I descend worn stone steps into the barracks' depths. The pull grows stronger, deeper, drawing me in.

  This call comes from the Arkashoth shard embedded in my marrow after divine forging. The ancient fragment pulls me toward something it recognizes from before names existed.

  The stairwell opens to a chamber where violence has left its mark for centuries. Light streams through a collapsed ceiling, illuminating a scene of ancient slaughter. Skeletal remains protrude from mortar between stones where defenders were literally built into the walls by their attackers. Dried bloodstains form dark constellations across the floor and walls, centuries old yet still visible in this sealed tomb.

  Skulls and broken bones litter the ground, crushed underfoot during whatever final battle claimed this place. In one corner, a mound of skeletal remains rises chest high, defenders stacked like cordwood after their defeat. Arrowheads and broken weapons remain embedded in wooden support beams. Burn marks scar the walls where attackers tried to smoke out those making their final stand.

  Wooden benches once formed concentric circles around a central altar, now toppled and broken. Many still bear deep gouges from blades, splintered from use as makeshift shields. The defenders transformed this sacred space into a last redoubt, dragging wounded comrades here for a final stand.

  Metal offerings scatter the floor, corroded daggers, rusted buckles, tarnished medallions. Final possessions of the dead.

  Most grotesque of all, mounted on the far wall like a trophy, hangs a complete skeleton in rusted captain's armor. The skull bears a prominent hole in its temple, the killing blow. Arms spread wide and pinned to the stone, legs dangling, a warning to others or a desecration of the fallen leader.

  I approach the broken altar. Carved symbols cover its surface, worn by time and deliberate damage. Not dwarven runes. Not military insignia. Something older. Human prayers.

  The stone bears deep gouges where chisels tried to erase what was sacred. Yet traces remain.

  Around the altar's base, dark stains spread outward in irregular patterns, the blood of wounded brought here to die. Makeshift bandages, now reduced to dust, still cling to the stone's edge.

  The Arkashoth fragment stirs, feeding ancient knowledge directly to my awareness.

  "Here, there were prayers," my grave voice whispers.

  I know this god.

  This altar belonged to Avernus, the forgotten deity whose statue stood in Haven's chapel. The same god whose priests denied me entrance.

  The one who walked battlefields after slaughter, collecting final prayers.

  My hollow gaze falls upon symbols partially preserved at the altar's edge, three distinct markings weathered but still recognizable.

  The first, a balanced scale with a sword laid across it.

  Aeternus. The blade of eternal judgment.

  Beside it, a pair of shears poised to cut a thread.

  Atropos. The inevitable severance.

  And the third, a chalice with rippling waters flowing over its rim.

  Lethe. The waters of transformation.

  These were not merely symbols, but manifestations of Avernus's divine authority, the means by which the God of Final Judgment executed his sacred duties.

  Aeternus, the sword at my side, suddenly carries new meaning, resonating through every fragment that composes my frame. Eternal judgment. Avernus's promise and curse combined.

  The blade vibrates softly, as if responding to discovery of its true nature. The runes along its length flicker with faint blue light.

  I recall the power that surged through me when facing Arkashoth, the shadow wyrm that formed from Aeternus's edge. That was Atropos, the severing power that could cut connections between realms, between life and afterlife, between divine and mortal.

  The third symbol, Lethe, remains a mystery. Unlike the other two powers, this one has not manifested within me. Perhaps I have not yet earned it. Perhaps it was lost when Avernus faded. The Arkashoth fragment's memories suggest conflicting interpretations, some seeing Lethe as the mercy of forgetting, others as the power of transformation, of giving form once more to the dead.

  Whatever truth lies behind this third power, it remains beyond my grasp. Two divine instruments manifest. The third awaits.

  Behind the altar lies a small alcove cut into stone. Within rest humble offerings. Bone fragments. Dried flowers turned to dust. Corroded daggers. Tarnished coins.

  Payment for passage beyond.

  Offerings to a god who watched over unnamed soldiers. Those who fell without ceremony.

  Those whose names were lost. Like the fragments that make this form.

  Beneath the offerings, crude letters etched by a desperate hand.

