A vast chamber sprawls ahead, supported by towering pillars carved in the likeness of dwarven kings and heroes. Their faces crumble; dwarven hands, if any remain, do not tend to such things.

  Craftsmen must tend to war.

  Statues line the walls, half-lost to shadow. The hush is broken by metal striking stone.

  Eimhar stiffens. His mechanical harness surges with startled energy.

  Another stomp echoes, then more, an entire group in unison. The darkness shifts.

  Ancient stone yields to a vast gate chamber. Shifting bones vaguely recall when runners passed through seeking dwarven aid. Now, carved faces of kings stare down from eroded walls.

  I pause at the threshold. Steam hisses from Eimhar's failing harness as he steadies himself against my frame. The bone shard in his chest keeps his breath labored.

  Ahead tower twin doors of blackened steel, each as wide as Haven's main gate. Runic script circles their frame, old magic that still burns as bright as yesterday.

  The doors themselves bear fresh scorches, recent battle-marks scarring their ancient surface.

  Forge-smoke drifts through gaps in the metal, carrying the sharp tang of worked steel and coal fire. The scent stirs memories in my dragon fragment of mountain halls and molten rivers far below. But these are not my memories to claim.

  Whatever lies beyond these doors still maintains its defenses.

  The heat grows stronger. Through seams in the steel, glimpses of orange light pulse like a forge's dying breath.

  Steam vents hiss somewhere in the darkness, marking the borders of Maha Marr.

  They emerge between the pillars - dwarven warriors encased in unbroken exo-frames. Steam hisses from shoulder vents as they move. Their armor bears no scars or patches, only clean lines of power-filled dwarven runes.

  My borrowed bones recognize the craftsmanship. This is no scavenged gear, but a warband wearing war-plate from Maha Marr's working forges.

  Twelve strong.

  The leader steps forward, face hidden behind an ornate helm decorated with ancestor-runes. An ancestral battle-axe hangs at their side, its edge flickering with contained lightning.

  Another dwarf shoulders a rune-carved repeater, its multiple barrels tracking my movements. The rest spread out, cutting off any path to the gates.

  Eimhar's labored breathing grows more ragged. The bone shard in his chest pulses weaker, struggling to maintain its grip on life.

  I adjust my grip to keep him upright, but the motion draws every weapon to bear.

  Lightning arcs from the leader's axe as they charge. I release Eimhar, letting him slump against the wall. The bone shard in his chest holds on.

  Steel screams against bone as I parry the first strike. The leader's helm vents steam, obscuring their next attack. But borrowed memories know dwarven patterns - block high, sweep low, drive them back.

  The leader's axe carries enchantment, but these bones remember how dwarves wield weapons. Memories that belong not to kings or dragon-lords, but nights when dwarf and human shared drinks between battles and in forgotten outposts.

  When soldiers taught each other between battles.

  My parry flows from those memories, not perfect form, but honest steel meeting steel. The kind learned in cramped tunnels where fancy footwork meant nothing.

  I shift stance, adopting the grounded defense a dwarven sergeant once showed a human recruit.

  "Plant yourself like mountain stone," a lesson given as payment for entertainment during guard duty. That recruit's bones now form part of my left arm, the lesson preserved in marrow.

  The leader hesitates, noticing the stance. These are the moves of common soldiers who stood watch together, who defended each other in forgotten halls much like this one.

  My blade doesn't seek killing blows. Each parry speaks of shared duties, of bonds forged in darkness.

  The bones remember not glory or power, but fellowship found in the deep places of the world.

  The leader's next strike falters. Behind their helm, perhaps they too recall when such alliances meant survival, when human and dwarf fought side by side against greater threats.

  The repeater opens up, iron slugs punching through my ribcage. Bones scatter but realign.

  I cannot die, but neither will I kill these defenders.

  "Stop!" Eimhar's voice cracks. "The skeleton saved-"

  A blast of lightning cuts him off. My skull fragments, vision splitting between multiple bone shards.

  I shift and reform, raising sword to parry the next strike.

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  Lightning splits my skull again. I let the fragments scatter, move, shift, reforming behind the leader. I stand up again.

  My sword pommel strikes the helm with enough force to stagger, not enough to wound.

  The repeater opens up again. Dragon-bone plates along my spine absorb the impact while wolf-enhanced reflexes carry me between pillars.

  Metal slugs pepper ancient stone.

  Three warriors charge in exoskeletons. I shift to meet them, Aeternus moving in defensive arcs.

  Each parry speaks of restraint, of borrowed memories when dwarf and human fought as one.

  My bones scatter and reform around their strikes. A hammer shatters my left arm; the limb reconstructs as I weave past, cutting a cord that spurts oil as I move by.

  The leader's attack splits me again. I let the bones separate, reforming behind another warrior. My blade catches a knee joint, shearing through metal and leaving the leg locked in place. The dwarf stumbles, cursing as their exoframe seizes.

  Three more close in. I target connection points and power conduits.

  I disable, I do not destroy.

  I scatter, bones skittering across stone before pulling together. As I reform, Aeternus finds another weak point, an exposed cable bundle. The blade severs it clean.

  Steam erupts as another exoframe loses power.

  They cannot truly harm me. But I remember when dwarf and human fought together, when trust meant more than fear. My attacks target machinery, never flesh.

  Each disabled frame brings them closer to understanding - I am not their enemy.

  One by one, their mighty war-frames lock up or vent precious steam. Their own systems fail as cut lines leak power.

