Candlekeep's outer gates part without sound. The mist that tested my approach now yields without resistance, recognizing something changed in this borrowed form. Of Loremaster Cherin I see no trace. His energy spent in guiding what was never meant to enter.

  Knowledge gained comes with purpose altered. The World Tree waits, but another call pulls at these fragments first.

  The road stretches before me, no longer pointing toward mere knowledge but toward answers buried in corruption's heart. The ground bears the scars of my battle with the wyrm, glass patches where corruption's fire transformed earth into something else.

  That transformation echoes through form.

  Dragon plates shift against my frame with each step, settling into configurations that support rather than hinder. They understand purpose in ways different from flesh, adapting without pain or complaint. Their essence remembers flight and power, lending strength to limbs that should not move so freely.

  One direction leads north, toward the World Tree where corruption first took root. Where the Briar Queen's ambition twisted nature against itself. The archive's knowledge burns within these fragments, images of elven spires falling as roots grew dark. Ancient tomes spoke towers consumed by things that should have nurtured, not destroyed. That path will come, but something else pulls these bones first.

  A compulsion.

  A thought not my own I cannot ignore.

  I pause. Study the sensation. The pull tugs eastward, away from the King's Road, away from mapped threats. The dragon-reinforced spine beneath these ribs straightens as I consider this deviation.

  No commander ordered this path. No desperate cry summoned these bones. This feels like decision.

  But not quite my own.

  "Protect," I think, though no voice emerges.

  Not destruction's call, but directive.

  I turn from the marked road, moving into wilder lands where shadows gather differently.

  The King's Road stretches back towards Haven, but purpose draws me away from its ancient stones. Something pulls, sensing distant need.

  Tall grass parts before these wyrm-reinforced legs. No path exists here, only the pull that guides each step through wilderness.

  The landscape itself seems caught between life and death.

  Away from the road, trees still stand, grass still grows, yet everything holds the wrong color, the wrong shape.

  From a ridge, I gaze across lands once cultivated, now abandoned to wild growth. Farmsteads stood here once, their foundations still visible as geometric patterns beneath encroaching vegetation. Life retreated, leaving emptiness where communities once thrived.

  Signs of corruption grow more obvious as I move eastward. Trees grow, their branches forming patterns that suggest intent rather than natural growth. Flowers grow with too many petals, their centers moving with something that resembles breathing.

  Yet this corruption differs from what these fragments encountered before. Not the mindless hunger of shadow beasts or the deliberate malice of demons. This feels almost peaceful, as if the land accepted its transformation and finds no need to attack what passes through.

  Or finds nothing worth attacking in these bones that move.

  The first day passes.

  Then a second.

  Then into the third.

  The dead need no rest, know no fatigue. These borrowed bones continue their eastward journey, following the compulsion that grows stronger with each league crossed. The sun sets and rises, sets and rises, marking time without measuring it.

  On the third day, hoofprints appear in soft earth.

  Deer perhaps, or things that used to be deer. Their trails wind between weathered stones and fallen trees, converging into paths that suggest direction more than random grazing. I follow these tracks, letting the pull guide these steps.

  Here and there, older stones break the earth's surface, remnants of buildings long forgotten. A fallen column bears markings these fragments almost remember. This land held settlements before the road, before the monastery. Before the breaking of the world.

  By the fourth day, signs of recent human passage emerge. Broken branches at roughly shoulder height. Disturbed earth where boots pressed too heavily. Ash from cook fires no more than days old.

  Living feet still walk these paths, though they take care to hide their presence.

  Of the King's Road and other paths nothing remains, lost to brambles and wild growth. The animal tracks grow more purposeful, less random. They form paths that diverge and converge, offering choices these bones do not need to make.

  The pull remains consistent, drawing me eastward still.

  A broken shrine appears beside one such path, weathered stone wrapped in fresh cloth. Names have been carved beneath offerings of dried flowers. Some villager's attempt to preserve what faith remains in these lands.

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  These fragments recognize the pattern, a way to honor, remember the fallen loved ones.

  The flowers have been replaced recently.

  Their stems show clean cuts rather than withered breaks. Someone tends this shrine despite danger around it.

  Beyond the shrine, signs of concealment multiply. A fallen tree has been deliberately placed to block one trail. Another shows evidence of careful misdirection, false tracks meant to lead followers astray. Branches have been woven to hide the true path from casual observation.

  Yet the pull remains, east and slightly south, where purpose knows it must go. These fragments sense desperation in the attempts at concealment. Whatever these people hide from, they fear it greatly.

  The shield pulses warning at odd intervals, sensing things that watch from shadows but dare not approach. The sword remains sheathed, but my hand never strays far from its hilt. The wyrm-bone plates across my shoulders flex when danger flows nearby, adapting to provide better protection should attack come.

  A bird takes flight suddenly, startled by something these fragments cannot see. Its wings beat, , one side larger than the other. Its call sounds wrong, too many notes, held too long.

  The corruption reaches even here, though its touch seems lighter than in other places.

  By the fifth day, purpose drives these bones faster. The pull strengthens, becoming urgent rather than merely directive.

  Something needs protection, and that need grows more desperate. These reinforced legs move quicker over uneven ground, covering distance ever faster.

  Their is a calling, a summoning I must answer.

  The grass parts beneath my stride as the pull grows even stronger.

  Until at last I'm closer and listen for sounds of life.

  No dogs bark. No livestock calls. No children shout at play. Only wind through empty spaces where life should be.

