I leave Haven's walls behind, shield settled against borrowed bones.

  The Field of Broken Banners stretches silent beneath open sky.

  Ancient weapons thrust from cleaner soil now that the heart's corruption fades.

  Each step carries me further from walls that shelter life, toward lands where elves once dwelled. A crude barricade of wagons marks where Haven's scavengers dare not pass. Beyond it, ancient cobblestones emerge from wild grass, the old king's road. League markers rise, their surfaces worn but legible. Twenty leagues to the Watchtower of the Dan. Forty to the monastery. One and Sixty more until first spire of Elheim.

  The road tells its own history.

  Wheel-ruts from merchant caravans. Footprints from marching armies. Boot marks from fleeing refugees.

  All preserved in stone, a telling story of civilization's retreat.

  I pass beneath a stone arch where roads meet, its keystone carved with symbols these fragments almost remember.

  A royal crest, perhaps, or a marker of province borders.

  The knowledge lies buried somewhere in these borrowed pieces, but doesn't surface.

  Birds scatter at my approach.

  They sense something wrong in my movement, a predator that does not breathe, does not hunger. Some memories remain universal, living things fear walking death.

  Instinct tells them what I am, an aberration beyond nature's laws.

  The first corpses appear near sunset.

  They wear Haven's colors, armor rusted through. These were patrolmen once. Now they walk their routes without purpose, flesh long rotted away, hollow guardians of a forgotten perimeter.

  Tattered scraps of uniform cling to yellowed bone.

  They turn at my approach, empty sockets fixing on the shield.

  Recognition sparks nothing in them. Weapons rise. They attack without skill or thought, just puppets pulled by strings of ancient magic.

  Their movements stiff, mechanical, lacking the fluidity of true purpose.

  My sword meets the first blade. Steel parts ancient bone.

  The second swings a mace that would crush living ribs.

  My shield turns the blow. These fragments remember warfare the dead have forgotten. My blade continues its arc, separating skull from spine. The head bounces once on the packed earth, jaw still working silently.

  They fall without sound.

  These are simply dead things, moving without purpose. The shield pulses against my frame, these are not the first mindless sentinels it has faced.

  More shambling forms emerge along the road. T

  Their weapons drag furrows in earth. Their armor hangs in tatters. Some wear Haven's colors. Others bear emblems of kingdoms these fragments almost remember, crests and insignias from nations swallowed by time and corruption.

  None speak. None think. They attack. Things of emptiness, devoid of strategy or self-preservation.

  I brace, setting borrowed feet against stone worn by millennia of travelers. The next reaches me, a spear thrust with mechanical precision. I turn it with the shield, metal screaming against metal.

  My sword sweeps low, taking its legs at the knees. It falls, still clutching its weapon, still trying to complete its attack even as it crumbles.

  The second and third come together. One wields a rusted halberd; the other, a notched sword. The halberd catches my shoulder joint, tearing bone from socket. No matter.

  The shield rams forward, cracking ribs that have been broken and reformed countless times through endless patrols. My sword, still gripped by fingers no longer attached to arm, curves upward.

  The blade finds the hollow beneath jaw, severing skull from spine.

  My arm crawls back, fingers walking bone across stone. It climbs my leg, shoulder settling against socket with a sound like pottery pieces fitted together.

  They press forward, four now. An archer looses a shaft that passes through empty ribs, finding nothing vital to pierce. My blade answers, cleaving through bow and bone in a single strike. The shield catches a mace, the impact sending cracks through ancient metal. Both shield and bones remember their shape, reforming even as battle continues.

  The road fills with their broken parts, a testament to purposeless persistence. My sword finds endless targets. When one falls, another shambles forward, weapon raised.

  Darkness cloaks the road. My fragments need no light to see, sensing the dead through vibrations in stone, through the whisper of empty lungs drawing air they don't need, through the scrape of bone against armor.

