Something pulls.

  A desperate plea echoes through earth thick with ancient death, disturbing magic that has lain dormant. .

  Not a cry for help in any mortal sense, but a force of regret that calls upon the lingering calling. It drags together the relics of war, tattered armor, scattered steel, and the restless dead who cannot ignore such pleas.

  Blood calls to blood.

  Someone anyone, please. I'm sorry. Protect.

  That last word brings me forward from oblivion into brittle awareness.

  It awakens consciousness in a place where none ought to exist.

  I wake to the taste of ash and iron on a tongue I no longer possess. My first conscious breath draws nothing into lungs that no longer exist. The first motion sends a rasp along my frame, bones scrapes bone, no flesh to cushion them.

  Somewhere in the dark soil around me, a magic pulses through hollow ribs.

  I lie in black soil rich with old blood, my bones pulling together in response to that dying wish. They snap free of the earth, rattling against each other, forming whole skeleton that is me. Joint by joint, each bone claims its place, forging a body out of dusty remains.

  A not-quite-living body, yet one that moves.

  I push myself upright to find the day’s sky unnaturally dark, a perpetual twilight of darkest grey despite it being midday.

  Countless weapons protrude upwards from the ground like iron markings, spears, swords, halberds, and stranger weapons whose purpose I cannot guess. Between them lie the remains of those who wielded them. All around bleached bones sprawl, many half-buried. Some lie piled in drifts of rib cages and shattered skulls. Some wear scraps of ruined armor, others the tattered remnants of robes or leather.

  The field radiates sorrow

  But there are fresher corpses here now. Three bodies lie broken among the ancient dead, their blood still wet on the blood stained ground. These men died recently, hours perhaps, maybe less before my rising. One body twitches in half-buried reflex, though life has left it.

  A patrol or scavenging party, their flesh torn by fangs that left shadows where wounds should be.

  One still clutches a torch that sputtered out in a puddle of his own blood. Another's hand reaches toward walls far in the distance, a city or fortress, so faint it merges with the gloom. The third, the one whose final wish pulled me from oblivion, died first trying to defend the others. His blood seeps into soil already saturated with the sacrifice of those who came before

  In him I sense the echo of regret that roused these bones.

  Memories surface unbidden, not mine, yet mine. Knowledge settles into hollow spaces where thoughts form. These borrowed bones know their nature. They cannot bleed, cannot tire, cannot feel pain.

  Whatever force assembled these pieces left more than just structure, it left purpose. Fragments of countless fallen warriors lend their final moments to this form. Their memories guide my blade, their experience shapes each motion. Not living knowledge, but something deeper. Battle-wisdom etched into borrowed bone.

  The information settles into my consciousness, natural and unbidden, it is simply there. I push myself up, bone scraping against rusted armor and rusted weapons half-buried in the earth.

  My body moves with unsettling ease, joints clicking into place without muscle or sinew to guide them. Each motion is powered by the same dark energy that roused me to consciousness.

  I am untethered.

  I look down at myself. Rusted chainmail hangs from my skeletal frame. A notched longsword rests half-buried in the grime. Dried gore coats the steel. A severed gauntlet remains clamped around the handle, some final reflex of a warrior who was cut down.

  I pry loose the gauntlet, letting it drop. Then lift the sword, adjusting to the weapon’s weight. Familiar motions stir, parry, thrust, stances that no living memory taught, but some old soldier’s echo bestows upon these bones.

  Muscle memory that should be impossible guides my hand. The blade comes up in a perfect guard position.

  Their killers haven't gone far. Shadows gather between the ancient weapons, taking shape, wolf-like forms of where shadows take to bone, with eyes that glow red, the red that marks them as monsters of some kind or another.

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  They've circled back to their prey, ready to feed on cooling flesh. Steam rises from their jaws, they've already feasted on the fallen patrol.

  The shadow-wolves turn their burning gaze upon these borrowed bones. Hackles rise along spines formed of condensed darkness. Their forms ripple and twist, as if struggling to maintain shape in the presence of whatever force animates this skeletal frame.

  A low growl builds in throats that should not exist. The sound carries no natural resonance. The largest beast takes a step forward, leaving prints of scorched earth where its paws touch ground.

  The sword steadies.

  The purpose that drew me from the earth calls stronger. These creatures must not haunt those distant walls. The patrol died doing unto others. Their final duty becomes mine.

  The beast launches itself at my throat, thinking me a target it can't understand.

  The shadow moves faster than any natural creature should.

  But this body, this hollow frame of bone and patchwork armor, moves and moves quickly.

  I pivot, the beast's jaws snapping shut on empty air as my sword cuts through its shadowy form.

  Five more hounds circle, their steps leaving smoky trails in the air. They abandon their fallen prey to focus on this new threat. Their coordinated attack tells me they have an intelligence, and they move to surround me, to overwhelm with numbers what they cannot kill alone.

