Torches light among survivors, trembling flames in trembling hands.

  The webbing parts beneath my blade. Another survivor falls free, caught by shield arm before striking stone. Her eyes fix on these hollow sockets, seeing death but sensing purpose. No screams now. Terror gives way to desperate hope as she beholds deliverance in bone.

  The chamber holds more cocoons than first sight revealed, hanging in layers upon the curved ceiling. Some fresh, others bearing weeks of dust. The horror stored its food, preserving what it could not immediately consume.

  "Sarah? Sarah!" A man's voice breaks the silence. He cradles the woman I just freed, his hands shaking as he wipes silk from her face. "I thought... when it took you..."

  Words fail him. His tears fall upon her face, washing away the remnants of her prison. More cocoons pulse with life above. The sword continues its work while they embrace, each strand parting beneath steady steel.

  Some hold victims, others merely corpses. These fragments sense the difference.

  "Get away from them!" A rock strikes my skull. The stone does nothing.

  These fragments continue their work, blade finding another cocoon while he sobs his anger.

  The thrower stands trembling, another stone raised. "Haven't we suffered enough monsters?"

  No matter. The dead accept no argument.

  The whimper of a child draws attention higher. The blade follows.

  The webbing parts, revealing a girl no more than ten. She falls into waiting arms of bone, chest rising with shallow breaths.

  The man's stone drops as he recognizes his daughter's face.

  "Emmy?" His voice breaks. "Oh Emmy!" He rushes forward, taking her from bone grip. Tears stream down his face as he checks her pulse. "Her brother, please, Merik was taken too."

  These fragments understand his fear, his violence born of love denied. The living lash out when hope returns.

  My blade finds another cocoon, parts silk with careful precision.

  A boy falls free. The man sobs as he clutches both children. Other survivors help him carry them to solid ground. His eyes meet hollow sockets, shame warring with gratitude.

  "Keep cutting." His voice steadies. "Please, keep cutting."

  Steel parts ancient strands, releasing bodies one by one. Some breathe. Others rot. The shield catches the living, guiding them to solid ground. Borrowed bones work methodically, memories of other rescues guiding each cut.

  "That's Jensons' boy," someone whispers. "And Patterson. It's been keeping them alive all this time..."

  Wonder mingles with horror in their voices.

  Layer by layer, the harvest reveals itself. The freshest cocoons pulse with life. Others hang silent, faces frozen in final terror. The shield guides survivors toward the chamber entrance while steel frees more victims.

  A young girl screams when consciousness returns. "The face! The elder's face!" Her mother clutches her close, quiet whispers attempting comfort these fragments cannot provide.

  Black blood stains the webbing near the chamber's peak. The sword reaches higher, parting strands thick with age. More bodies. More faces. The horror's larder spans generations.

  The ceiling shivers. Soil begins to fall in increasing amounts. The battle weakened tunnel supports, victory now threatening to become burial.

  "We're trapped!" Panic rises in fresh voices.

  These fragments sense other paths, carved during patient centuries of hunting. Some must lead to surface air.

  The shield bangs against stone, drawing their attention. My sword points toward three tunnel mouths. The shield brushes ceiling webs aside, revealing paths previously hidden.

  "How can we trust it?" A woman clutches her rescued child. "It's one of them. A dead thing."

  "It freed us," the man who threw the stone answers. "We follow or we die here."

  They hesitate, but what choice remains? The group shuffles forward as earth continues falling. Their feet leave prints in soil turned to mud by spilled blood. Some stumble, exhaustion claiming strength.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "My legs," an elderly man gasps. "I can't..."

  Stronger arms support weaker frames. The living help living while these bones lead the way. The braver guard the rear, ensuring none fall behind.

  The passage winds upward, carved with the same patient precision as the rest. More trophies line alcoves, older faces, preserved from distant places.

  "Look away," a mother tells her children. "Don't look at them."

  Some survivors turn from the displays. Others stare, recognition dawning in hollow eyes. These are not the first settlements it has fed upon. Not the first communities it has hollowed from below.

  "How many?" A voice breaks. "How many before us? How long has it dwelt beneath?"

  The tunnel splits again.

  The air moves differently here, fresher, touched by surface winds. But distance matters less than stability. Earth still shifts above, the ancient supports failing after centuries.

  "It's collapsing!" Someone shouts as more soil falls. Borrowed bones need no light, but terror slows living steps.

  A child trips. Her father scoops her up without breaking stride. They've learned to help their own now.

  Fear teaches cooperation faster than trust.

  Moonlight filters through cracks ahead. The tunnel mouth opens onto a hillside half a league from their settlement. Stars shine overhead as survivors emerge on shaking legs. Fresh air hits lungs accustomed to the stale depths. Some collapse immediately, falling to their knees in the damp grass.