  More approach. These wear older colors, their armor styles belonging to the time when Elfheim still stood. Elven scouts, perhaps, or human allies caught in the forest's fall. Their movements hold more fluidity, echoes of training that transcended death's grasp.

  Eight surround me. Their weapons rise and fall in coordinated strikes. My shield cannot block them all. A sword takes my arm at the elbow. A mace shatters vertebrae. An axe cleaves through borrowed ribs.

  No matter. These fragments feel no pain, know no fear. My sword continues its work, gripped by bone fingers that need no connection to arm to maintain their purpose. The shield, now cracked, still turns the heaviest blows from where Carida's remains rest.

  I pivot, bones grinding against each other as they realign. My sword describes an arc that passes through three attackers. Steel parts ancient bone with a sound like branches breaking in winter. The shield drives forward, its edge catching a fourth beneath what would have been chin, lifting the skull from spine.

  The remaining four press closer, weapons rising and falling in mindless rhythm. They remember formations but not why they matter. They recall strikes but not their purpose.

  My blade finds the gaps their memory cannot fill. The shield exploits openings their decay creates. When the last falls, two dozen lie scattered across ancient cobblestones. Parts still twitch, hands still grasp weapons. But the road stands momentarily clear.

  I gather pieces lost in combat - a finger bone here, a rib fragment there. The shield thrums against my spine, memories sorting through borrowed fragments. Some belonged to these fallen warriors. Others came from battlefields these bones have never walked.

  The road curves between ancient hills. League markers count distance in fallen kingdoms. The grass grows wilder, untouched by living feet for generations.

  A bell tolls in the distance.

  Not Haven's alarm, but something older. The sound carries across empty miles, a summons for defenders long dead.

  The road narrows as it climbs toward higher ground. Stone walls appear on either side, the first outworks of a larger fortification. Fallen masonry creates choke points where defenders once held against invaders.

  A patrol of six approaches, weapons held in stripped bone hands. They wear matching armor, moving in formation after centuries of death. Their insignia marks them as elite guards from when the watchtower served a living kingdom.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  They advance with discipline the others lacked. Shields form a wall. Spears extend in staggered rows. They remember how to fight as one.

  The shield braces against my chest. The sword settles into guard position. These fragments recall counters to such formations, memories surfacing from soldiers who once broke similar lines.

  Their advance stops just beyond sword reach. The formation shifts, creating an opening that promises death to any living attacker. But these bones need no breath, feel no fear. I step into the gap.

  My sword strikes the junction where shield meets armor. The blade slides between ancient plates, finding the spine that supports empty rib cages. The first falls, its shield clattering against stone road.

  They close ranks, trying to trap my sword with overlapping shields. The formation's weakness comes from behind. I push through, taking wounds that would kill the living. A spear pierces borrowed ribs. A sword separates vertebrae. The shield turns the worst blows. The sword continues its work.

  Inside their formation, the dead lose their advantage. My blade sweeps in tight arcs, taking limbs and skulls with mechanical precision. The shield catches weapons never designed to strike from such close quarters.

  When the last falls, I study their remains.

  Regular soldiers, not champions. Their weapons show combat against armored foes, but nothing else remains to tell their story.

  The road steepens. Ancient trees line the path, their trunks twisted by centuries of exposure to forces that warp nature itself. Not fully corrupted, but no longer natural.

  The Watchtower of the Dan appears near midnight, a thing of stone and broken battlements. It rises from the highest hill, silhouette jagged where time has claimed the highest stones. Dead things walk its walls, Haven guards mixed with older corpses, moving through patrol routes embedded in decaying memory.

  They spot my approach. Arrows rain down, most striking the road around these borrowed bones.

  The few that find their mark lodge in empty rib cages or pass through spaces between fragments.

  The gate hangs open, rust claiming its hinges. Portcullis teeth bite into empty air, their chains long since rotted through. The courtyard beyond holds dozens of the dead, soldiers from half a dozen fallen kingdoms, camp followers, messengers frozen mid-delivery for centuries.