  Still they fight, but with each passing moment more warriors find themselves trapped in dead metal, watching as I systematically dismantle while leaving life intact.

  Hydraulics hiss as exoskeletons crack open. Dwarven warriors climb from their disabled frames, weapons still raised but faces uncertain. Steam leaks from severed lines, creating a haze between us.

  My borrowed bones settle into a less threatening stance. Eimhar's breathing grows more labored, the shard in his chest flickering weaker.

  Grave-magic pulls at my jaw, forcing words through bone. "He lives." The sound emerges like stone grinding on stone.

  The dwarves exchange glances, their grip on weapons tightening. But their eyes drift to Eimhar, slumped against the wall. His mechanical harness sputters, venting steam in erratic bursts.

  I drive Aeternus into the ground point-first. The blade sinks into ancient stone as I slim my form, making myself smaller, less monstrous.

  The gesture speaks what my hollow voice cannot - I yield, I am no threat.

  "Save the dwarf," I point, the hush from Lormenos's domain stirs in my chest. Death's champion, forced to face dwarven wrath.

  They recoil slightly at the hollow resonance. But none lower their weapons.

  Eimhar's chest rises and falls in shallow gasps. The bone shard pulses desperately, fighting to maintain its grip on his fading life.

  Time grows short.

  Two medics emerge from fallen exoskeletons, scavenging a stretcher to place him on. They hesitate, looking to their leader.

  The helmed warrior studies me for a long moment before nodding sharply.

  The medics rush to Eimhar's side, their practiced hands already working to stabilize his failing harness.

  Eimhar struggles, tries to stand on his own.

  "No," he croaks. "The skeleton helped me."

  He waves a trembling gauntlet, but the dwarves see only an abomination. Their gazes flick to the bone shard pulsing at Eimhar's chest, bridging harness and flesh.

  One dwarf spits an insult in their tongue. "Wraith's curse."

  Eimhar exhales, pain etched on his face. "I'd be dead without him," he repeats, but the warband remains unconvinced.

  A harsh command barks from behind the dwarven warband. The group hesitates, exchanging looks. Then one gestures to the left, where an opening leads to another corridor.

  Another dwarf mutters into some runic communicator. Seconds pass in uneasy standoff, Eimhar breathing in ragged puffs.

  Clanging footfalls echo from that corridor. More dwarves appear, similarly armored but bearing medical patches on their pauldrons.

  Perhaps more. They cross the open floor. The warband steps aside enough to let the newcomers approach.

  The dwarven leader keeps eyes on me.

  One tries to yank the bone shard. Eimhar spasms, howling in agony, harness flaring sparks. The dwarves fall back, uncertain how to proceed.

  Cursing under their breath, the medics jab a stimulant patch into Eimhar's arm.

  He sags, half-conscious, rasping dwarven pleas: "Not yet, don't remove the bone."

  A flurry of dwarven words passes among them. The warband's leader demands, "What did you do to him?"

  Once more I speak. "Kept him breathing."

  Revulsion ripples through the dwarves. Several brandish their weapons in renewed hostility.

  Eimhar tries to shout, fails, coughs more blood. The medics refocus, cutting away broken plating and hooking new tubes to the harness's power supply.

  They exchange glances, acknowledging how crucial the shard is, like a failsafe for his heart.

  At last, one medic signals they must bring Eimhar deeper into dwarven territory.

  Dwarven order ensues. The group forms a protective barrier around the scout.

  Their leader faces me:

  "If you truly saved him, step away." He gestures to the far corner, away from the gate. "Stand aside. You come no closer to Maha Marr."

  Bony digits flex on the stone floor. Eimhar's feverish gaze meets mine through the visor.

  I sense fear, gratitude and guilt.

  I step back. This I know through borrowed bone - when to yield, when to show submission.

  Eimhar's eyes meet mine through his visor. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, but the bone shard keeps his heart beating.

  His cracked lips move. No sound emerges, but I recognize the shape of "sorry" formed in silence.

  The weight of a life debt he cannot repay, the burden of leaving an ally behind.

  Guilt.

  The medics secure him to their stretcher. His head lolls against the padding, consciousness fading as stimulants take hold.

  One last glance in my direction before they guide him deeper into Maha Marr.

  Steam and shadows swallow them. The bone shard pulses fainter as distance grows, but the connection holds.

  He lives. That must be enough.

  The warband's remaining dwarves form a wall between me and the open gate.

  I do not move.

  I remain motionless, Aeternus still planted in stone before me. While bones have settled into a less threatening posture, I know my very existence unsettles them.

  These are not enemies to destroy. My borrowed bones remember nights when dwarf and human shared watch duty, when trust meant survival in these dark places.

  Those memories and memories of Haven guide my stillness now.

  A younger warrior's hands shake on his weapon. Fear clouds his eyes, he sees only a monster of bone and shadow. I cannot blame him.

  What I am defies natural law.

  I could scatter my form, slip through gaps in their line, force my way deeper into their sanctuary. The dragon fragments in my spine yearn for such violence. The wolf bones ache to hunt.

  But I am more than borrowed instincts.

  I am the shield that guards Haven's walls. These dwarves defend their own haven, no different from those I protect.

  Their wariness is earned through bitter experience. Their hatred of undeath justified by countless horrors.

  Undeath is a curse.

  So I stand unmoved, letting them see I pose no threat.

  The leader barks orders in their tongue. Two warriors drag their disabled frames aside while others maintain their guard. They expect betrayal. They wait for the monster to show its true nature.

  I give them nothing but continued stillness.

  Let them see that even death's champion can choose restraint.