I stand alone in the chamber of absent gods, my newly forged bones settling into permanence.

  The emptiness of the Pantheon mirrors the hollow spaces between my fragments, places where perhaps a name once resided before battlefield vows raised these bones to serve..

  My wolf-clawed fingers trace the carved arm of Veradin's throne, feeling the worn stone. Twelve thrones stand in solemn circle, eleven gathering dust while one alone remains occupied.

  What gods have fallen?

  What pantheon diminished to this single watchman?

  The borrowed fragments within me shift and settle into their new certainty. Dragon, wolf and borrowed parts, and buried deepest, the fragment of Arkashoth pulses with knowledge older than stone, older than bone, older than gods themselves.

  I move through the chamber. Permanent now, these chosen pieces, yet purpose remains unchanged. I am still Death's Champion, still Haven's shield against the dark, but something more stirs in these fused fragments.

  A champion built of borrowed pieces made permanent.

  The bronze doors stand before me, threshold between divine sanctuary and mortal struggle. Beyond them, somewhere in tomorrow's shadow, waits Domhrann's Forge and a king-god that burns eternal.

  The recessional of dead gods hangs heavy in this chamber. Their absence forms a weight more substantial than their presence might have been.

  In each empty throne, a lesson, what fades when forgotten, what perishes when purpose ends.

  The bronze doors dissolve without sound. No clang of metal, no grinding of ancient hinges, simply a barrier reforming itself, leaving me standing in Maha Marr's upper tier.

  My newly-forged bones settle into position. The divine transformation leaves no visible mark, yet my frame moves with certainty beyond borrowed fragments. Dragon vertebrae shift with fluid precision. Wolf-bone joints adjust with instinctive grace. Commander Ikert's fragments, now permanent at my core, provide unwavering structure.

  The dwarven high priest waits at the foot of the Pantheon's steps, his ceremonial staff planted firmly on polished stone. His eyes widen slightly as I descend, perhaps sensing the change wrought by his god's intervention.

  "It is done," he states, voice carrying quiet reverence.

  I incline my skull in acknowledgment. Words seem unnecessary.

  "Come," he continues, turning toward a pathway that winds around the Pantheon's vast circumference. "You require guidance to reach the old city."

  We traverse Maha Marr's upper tier, passing dwellings carved from living rock. Elaborate metalwork adorns doorways and windows, no mere decoration, but function disguised as artistry. Steam vents regulate temperature. Water pipes fed by mountain streams provide sustenance. Brass gears turn constantly, powering unseen mechanisms throughout the city.

  Dwarven citizens still withdraw at my approach, but their fear carries different quality now. They sense the divine touch upon my frame, the permanence granted by Veradin's forge-fire.

  I move through Maha Marr's streets, following paths that wind downward through the mountain's heart. The upper tiers with their nobles and craftmasters give way to military quarters, where warriors train in steam-powered frames.

  They pause mid-drill, weapons lowering as I pass. Their commanders bark orders, forcing attention back to training, but eyes still track my movement from behind visors. These are Maha Marr's defenders, yet they part before me like water around stone.

  Past the barracks, the streets narrow. Steam pipes run along walls, carrying heat from deep forges to upper levels. The pipes groan and clang, a constant percussion accompanying my descent.

  "They sense the change," the priest explains. "Though they cannot name it."

  The path narrows as we descend to middle tiers where craftsmen ply their trades. Forge-fires blaze through open workshops, the heat washing over my bones without discomfort.

  Smiths pause mid-swing as we pass. Apprentices whisper behind raised hands. Master craftsmen make subtle warding gestures, protection against an entity they recognize as both foreign and necessary.

  We continue downward, leaving the bustle of living districts behind. The structures here are older, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of passage. The smell of forge-fire fades, replaced by the musty scent of abandoned tunnels.

  "The old city begins here," the priest says. "Where our ancestors first carved halls beneath the mountain."

  The passage opens to a chamber housing massive gears, each taller than three dwarves. Once, they would have powered lifts between city levels. Now they stand motionless, their teeth worn from centuries of use, then abandonment.

  "Before Brannug's sacrifice, these connected Maha Marr to the deeper realms," the priest explains, passing his hand reverently over ancient engravings. "To the Foundry, the Dwarven Citadel, and beyond."

  I study the ancient machinery, dragon memories recognizing craftsmanship that predates the earliest human kingdoms. The precision engineering speaks of an age when dwarven realm extended beneath multiple mountain ranges.

  "The Sealed Path lies ahead," the priest continues, gesturing toward a tunnel barely visible behind the largest gear. "It will take you to the edge of Domhrann's influence. Beyond that point, even I cannot venture."

  The priest raises his staff, runes igniting along its length. "The Sealed Path requires authorization to open. The mechanisms recognize only those permitted by Veradin himself."

