Beyond the wyrm's remains, the King's Road continues.

  I leave the bone field behind.

  The battle has changed more than these fragments. My structure feels different, stronger, more connected. Where my form once scattered easily, now plates of ancient wyrm bone provide reinforcement.

  The ground itself bears scars of battle. Deep furrows cut through stone where the wyrm's tail lashed.

  Glass patches mark where corruption scorched earth. The road itself has been redrawn by violence.

  I continue.

  The bones know this path continues to Candlekeep, though no single memory claims complete knowledge. Fragments surface, scholars discussing rare tomes, knights reinforcing monastery defenses against threats long forgotten, merchants counting coin earned from delivering fresh parchment and inks.

  Borrowed memories suggest Candlekeep once stood as bastion of knowledge, protected by both physical walls and arcane wards.

  Whether it remains or has fallen like so much else is unknown. Only the journey will give the answers.

  The new bone fragments shift with each step, settling into configurations that better support movement.

  They understand purpose in ways different from flesh. There is no pain in this joining, only accommodation. The wyrm's essence, its memories of flight and power, lingers though barely, in these fragments.

  I head forward where the road disappears into mist-shrouded hills. Candlekeep waits beyond.

  The landscape changes as the road climbs.

  Dead forest gives way to rolling hills stripped of growth. Grass grows in patches, sickly yellow rather than green.

  The path narrows, forcing these bones to contort and walk between stones that might once have formed a formal boundary.

  Worn carvings suggest wardstones, though their magic has long since faded.

  At the top of a steeper steep rise, the first view of Candlekeep appears.

  Unlike Haven's design, the monastery sprawls around a central tower that rises far higher than any structure within Haven's walls. Even at distance, details emerge, arches supporting stone walls, stained glass windows dark with grime, defensive battlements topped with statues rather than practical watchtowers.

  A place where knowledge was valued above all.

  The outer walls show damage, collapsed sections, scorch marks, evidence of ancient siege.

  Yet the monastery stands.

  Unlike the surrounding landscape, patches of green persist within the compound.

  Something protected this place when corruption claimed everything else.

  The road descends into a valley before the final approach. As elevation drops, mist rises to meet these fragments, curling around bones.

  Not natural fog, but something deliberate. Probing. Testing.

  Curious.

  No threat presents itself.

  Each step becomes harder, as if unseen forces push against purpose. Not corruption's work, but something else. Protection meant to dissuade rather than destroy.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Through the thickening mist, shapes appear.

  Not physical barriers, but ghost-images like those encountered on the road. These projections differ, scholars holding books, monks in meditation, soldiers standing guard. All with the same empty eyes, watching these bones approach with expressions neither welcoming nor hostile.

  "Turn back," they mouth without sound. "This knowledge is not for the dead."

  These bones know different. Purpose doesn't require invitation.

  I pause before the apparitions, these scholarly ghosts with their silent warnings. Their forms shift and waver, insubstantial yet purposeful.

  I step forward. The ghosts scatter like smoke, reforming ahead with more urgent gestures.

  Their mouths move faster now, forming words I can read rather than hear.

  "None may enter who bring death's taint."

  If these are true guardians and not mere echoes, perhaps they can be reasoned with. My bone fingers scratch across the surface:

  I come seeking knowledge to protect Haven. To fight corruption.

  The mist swirls, condensing into a more substantial figure, a robed librarian. Unlike the others, this one's eyes hold awareness. He reads my message and studies my form.

  "The dead have come before, Knight of Bone. They sought only to destroy our collections."

  I write again.

  Serve purpose, protection. Fight corruption.

  The apparition looks me oven and eyes pause on the emblem of the shield I bear.

  "Recent, not old." The apparition half remarks, questions.

  Gifted. Granted. Fought monsters at Haven.

  The apparition circles my form, studying the new bone plates integrated from the wyrm. His fingers pass through reinforced joints without resistance, yet somehow sense the truth of these borrowed fragments.

  "You defeated the Wyrm," he states, not questioning but confirming. "A guardian corrupted by those who destroyed the world ."

  He gestures toward Candlekeep's distant towers.

  "We too were guardians once. Preservers of knowledge that might rebuild. Now we guard ruins that none with reason remain to use."

  The apparition's form wavers, becoming less distinct before stabilizing again.

  "None with reason remain within these walls, Bone Knight. Only echoes and dead things, going through motions established centuries past. Knowledge preserved without purpose. Wisdom maintained without application."

  I trace my response through mist.

  Haven stands. Purpose remains.

  His translucent features arrange themselves into something approximating sadness.

  "One bastian against corruption's tide. Yet," The apparition studies the shield again, focus sharpening. "The symbol you bear. Haven's mark carries older significance. Perhaps there remains reason after all."

  The apparition's form stabilizes, a look settles across its translucent features.

  The pressure suddenly releases.

  "I am, was, Loremaster Cherin. If you truly serve Haven, I will guide you to knowledge that may aid your purpose."

  He gestures through the mist, which parts to reveal a clearer path toward Candlekeep's main gate.

  "Follow closely. The wards recognize me still. Step where I step."

  I move as directed, each placement of bone matching the apparition's footfalls. The mist part as we passage, revealing stone steps.

  "This monastery stood before Haven was more than an outpost," The apparition explains. "The knowledge preserved here was used in Haven's original wards. What you seek may still exist, though reaching answers will prove challenging."

  The main gates stand open.Beyond them, the monastery's courtyard stretches wider than appears possible from outside, space itself seemingly expanded within Candlekeep's boundaries. Buildings surround the central garden, dormitories, lecture halls, study chambers, all perfectly preserved though uninhabited.

  "These are preservation wards gone wild without maintenance." "Cherin explains, "Knowledge protecting itself in the only way it knows how."

  The apparition leads toward the central tower that dominates the complex. Unlike the surrounding structures built of ordinary stone, this is made from some material these fragments do not recognize.

  We cross the courtyard, passing more evidence of unnatural preservation. Flowers bloom despite no gardeners to tend them. Paths remain clear though no feet have walked them for generations. Fountains flow with water that appears freshly circulated.

  All maintained by magic designed to outlast its creators.

  Not quite metal.

  "The Great Library," Cherin names it. "Heart of Candlekeep. What you seek lies within." "

  I stand before massive oak doors.

  Unlike the crude barricades protecting Haven, these doors rise three times human height, their surfaces carved with images of open books and raised torches.

  The symbols of knowledge and enlightenment, worn but recognizable.

  Cherin halts before the doors, his ghostly form flickering more noticeably now.

  "From here, I can go no further," he explains, gesturing toward the entrance. "Guiding you has depleted what little energy I can manifest. I must rest, return to the memories preserved in the mist."

  The apparition's form grows increasingly transparent, detail fading from his scholarly robes and aged features.

  "When you find what you seek, return this way," his voice barely audible now. "I will guide you out again, when I can."

  With those final words, Loremaster Cherin fades completely.

  I place dragon-reinforced hands against ancient wood, purpose condensed to singular intent.

  The doors respond, swinging inward.

  I go forward.