  "We made it," the stone-thrower breathes, voice thin with exhaustion. "Gods preserve us, we're out."

  They gather close, but there is no strength left for celebration. Days of captivity and terror have hollowed them. Women who carried children through the tunnels now sink to the ground, unable to take another step. Men who supported the elderly now tremble with fatigue, muscles failing after their final effort.

  "The village," an old woman says, pointing to distant lights barely visible through trees. "We must..."

  Her words trail off as her legs buckle. The stone-thrower catches her before she hits the ground.

  "We can't make it," he admits, the truth plain on every face. "Not tonight."

  The hillside offers little shelter. The forest edge holds unknown dangers. Yet none can continue. Their torches burn low, bodies lower still. They look to these bones for direction, fear of the surrounding darkness greater than fear of what saved them.

  My shield plants into soft earth, marking this spot as sanctuary. The sword remains ready, a promise of protection.

  "Here?" A woman clutches her rescued child, doubt in her voice. "What if other creatures come?"

  The stone-thrower looks from the skeleton to the dark forest surrounding them. Understanding dawns in his eyes.

  "The monsters know whose territory this was," he says slowly. "They'll keep their distance for tonight, at least."

  He isn't wrong. The Harvester's domain extended beyond its tunnels. Lesser predators learned to avoid these hunting grounds, respecting ancient territorial markers that still hold power. These bones sense their absence in the surrounding darkness - a temporary reprieve bought with the horror's death.

  I scrape letters in the dirt with the sword's tip, carving words into the soil where all can see them.

  REST. WILL WATCH. PROTECT.

  The survivors stare at the message. Some back away. Others draw closer, wonder replacing fear.

  "It speaks," a child whispers.

  "It thinks," the old woman corrects.

  The stone-thrower reads the message aloud for those who cannot read.

  "Rest. Will watch. Protect." He looks to these hollow sockets. "You understand us."

  These fragments offer no response. Understanding matters less than purpose.

  My sword points to fallen branches at the forest edge. The stone-thrower nods, gathering kindling with the last of his strength. Others form a protective circle, moving with the coordination of those who have already survived together.

  Soon, a proper fire burns. They arrange themselves around it, the strongest taking the outer ring. Parents cradle children close, some already asleep before finding proper positions. The wounded receive what little care can be provided with torn clothing as bandages. Water from a nearby stream eases parched throats.

  "We should keep watch," a young man suggests, though his eyelids droop even as he speaks.

  "It stands watch," the old woman replies, nodding toward these bones that need no rest. "Tonight, we sleep."

  The survivors surrender to exhaustion in waves. First the children, then the injured, then those who carried others. Even those determined to remain alert find themselves drifting, heads nodding toward chests before jerking upright, then nodding again.

  The fire burns lower. The night deepens.

  Soon all sleep except these fragments.

  I patrol the perimeter in slow circles. The sword visible to any watching eyes. The message requires no interpretation, death guards this circle. The scent of the Harvester's ichor still clings to these bones, a warning to creatures that hunt by smell.

  The survivors sleep in positions that speak of lives spent in hard labor - bodies curled to preserve heat, hands still clutching improvised weapons even in slumber.

  The stone-thrower wakes in middle of night, hand reaching automatically for his children before his eyes open. Finding them still beside him, he exhales relief, then looks to these bones that continued their vigil through the night.

  "You're still here," he says quietly, not expecting answer. "I thought you might, well."

  He stops himself. What would a living man know of a dead thing's purpose?

  "Will you come with us?" the stone-thrower asks, eyes on hollow sockets.

  I carve more letters in soil dampened by dawn dew.

  TRUST. PROTECT. REST. WILL STAY. PROTECT.

  The stone-thrower studies the words. "Merik," he says suddenly. "My name is Merik."

  His fingers trace the letters I've carved, weathered skin catching on soil clumps. Something about this exchange feels necessary - names have power even if these fragments claim none.

  "And this is Emmy," he continues, gesturing to the sleeping girl curled against his side. "My daughter. You saved her."

  The child stirs at her name, eyes fluttering open to find hollow sockets watching. No fear crosses her face - only curiosity. She studies these bones with the uncomplicated acceptance.

  "Are you a guardian?" she asks, voice small but unafraid.

  These fragments have no answer that would satisfy. Guardian implies choice. These bones merely fulfill purpose.

  I raise the shield bearing Haven's mark. Recognition might come where words fail.

  Merik's breath catches. "You're from Haven? The fortress settlement?"

  Emmy reaches out, small fingers hovering near the shield's edge. "Is it safe there?"

  Safe is relative. Haven stands. Haven endures. Haven is defended.

  My sword etches new marks in the soil.

  WILL GUIDE. SLEEP. REST.