  They turn as one, weapons rising.

  Some wear armor so ancient these fragments have no memory of its style. Others bear the marks of kingdoms whose names have crumbled with their walls.

  Inside the narrow gate, their numbers work against them. I brace the shield, creating a wall that funnels their approach. The sword moves with precision these dead have forgotten, finding gaps in armor that hasn't protected anything for centuries.

  The first wave breaks against borrowed bones. My sword takes heads and limbs in equal measure. The shield pushes back those who press too close. When they surge forward, I retreat step by measured step, drawing them into tighter confines where their numbers become obstacle rather than advantage.

  The courtyard stones grow slick with ancient marrow. A foot slides, sending these fragments to one knee. The dead press forward, weapons falling like rain. The shield catches what it can. The rest strike borrowed bones, shattering ribs and scapulae. An axe cleaves through vertebrae, sending my upper body toppling.

  The sword continues its work, gripped by hands that need no connection to mind to fulfill their purpose. The shield, held by arm fragments now separated from shoulder, still turns the heaviest blows.

  My separated pieces fight on, guided by purpose deeper than physical connection. Finger bones crawl across stone, seeking their fellows. Ribs roll beneath rusted greaves, returning to the core that called them forth. Vertebrae click back into alignment, each finding its proper place in the column.

  The dead show no surprise. They attack what moves, regardless of completeness. Their weapons find fewer targets as my form reassembles, fragments returning to the whole like iron filings to lodestone.

  When enough pieces rejoin, I rise. The courtyard holds dozens still moving, but dozens more lie truly still, their animation ended by blade and purpose. The shield fits against spine once more. The sword finds its familiar grip.

  Boot steps echo against stone. The dead fill corridors, continuing duties death should have ended. My sword creates space in narrow halls. The shield pushes them back. When they cluster too tight, I drive through their formation. Ancient steel remembers how to end death's mimicry of life.

  A stairwell spirals upward, its steps worn by centuries of patrols. Dead guardians descend, weapons ready. In such tight quarters, their numbers should mean advantage. But the dead think not of terrain, only of targets.

  The shield braces against the stairwell wall, creating a chokepoint only one can pass at a time. My sword waits for each, a toll collector on the road to true death. They come without hesitation, without fear. One by one, they fall.

  The stone grows slick with ancient fluids. A foot slides on steps worn smooth by millennia of boots. These fragments tumble, the shield clattering against the wall. The dead press downward, weapons seeking to pin borrowed bones against unyielding stone.

  A blade takes my arm at the elbow. A mace shatters my skull, sending it bouncing down steps these bones just climbed. No matter. The sword, still gripped by separated fingers, continues its arc. The shield, propped against the wall, still turns blows that would scatter more vital fragments.

  My skull watches from below as the body fights on, guided by purpose deeper than sight. When the last defender falls, magic draws bone back to bone. The skull returns to vertebrae with a sound like lock tumblers falling into place.

  The tower's peak offers clear view across moonlit lands. The road continues north into deeper wilderness. Haven's walls stand distant, barely visible as a darker line against night sky. Ahead, the first signs of the Endless Rot taint the horizon - trees growing too tall, too twisted, canopies that pulse with unnatural light.

  A bell tolls below, rung by hands that should have rotted centuries ago. Dead things climb the tower, drawn by movement they no longer truly see. The first wave stumbles up the final spiral, ancient weapons raised.

  My sword takes the first skull. The second loses arms still gripping a spear. The third I drive back with the shield, sending it tumbling into those behind. They fall like scattered pins, bones cracking against stone steps.

  The dead fill the stairwell. Shields overlap as they march upward, remembering formations they no longer understand. My blade finds gaps their decay creates. The shield breaks their press.

  An axe takes my shoulder. No matter. The sword continues its work, gripped by bone fingers that need no joint to swing true. A mace shatters my ribs. The shield compensates, turning blows from a core that needs no protection.