  He strikes the staff against stone once, twice, three times. Each impact resonates deeper than mere physical contact should allow, vibrations carrying through rock itself.

  The massive gear shudders, ancient mechanisms grinding to life after years of silence. Steam hisses from hidden vents as the gear begins to turn, revealing the tunnel entrance behind it.

  "The path is opened," the priest intones formally. "May you walk with purpose."

  I step toward the revealed passage, Aeternus settling against my spine. The priest remains behind, his staff's illumination casting long shadows across the chamber floor.

  Then a voice cuts through the gear's mechanical grinding.

  "Wait!"

  The sound comes from behind us, strained yet determined. Boots strike stone in rapid succession, accompanied by the distinctive hiss of an exo-harness under stress.

  I turn, bone plates shifting smoothly as I face the approaching figure.

  Eimhar Gearabhain stumbles into the chamber, his mechanical frame whirring with obvious strain. The harness appears newly repaired, dwarven craftsmanship evident in fresh welds and polished joints. Steam vents cleanly from pauldrons rather than leaking through cracks.

  But most noticeable is the bone shard still embedded in his chest, my fragment, keeping his heart beating when dwarven medicine alone could not save him.

  "By Domhrann's hammer," the priest exclaims. "Scout Gearabhain, you should be resting! The healers,"

  "The healers can go stuff themselves with forge coal," Eimhar interrupts, tapping the bone shard with a mechanical finger. "They tried removing it. Nearly killed me three times before accepting it's part of me now."

  His gaze shifts to me, expression unreadable behind his visor. "Skeleton," he acknowledges, the name carrying neither warmth nor hostility. "Seems you've made quite the impression while I've been healing."

  The bone shard in his chest pulses in harmony with my presence. Though distance had weakened our connection during my time in Maha Marr, proximity strengthens it once more. I can sense his heart's rhythm, steady but strained, the necrotic energy maintaining function where dwarven medicine fails.

  "They say you're going to the Foundry," Eimhar continues, mechanical joints creaking as he straightens. "To face what burns."

  I incline my skull slightly. Confirmation seems unnecessary, but courtesy dictates acknowledgment.

  "Not alone," he states firmly. "I'm coming with you."

  The priest steps forward, alarm evident in his stance. "Impossible! Your condition,"

  "My condition is exactly why I must go," Eimhar counters, slapping his chest plate with a hollow clang. "The bone keeping me alive belongs to this Knight. If he falls in Domhrann's Forge, what happens to me?" He taps the shard again. "Our fates are linked now, whether we like it or not."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The logic, while imperfect, carries enough truth to silence immediate objections. The priest's expression shifts from alarm to resignation, recognizing an argument he cannot win.

  I study Eimhar more carefully. The exo-harness shows significant improvements over its previous state. Fresh runes glow along strategic points, enhancing its function while accommodating the bone shard's presence. His hammer gauntlets have been reforged, their surfaces etched with protective sigils.

  The mechanical leg moves with greater fluidity than before, suggesting master engineers have rebuilt the joint system entirely. Dwarven medicine has clearly done everything possible to restore him, except remove my necrotic influence.

  I point to the bone shard still embedded in his chest, acknowledgment of our connection.

  Eimhar's beard shifts as he grimaces behind his visor. "Aye. The healers tried. Felt like they were tearing my lung out through my ribs." His mechanical hand rises to his chest. "Not just physical. The head surgeon called it a 'necrotic anchor.' Said it binds my life force in ways their medicine can't understand."

  The priest's staff taps stone in agitation. "All the more reason you should remain in Maha Marr, under proper care."

  "Under observation, you mean," Eimhar retorts with a harsh laugh. "Half the priests want me quarantined. The other half want to study me like some experiment gone wrong. Meanwhile, the only one who actually understands what's keeping me breathing is about to walk into Domhrann's Forge."

  He straightens, exo-harness whirring as it compensates for the sudden movement. "Besides, I know the old city better than most. Mapped half those tunnels myself before," He gestures vaguely toward his mechanized body. "Before this happened."

  I consider his words. The fragment within his chest maintains its steady pulse, keeping his heart beating despite dwarven medicine's limitations. If I fall in Domhrann's Forge, the necrotic energy sustaining him would indeed fail. His fate is tied to mine, however unwillingly.

  Moreover, his knowledge of the old city could prove valuable. Divine forging has prepared my frame for what burns eternal, but navigation remains a practical concern.

  "The choice is yours," I state finally, my grave-voice scraping against stone.

  Eimhar nods, relief evident in his posture. "Then it's settled." He turns to the priest, tone softening slightly. "Tell the Council where I've gone. And tell the Surgeonmaster she was right about the bone shard. It's not something to be removed, it's something to be understood."