  "Watch over those who fall unnamed."

  The carving is uneven, made by failing strength.

  Beside it, finger marks in dried blood show where the dying soldier dragged himself to leave this final message. Around the prayer, smaller marks cluster, tallies of the dead, names too blurred to read, desperate pleas for mercy.

  Between these marks lies a final message, written in what must have been the last moments. "They bring the darkness with them. Not men anymore. Demons and other things. Empty eyes. Corruption comes."

  I touch the carving with bone fingers. Not a plea to some distant deity, but a soldier's final wish, made as corruption's servants broke through their last barricade.

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  The words echo the plea that first roused these bones. The scavenger whose death awakened me in the Field of Broken Banners. His final thought, protect, pulled the dormant purpose from century old soil.

  Commander Ikkert's fragment stirs at my core. Wolf bones bristle along my limbs. Dragon plates shift along my spine. Carida's remains pulse within their protective cage.

  I kneel before the altar. The connection forms between purpose and origin.

  This altar honors the promise that no soldier truly dies unnamed. That someone watches. That sacrifice retains meaning.

  I look down at my form, fragments of countless fallen warriors united in one purpose.

  Aeternus vibrates intensely. The sword recognizes its true origin. Not weapon, but instrument of Avernus's will.

  I place my hand against the prayer. Bone meets stone.

  The Arkashoth fragment shows me what happened when the twelve legions fell at the Field of Broken Banners centuries ago.

  The gods turned away. All save one.

  Avernus walked the battlefield, moving among the dying. Where other deities abandoned mortals, he remained. He touched foreheads of the fallen. Listened to final prayers.

  Twelve thousand warriors with one final wish, that their sacrifice would matter. That someone would remember.

  And then, absence. Where Avernus should continue, only hollow space remains.

  The field lay dormant for centuries. Divine purpose slumbered in blood soaked soil. Until three scavengers died on ancient ground. Until one final plea, protect, awakened what had waited for the right moment.

  The truth rises through my bones with sudden clarity.

  Avernus is not missing from these memories.

  He is not absent from this world.

  He is here. Within these borrowed bones. Within this purpose.

  The god himself transformed. Avernus dispersed his divine essence into the final prayers of those twelve legions, became the purpose that animated their remains.

  This was his final miracle before fading.

  Became me.

  I am not Avernus, the god is gone, but I am his last covenant with the fallen. Purpose distilled into bone and blade. Not god, not mortal, but the divine promise made manifest.

  As understanding floods through my frame, something changes.

  Heat spreads from my core, not the scorching divine flame of Domhrann's Forge, but something gentler.

  Restorative. My bones grow warm as if flesh remembers them.

  My jaw tingles. I reach up to touch it, bone fingers meeting something unfamiliar. Not hard calcium, but something yielding. Translucent tissue forms around my mandible, spreading upward across my skull. Not true flesh and blood, but something in between, an echo of what once was, what might have been.

  The tissue spreads downward, encasing my neck vertebrae, forming a spectral throat. It reaches my chest, wrapping around ribs that still protect Carida's remains.

  Within these hollow sockets, something stirs. Not eyes, but purpose given form. Twin flames kindle, soft blue at first, then brightening to white. Hollow darkness gives way to sight beyond sight.

  I look down at my transformed hands. Bone remains dominant, but now wreathed in translucent tissue that moves with each flexing of fingers. Not alive, not dead, something between.

  When I speak, the voice that emerges is no longer death's rattle.

  "I understand now."

  The words ring clear, carrying weight and resonance that fills the chamber. My new voice has depth.

  I test, speaking words that previously existed only as thoughts within my hollow frame.

  "I am Death's Champion," I say, feeling the phantom tissue give rise to sound. "Guardian of Haven. Protector of the living. Avernus's final covenant."

  The complexity flows effortlessly now, no longer constrained by bone scraping against bone. Words that once required immense effort emerge with clarity and nuance.

  "Carida," I say, testing the name that means so much. Her remains pulse within my ribcage as her name fills the chamber, spoken with a reverence my grave voice could never convey.

  I find I can convey more than facts, this voice carries emotion, carries meaning beyond mere information.

  hat was once flat declaration now holds layers, carries weight beyond simple sounds.