  Steel parts bone. Shield breaks stance. They fall in pieces around borrowed feet that never stumble. My shoulder reattaches mid-swing, bones pulled together by purpose their purposeless persistence lacks.

  The stairs grow slick with ancient marrow. A halberd takes my leg at the knee. I fall among them, but falling means nothing to the dead. My sword continues its arc from the ground. The shield pushes me upright as bones snap back into place.

  They press onto the tower's peak. Archers draw bowstrings with skeletal fingers. Swordsmen advance in broken formations. Spearmen brace weapons with technical perfection devoid of tactical understanding.

  Arrows strike borrowed bones. The shield catches what it can. The rest pass through empty ribs, finding nothing vital to pierce. My blade answers, cutting through archer and swordsman alike.

  A sword catches my skull, sending it rolling across the battlement. The body fights on. My separated head watches blade and shield continue their work until magic pulls bone back to bone.

  Their numbers work against them in the confined space. The dead tangle with their fallen as they press forward. My sword finds endless targets. The shield creates space their mindless charge instantly fills.

  Hours pass. The bell tolls on. The dead march upward without end, drawn by ancient compulsions these fragments almost understand. My sword arm separates a dozen times. The shield cracks but remembers its shape. These borrowed bones break and reform as battle demands.

  When the last one falls, hundreds lie scattered across the tower's peak. They twitch with lingering motion, trying to rise on shattered limbs. Hands grip weapons they no longer recall how to use.

  Dawn approaches, the sky lightening at the edge of vision. The tower stands silent now, save for the scrape of bone against stone as shattered forms try to reassemble themselves.

  I plant my blade in ancient stone. Something shifts within these fragments - a power older than the magic driving this frame. Purer. A name surfaces from memory without source:

  "Aeternus."

  Light erupts from the sword's edge like dawn breaking. It passes through dead flesh and hollow bone. Ancient enchantments shatter like frozen grass. Their remains settle into true death. Weapons fall from fingers that finally release their grip.

  The bell falls silent.

  The tower stands empty, guardian to a road where only memory walks. Dawn breaks across abandoned battlements. The dead sleep in borrowed halls, their endless march finally ended.

  A doorway, hidden behind fallen stones. My shield pushes rubble aside, revealing an entrance sealed for centuries. The door itself has rotted away, leaving only iron hinges clinging to stone frame.

  Inside, circular walls rise toward a domed ceiling. Light filters, showing what the dead have preserved.

  Not treasure. Knowledge.

  A doorway, hidden behind fallen stones. My shield pushes rubble aside, revealing an entrance sealed for centuries. The door itself has rotted away, leaving only iron hinges clinging to stone frame.

  Inside, circular walls rise toward a domed ceiling. Moonlight filters through a cracked oculus, illuminating what the dead have preserved. Not treasure. Knowledge.

  Stone shelves line the chamber, holding scrolls long since crumbled to dust and leather-bound tomes reduced to brittle frames. But metal endures where parchment fails. Bronze plates and iron tablets stand arranged in rows, their surfaces darkened but legible.

  Then a search, finding a report. The northern forests are lost. Elfheim has fallen silent. Establish defensive positions along the King's Road only as to cover withdrawal.

  Then old orders summoning all to war.

  Then marks on the wall.

  The watchtower has fallen. This record shall remain for those who follow. The enemy does not sleep. The enemy does not tire. If any find this message who still draw breath, know that Haven stands only because others fell.

  My blade slides home. The shield settles against borrowed bone. Ahead, the road continues north. Behind, Haven's walls rise distant but safe. This tower will serve as waypoint now, cleared for living feet that might someday dare the path again.

  These fragments sense the changing air. North, corruption grows stronger. The rot spreads through elder forests. But here, for a space of leagues, only clean death walked.

  And now, not even that.

  I descend empty steps. The road calls, and these bones remember their purpose.