  The priest sighs, clearly torn between protocol and practicality. "I will inform them," he concedes, formal tone wavering for the first time. "But you venture beyond Veradin's immediate protection, Scout Gearabhain. The old city is a dangerous place."

  "I stopped following rules about surviving when this thing kept me alive," Eimhar replies, tapping the bone shard once more. He steps toward the revealed passage, exo-harness hissing with each movement. "Shall we, Knight? Domhrann's Forge awaits."

  I move alongside him, adjusting my pace to match his mechanical stride. Together, we enter the Sealed Path, leaving the priest and Maha Marr behind.

  The passage narrows immediately, ancient stonework giving way to raw tunnel. The walls here bear no decorative carvings, no functional runes, only the marks of primitive tools from Maha Marr's earliest days. This path predates dwarven artistry, carved when necessity outweighed aesthetics.

  Eimhar's exo-harness illuminates our path, shoulder lamps casting harsh light against uneven stone. The mechanisms whir constantly, compensating for the tunnel's declining slope.

  "Last time I came this way," he says, breaking the silence, "I had twenty scouts with me. Mapping expedition when dwarves still lived in the Citadel and Maha Marr was just an outpost." His mechanical hand traces old markings on the wall. "Found things down here that shouldn't exist. Things older than dwarf-kind."

  The bone shard in his chest pulses slightly faster, responding to memory's tension. I sense echoes of fear, not for what he found, but for what found him.

  "Most of these tunnels collapsed after He Burns," Eimhar continues, his voice echoing strangely against the stone. "This one's special, reinforced with good metals from before even my grandfather's time."

  I observe the walls more carefully. Beneath layers of dust and time, faint runes catch the light from Eimhar's harness. These markings speak of protection, of boundaries maintained between realms that should remain separate.

  The bone fragment in Eimhar's chest beats in rhythm with my own frame. His heart races whenever we pass certain markings on the walls, his body remembering dangers his mind wishes to forget.

  "Three years ago," he says, tapping his mechanical leg against the stone floor, "Brannug did what none thought possible. Our king merged with Domhrann, god of the forge."

  The tunnel widens into a small chamber where several paths branch outward. Ancient signs mark each route, their meanings worn away by centuries of darkness.

  Eimhar sighs, steam venting from his shoulder joints. "The Surgeonmaster said your bone fragment follows rules medicine can't understand. I should have died in those tunnels weeks ago, yet here I stand."

  He turns to face me directly. "Whatever you are, you're more than bones. I've seen enough cursed things in these depths to recognize the difference."

  I nod, acknowledging his assessment. The wolf-bones in my arms shift slightly, adapting to the tight confines of this underground realm. Dragon fragments along my spine sense the increasing heat as we descend deeper toward what burns eternal.

  Eimhar points to the leftmost tunnel. "That way leads to Domhrann's Forge. Once the heart of dwarven craft, now," He trails off, mechanical hand reaching unconsciously toward the bone fragment in his chest.

  "Now something else entirely," he finishes.

  We choose the leftmost path, descending deeper into darkness. The tunnel narrows further, forcing us to advance in single file at times, walls pressing close around bone and metal.

  "They wanted to execute me, you know," Eimhar says suddenly, voice carrying in the narrow passage. "For bringing you to our gates. For bearing your curse within my chest." His mechanical arm gestures vaguely. "Wanted my head over it."

  The tunnel widens into a broader thoroughfare, ancient stonework giving way to newer construction. Support beams of polished steel replace crumbling pillars. Runic lights flicker along the ceiling, casting our shadows in sharp relief against the walls.

  "What changed their minds?" My death-rattle voice emerges without conscious thought.

  Eimhar glances back, surprise briefly crossing his features. Perhaps he didn't expect conversation from death's champion.

  "Veradin's priests intervened," he answers finally. "That was enough."

  We pass through a security checkpoint long abandoned. Dwarven war-machines lie collapsed against walls, their steam cores cold and silent. Mechanical sentries stand frozen in eternal vigilance, weapons half-raised against threats that claimed them years ago.

  Then the tunnel opens to devastation.

  "The Dwarven Citadel begins here," Eimhar explains, his pace slowing. "Was our greatest stronghold once. Ten thousand forges burning day and night. Workshops that produced wonders no surface kingdom could imagine."

  I step into a vast chamber where incomprehensible ruin stretches before us. Scorched stone bears witness to divine flame. Blackened husks of dwarven defenders line the walls, their positions telling stories of final stands. Some still clutch weapons, metal fused to bone by unnatural heat. Others appear mid-flight, caught eternally running from what consumed them.

  Between charred corpses, darker horrors lie, twisted dwarven forms with elongated limbs and too many joints. Their blackened flesh bears patterns unlike fire damage, a corruption that spread before flame cleansed it.

