks. Central circular shaft rises toward surface.

  Metal rungs embedded in wall form ladder reaching upward.

  Eimhar looks around.

  I follow Eimhar's gaze to a massive contraption in the corner of the chamber. Iron gears and chains hang from a complex pulley system.

  A platform large enough for several loaded carts sits dormant at the bottom of a separate vertical shaft.

  "Lift mechanism," Eimhar explains. "Not today, that'll need work, but that's how we'll get those carts up there. You'll have to climb up the ladder"

  I examine the device.

  Dwarven engineering at its finest, designed to raise tons of cargo through solid rock without strain. The chains show minimal rust. The platform's wooden boards remain intact.

  "It won't take long to fix up once our engineers are here." Eimhar says, inspecting a broken gear. "Need to replace some components, test the counterweights, make sure the steam engines won't fail mid-ascent."

  I look between the lift and the ladder rungs. The difference in scale tells a story of dwarven intentions.

  Eimhar extends his hand toward me.

  "This is where we part ways for now, Death's Champion," he says.

  I extend my skeletal claw. Bone meets metal-fused flesh as we clasp forearms in the ancient warrior's grip.

  His transformed strength matches mine, neither yielding.

  "Until we meet again," Eimhar says.

  I nod once, grave-voice rasping: "Watch tunnels. Keep path open."

  "I will. That's my duty now." His brass-fused face shows determination. "Three days for the first caravan."

  He looks over at broken platform. "Earlier if we can manage it."

  Our grip breaks.

  Eimhar steps back,

  "Farewell, Death's Champion," he says. "The dwarves of Maha Marr stand with with you."

  I turn toward the ladder, bone claws clicking against the metal rungs. Dragon fragments within me assess the climb, calculating the weight distribution needed for ascent. Wolf bones sense the air currents from above, detecting the scent of pine and open sky.

  I leave Eimhar behind. His transformation complete. His duty clear. The Twilight Dwarf will guard the tunnels between realms. Maintain the way. His purpose.

  Mine remains above.

  I climb. Metal rungs cold against bone fingers. The hatch above bears no lock. Newly installed. Designed for access from below. I push upward. Metal groans. Hinges protest.

  The hatch opens.

  I emerge.

  Stars already appearing in eastern sky, the sun's last light fading from the west. The horizon burns.

  I survey the surroundings from higher ground. The outpost's construction reveals itself as masterwork of deception. Not merely weathered stone, but deliberately shaped to appear as natural extension of cliff face. Even my hollow gaze barely distinguishes where mountain ends and dwarven craft begins.

  From certain angles, the outpost disappears entirely into rock formation. And below, winding away from its hidden entrance, a path.

  Not obvious trail that invites ambush. But subtle route. Camouflaged road. Stones placed to seem random yet providing firm footing.

  Vegetation cultivated to conceal while allowing passage.

  Trail markers visible only to those who know their meaning.

  A hidden highway leading toward solid ground, avoiding marshes and unstable terrain. Strategic route connecting Haven to dwarven trade without announcing its presence to corrupted forces.

  The outpost stands silently against darkening forest. A sentinel of weathered stone amid encroaching wilderness.

  Hollowed Bastion.

  The name surfaces from borrowed memories. Outpost 14 in military records. Dwarven construction, human purpose. Fragments of knowledge not my own whisper histories of this place. Supply routes. Defensive strategies. The faces of dead commanders.

  A bulwark against darkness in better days. Meant for more, but now abandoned.

  Crumbling walls. Collapsed sections. Nature reclaiming stone. Vines snake through mortar joints. Roots have pried blocks apart. Time conquers what enemies could not.

  Something pulls at my awareness. A tugging sensation deep within bone fragments. Not Commander Ikert's remains. Not dragon shards. Not wolf parts. Something else. Ancient. Familiar. Insistent.

  Bones call to me.

  I approach the ruined structure. Massive stone blocks still form recognizable walls. Dwarven craftsmanship evident in precise angles, in how foundation stones remain. Their work endures even as purpose fades.

  The main gate hangs broken from single hinge. Wood rotted. Iron bands rusted through. It groans, a dying voice lamenting its forgotten duty.

  I step through the opening.

  The call grows stronger.

  Aeternus hungers.

  I follow the sensation across overgrown courtyard. Past dry well. Through crumbling doorway. My skeletal form navigates fallen beams and collapsed stonework.

  Into what once served as barracks.

  The pull leads downward.

  ?? ??

  When Mark's heart stops, his journey begins.

  One moment, Mark is sitting at his desk, the next he's standing in a forgotten graveyard surrounded by crumbling tombstones and ancient evil. The world around him is broken and ruined, a reflection of his own creation, now made horrifyingly real.

  His fingers bleed from swinging a sword instead of typing code. His lungs burn from running rather than sitting in his chair. Every wound feels real, every triumph hard-earned.

  A red eye watches from the sky, showing glimpses of a world he can no longer reach. Messages from concerned friends scroll across its surface, they see his body in a hospital bed while his mind wanders this nightmare realm.

  The rotting city offers no safety. Monstrous hordes roam the streets at night. Dwarven merchants trade insults as easily as goods. Strange beings with masked faces offer dangerous bargains. And through it all, Mark must find a way to survive.

  Each day brings him deeper into the world. Each night carries something darker to come.

  ??? Raw manuscript currently sitting at 60,000 words (dictated while watering).