  I speak the names remembered through my fragments, soldiers who fell beside Commander Ikkert, warriors who breathed their last while clutching dragon scales, hunters who died with wolf fangs in their flesh.

  Names that have existed only in the hollow spaces of these bones I wear, given voice at last.

  "I remember you all," my voice declares. "Your sacrifices were not forgotten."

  I turn from the altar. My purpose clarifies, not changing but deepening. Haven's walls. The protection of the living. The battle against corruption.

  These were never duties assumed by chance. They were divine covenant, sealed in the marrow of twelve thousand warriors who prayed for meaning beyond death, awakened by one dying scavenger's final wish.

  I look again at the carved prayer.

  "I am watching," my transformed voice declares.

  The flames in my eye sockets flare brighter. Not with rage, but with purpose ignited. This partial restoration, this phantom flesh, is not return to life, but evolution of duty. Avernus's final gift to his champion.

  My gaze turns to the mounted skeleton, the captain, displayed as trophy and warning. The flames in my eye sockets flare with recognition.

  "Your watch is not over, Captain," I say, raising Aeternus toward the desecrated remains.

  Something shifts in the chamber's shadows. Not mere echoes or phantoms. The earth beneath the stone floor trembles. Dust rains from cracked mortar as bone fragments emerge from the very ground.

  The captain's remains shudder. Pins that held him to the wall for centuries crack and fall away. His skeleton drops to the floor, not in a heap of broken bones, but landing on feet that should not support him. His skull rights itself on vertebrae. Arms fall into proper position. Armor plates slide back into place.

  From the pile of stacked remains in the corner, bones begin to shift and separate. Skulls roll across the floor to join with proper spines. Femurs seek knee joints. Finger bones crawl toward palms.

  Half buried remains left forgotten begin to rise. Scattered pieces knit together, forming skeletal warriors in rusted armor. Soil darkened bone assembles into frames that had once defended this outpost. Skulls that had lain in unmarked graves rise atop spinal columns.

  The bones embedded in the walls pull free, mortar crumbling as they extract themselves from their prison. Defenders who died where they stood reclaim limbs long separated. Warriors crushed underfoot gather their scattered pieces.

  They rise silently, dozen upon dozen. Soldiers who died defending this outpost. Scouts who never returned. Guards whose watch never ended. Unlike me, they remain pure bone, no phantom flesh covers their forms, but purpose drives their assembly.

  The captain stands before me, armor plates fused to rib cage, skull bearing the prominent hole that ended his mortal service. His jawbone moves as if to speak, though no sound emerges.

  "The path between realms requires guardians," I say, voice carrying authority it never possessed before. "Haven needs protection. Dwarven trade routes must remain open."

  I raise Aeternus. The blade pulses with power that spreads through the chamber, touching each risen soldier. Blue light from its runes illuminates their forms, revealing blackened edges on certain wounds, the same corruption that now threatens Haven's walls.

  "Not just protection," I continue. "Vengeance against corruption. Memory for what was forgotten."

  Skeletal hands grasp weapons long buried with them. Fingers tighten around sword hilts. Bony arms lift shields bearing faded insignia.

  The captain kneels before me, followed by every warrior in unison. Bones crack against stone as they pledge themselves.

  "Rise," I command, phantom throat creating new sounds. "Your duty is not completed. Your sacrifice not forgotten. March with me to Haven's walls. Stand guard over what remains worth saving."

  The captain stands, drawing a blade still bearing traces of the corruption that ended him. Where the taint touches bone, it hisses and burns away, purified by purpose.

  He salutes with bony arm across chest plate.

  No words pass between us, yet meaning transfers clearly, they will serve until corruption is driven back.

  "Until duty ends," I say.

  The skeletal battalion rises as one, armor clattering, weapons raised.

  "Until duty ends," they respond in unison.

  I turn toward Haven, my new army of the forgotten fallen forming ranks behind me.

  Avernus's final miracle manifested in his champion.

  No longer simply Death's Champion, but death's general.

  We are the answer to prayers spoken centuries ago on battlefields where banners fell.