  Eimhar's mechanical leg grinds as he halts. "Welcome to the Citadel, heart of what we lost."

  I stand beside him, borrowed memories stirring at the sight. The main thoroughfare still gleams with brass paving stones, somehow untouched amid devastation. Buildings rise around us, half-melted towers of stone and metal, their cores warped by heat beyond forge-capacity. Overhead, massive chains hang from the cavern ceiling, once supporting great platforms, now dangling empty.

  "They came from below," Eimhar mutters, pointing to a massive breach in the chamber's far wall. "The corruption. Not demons or undead or anything we'd fought before."

  Between piles of twisted dead, clear pathways cut through, perfect circles where stone shows no scorch marks, no debris. These clean paths form a deliberate pattern through devastation, following a logic beyond conventional strategy.

  "And then He Burns walked here," Eimhar continues, indicating these clean paths. "Brannug-Domhrann. Seeking out each infection, burning it away with divine flame. Saved what remained of our people, and then cast himself into the forge."

  I survey the scorched remains of the Dwarven Citadel. There's a resonance deep within my assembled frame, a recognition that precedes conscious thought.

  The Arkashoth fragment stirs.

  Unlike the other fragments, Carida's remains, the dragon bones, the wolf, this piece moves with true awareness. It recognizes this place. The fragment embedded within my marrow pulses with recognition, memory flooding through my consciousness: towering watchers moving through these very halls, blank eyes searching for the next to consume, bone-tipped fingers marking walls with distinctive scratches.

  I examine the dead more carefully. The corrupted dwarves with too many joints, their flesh bearing patterns unlike fire damage, these were not demon-touched. They were claimed by Arkashoth, their bodies partially absorbed into the gravemind's consciousness before Brannug's divine flame interrupted the process.

  The fragment within notices each blackened husk we pass. These were extensions of the entity I destroyed. Yet I sense no grief, no rage from the fragment, only recognition, observation, understanding.

  Eimhar notices my attention on the twisted corpses. "Not like anything we'd fought before," he says. "Not demons or undead. Something older, from below. I heard you killed it."

  I nod, unable to explain that part of the very entity that caused this destruction now resides within me, forged permanently into my frame. The fragment observes through my hollow sockets, experiences through my borrowed bones, a passenger without control, yet fully conscious.

  It remembers these halls before corruption. It remembers when watchers first discovered the dwarven miners breaching lower caverns. It remembers the first mind consumed, then the next, then hundreds more. The fragment carries only parts of knowledge gained from countless dwarves.

  It offers these memories freely.

  I follow Eimhar deeper into devastation, past blackened husks of dwarven defenders and the twisted remains of those partially consumed. The Arkashoth fragment feeds knowledge directly into my consciousness. It remembers everything: the first breach, the first consumed mind, the spreading hunger that claimed these halls before divine flame purged it.

  "The forge chamber is ahead," Eimhar says, gesturing toward massive doors half-melted by unnatural heat.

  As we approach, the temperature rises dramatically. My bone frame adapts, dragon fragments along my spine expanding slightly to distribute the growing heat. Wolf-bone claws extend from my fingers, scraping against stone with each step.

  Eimhar's exo-harness vents steam continuously now, cooling mechanisms working beyond capacity. "Not sure how close we can get," he admits, mechanical joints creaking as he adjusts regulators. "Last expedition couldn't even approach the outer doors."

  The bone shard in his chest pulses faster, responding to proximity and danger alike.

  We reach the outer chamber. Molten brass pools in depressions where decorative inlays once adorned the floor. The walls shine with half-melted runes, their magic still active despite the devastation. Ahead, the massive forge doors stand partially open, a blinding light spilling through the gap.

  "Domhrann's Forge," Eimhar mutters, voice tight. Where He Burns."

  I step forward, prepared by divine forging for what awaits. The wolf-bones in my arms bristle against the heat, while dragon fragments along my spine resonate with familiar fire.

  What gives me pause is the Arkashoth fragment. It stirs with unexpected intensity, pressing against consciousness with urgent memory. It recognizes something beyond the doors, something neither dwarven nor divine.

  Suddenly, the ground beneath us trembles. The doors to Domhrann's Forge swing open fully, unleashing a wave of divine heat that even my reinforced frame struggles to withstand.

  Eimhar collapses behind me, exo-harness failing as systems overload. The bone shard in his chest flares, keeping his heart beating despite heat.

  Through blinding light, a massive silhouette appears in the doorway. Neither dwarf nor god, but something impossible, a fusion that should not exist outside legend.

  Brannug-Domhrann steps forth, king and deity merged into one burning entity. Divine flame wraps around dwarven form, melting and reforging constantly. Where eyes should be, white-hot embers glow with purpose beyond mortal comprehension.

  The Forge awaits.