  My borrowed bones pause at a ridge overlooking a shallow valley. Below, a collection of wooden buildings huddles against the growing dark. Farmland stretches in uneven patches around the settlement, protected by crude wooden walls barely taller than a human stands.

  The crops grow but are untended. Wheat bends with seed-heavy heads, ready for harvest that has not come. Bean plants climb their poles, unpicked pods splitting to spill contents onto untilled soil. Apple trees drop fruit that rots where it falls.

  No movement between the buildings.

  No livestock in the pens. But signs of recent life remain, laundry still hangs from lines, a wagon stands half-loaded with crates. Tools lie abandoned mid-task, as if their wielders stepped away only momentarily.

  A cooking fire smolders in a yard, its embers not yet cold. The wrongness feels stronger now. My sword hand tightens on the weapon's hilt, though the blade remains sheathed.

  Their was a decline in those who remained.

  The pull grows more insistent here, different from the duty that first roused these bones from battlefield soil. This is not the compulsion to fight corruption or seek knowledge. This is older, more fundamental to whatever oaths these fragments once swore.

  Living fear calls to ancient promises. Protection demands answer.

  Tracks mar the mud near the closest building, multiple sets of boots, all heading in. None coming out. More concerning are the other marks - long furrows in the earth as if something massive dragged itself through soil too solid to take clear impressions.

  I scan the settlement for movement, for any sign that explains the abandonment. Dragon-enhanced sockets look for heat beyond what human eyes might see, finding nothing above ground that suggests living presence.

  The settlement's silence speaks of violence delayed, not completed. Whatever drove these people to hide still hunts. The pull that drew me here grows urgent, tugging at each bone and joint.

  A compulsion to find what waits below ground.

  I drop from the ridge down into the valley, these wyrm-bound bones landing with barely a sound despite their weight. The reinforced skeleton absorbs the impact that would shatter living limbs. New plates of ancient ivory flex and settle, adapted now to this form's purpose.

  My cloak settles around these shoulders as I rise, sword now drawn though the shield remains across my back. The settlement's wooden walls offer no real protection against serious threat. Whatever breached them did so with casual force rather than desperate assault.

  Splintered boards and torn posts mark its passing. Not explosion or fire, but physical impact from something too strong for simple barriers to repel. The damage suggests entrance rather than exit - something forced its way in, not out.

  The closest home beckons, its door ajar. Fresh scratches mar the doorframe, deep gouges in solid oak that would dull most blades. Blood stains the threshold, but no bodies lie nearby. The pull grows stronger, drawing me past the broken entrance toward the settlement's heart.

  Inside, furniture has been overturned, possessions scattered in haste rather than malice. A meal sits half-eaten on a table, bread grown stale, stew congealed in wooden bowls. A child's toy lies abandoned beside an empty crib. These people fled without taking even precious items.

  I move between buildings, following tracks that converge from all directions. Boots, both large and small. Claws that left precise punctures in soft earth. And those strange furrows, cutting through soil like ships through water, all leading toward what appears to be a meeting hall at the settlement's center.

  Its double doors have been torn completely free, one hanging from a single hinge, the other splintered on the ground. Inside, overturned benches create a maze of wooden barriers. Signs of struggle mark every surface - slash marks in walls, arrows embedded in support beams, dropped weapons scattered across bloodied floorboards.

  The villagers tried to fight. To defend. But against what?

  These borrowed bones pause, sensing movement below. The floor itself seems to shift, settling in ways wood should not move. My weight causes boards to creak as I approach a trapdoor set into the corner. Its heavy iron handle bears fresh scrapes where desperate hands worked to secure it from below.

  The pull resonates through every enchanted bone now, drawing me downward. Whatever purpose brought these fragments here, it waits beneath the floorboards. My shield slides into place as I grip the handle.

  The trapdoor resists, barred from below. These wyrm-reinforced arms apply pressure, wood groaning in protest. The bar snaps. The door flies open, revealing a ladder descending into darkness, though these dead eyes need no light to see.

  My bones click softly as I climb down. The cellar stretches wider than the building above, rough-hewn walls suggesting multiple basements connected through hastily dug tunnels. Makeshift supports groan under the weight of earth and timber.

  Movement echoes through the tunnels - breathing, whispered prayers, the shuffle of many bodies pressed together. But beneath those human sounds, something else scrapes against stone. Something massive. Something patient.

  I step from the ladder, shield raised before me. My sword glows with faint blue light, casting strange shadows across dirt walls. The tunnels branch in three directions, each showing signs of recent passage.

  The new bone plates across my shoulders scrape stone walls, too wide for spaces meant for human passage. Yet they respond to threat, contracting like scales against my frame. The wyrm's essence remembers how to move through tight spaces, how to stalk prey in darkness. These borrowed bones adapt, learning from the ancient hunter's remains.

  The scratching stops. Something has sensed my presence.

  A child's whimper carries from the leftmost passage. The pull yanks at these bones, drawing me toward that sound with urgency beyond mere compulsion. My steps quicken, purpose driving this frame forward.

  The tunnel opens into a larger chamber, its ceiling supported by wooden beams salvaged from buildings above. Villagers huddle against the far wall - men, women, children pressed together in terrified silence. Their eyes fix on my skeletal form, but greater fear holds them still.

  These borrowed bones remember those who witness their purpose.

  The dead remember duty longest. But memory grows stronger when shared.

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