  Knowledge floods through me, sword forms I never learned but somehow know.

  Another leaps from behind.

  I catch a glimpse of claws just before it slams into my back. Jaws clamp at the chainmail covering my spine, but these bones know not how to yield.

  Instead, I twist, hooking an elbow across the hound’s muzzle. I fling it aside. It lands in a tangle of broken halberds, hissing as monster flesh breaks itself on corroded steel.

  This body might be newly risen, but it remembers war. I meet them with steel and purpose.

  The remaining shadow-wolves circle. Steam curls from their jaws as they prowl between ancient weapons jutting from blood-soaked earth.

  Two break from opposite sides. The first leaps high, aiming for where a throat should be.

  The second darts low, targeting legs that could shatter.

  The sword drops to guard position.

  I step into the attack rather than away. The high wolf's jaws snap shut on empty air as I duck beneath. The blade rises in the same motion, splitting shadow-flesh from sternum to tail. The creature dissolves with a howl that shakes loose more bones from the field.

  The low striker crashes into my legs. Femur cracks. Tibia splinters. Pain means nothing to the dead.

  As I fall, the sword continues its arc. Steel cuts the beast apart.

  The broken bones draw together, knitting back into proper shape. Within moments, the legs stand ready once more.

  The remaining wolves pace closer, more cautious now.

  I cannot tire. I cannot feel pain. Each blow they land chips bone or dents armor, but I fight on, driven by magic and memory.

  A jaw clamps down on my sword arm, tearing it free in a shower of ancient metal and yellowed bone. I drive my bare skeletal hand through the beast's skull, fingers closing around whatever passes for a spine in its shadow-flesh.

  It dissolves into a darkness that sinks into the blood-rich soil.

  One by one, its pack mates follow.

  I grab the arm.

  My sword, still gripped, continues to strike as I wield the limb like a flail.

  Now only one remains, the biggest, with ragged muzzle. It steps back, twitching as if uncertain.

  Red eyes go back between me and corpses it wanted to devour. The decision is short. It commits. It lunges in a final frenzy, fangs parted wide. I meet it head-on, sword angled. We collide, its jaws snapping near my collar bone, my blade up under its chest. I yank and force it, cutting ribs from shadowed flesh.

  Death sound follows, half-real, half-spectral. The beast collapses.

  The last shadow-wolf dissolves into wisps of darkness that sink between ancient weapons. The field grows still once more.

  I kneel in soil thick with death. My separated arm lies three paces away, fingers still locked around the sword hilt. Dark energy moves through hollow frame, stronger now. The bones respond, skittering across blood-stained earth like iron drawn to iron.

  Bones and shoulder snap back into place. I flex restored fingers, testing their grip on the blade.

  Other scattered fragments return, ribs cracked by shadow form and bones chipped by fangs. The magic remembers the proper shape of things.

  Standing whole once more, I turn to the fallen patrol. Their cooling bodies lie broken among ancient bones, fresh blood mixing with stains centuries old. The one whose dying wish roused me stares skyward with empty eyes, his hand still reaching toward distant walls. His companions sprawl nearby, torn apart by shadow-teeth that left wounds darker than natural night.

  Their blood seeps into soil.

  I kneel beside the one who died protecting his companions. His face is locked in an expression of desperate hope, not for himself, but for those he tried to save. That expression calls to something in these hollow bones.

  His belt pouch contains a letter, the parchment stained with blood.

  The ink remains legible.

  Third patrol this week. More shadows gathering each night. Haven's walls are strong, but we need supplies. The children haven't eaten proper food in days. We have to venture out further, risk more, beyond the killing fields when the shadows are dormant. Gods help us all.

  I stare, pieces memories coming back to me.

  The walls he reached for loom closer now, a silhouette in the distance. Haven, the name comes without context or memory. But I see shadows gathering in that direction, darker shapes moving in the mist. Whatever killed this patrol has brothers, and they hunt between here and those distant walls.

  Behind me stretches the endless battlefield, and beyond it, four distant horizons each promising their own darkness. To the north, a forest writhes with unnatural motion, a wrongness felt even at this distance.

  To the east, giant black towers await. In the west the horizon glows with hellish forge-fires, and to the south, there is only broken spires.

  But for now, shadows gather close at hand, between these bones and walls that shelter those who still draw breath. The patrol's cooling bodies remind me that the living are fragile.

  They need food. They need supplies. They need protection.

  I do not know what I am. I do not know why I rose. While darkness gathers, something compels me forward. The urge has no name yet, but it drives these borrowed bones toward Haven where hope lingers and the dangers that await its people.

  I sense no direct memory, no identity I can claim.

  But I feel a drive, the living behind those walls are fragile, and the savage things that hunt these fields cannot be allowed to ravage them. The final regrets that reassembled me vow. Protect them.

  My battered sword rests, tip lodged in blood-sodden soil, as I stand again.