I remain.

  A thing of stillness amid the steady of dwarven war-machines, amid the hush of the sealed roads. I do not advance. Nor do I retreat. I simply offer a slight inclination of bone, a gesture of parlay.

  I am not their enemy. Yet, I am unwelcome.

  Their warband watches, weapons primed. Steam vents from their exo-frames. Power hums within their armor. They wait for an excuse, one twitch to justify their fear.

  I track subtle shifts among the dwarven ranks.

  Their captain barks orders in their guttural tongue, gesturing at disabled exo-frames scattered across the chamber floor.

  Steam still leaks from cuts where Aeternus severed hydraulic lines.

  A younger dwarf points at his comrade's armor, where my blade cut through metal but left flesh untouched. The wounded pride in their faces gives way to grudging assessment.

  "The thing could have killed us," a gruff voice carries through the cavern. "Look at Thorgen's plate, cut clean through, right above the neck. Not even a scratch on him."

  Metal creaks as warriors lower their weapons slightly.

  The captain studies the damage, disabled machines, intact bodies.

  "Aye," another adds. "My rig's dead weight now, but I'm breathing. Whatever it is, it knows steel from skin."

  Engineers crouch beside fallen comrades, examining severed tubes and sheared gears.

  I remain motionless

  Let them understand. I am not here for blood.

  Eimhar is beyond the gate, doors locked tight. The ember of my borrowed power clings to his heart, stubborn against death's pull. He is their kin, but the fragment of me within him is a hated thing.

  They see a monster.

  A necromancer’s work. Abomination.

  But they do not strike.

  This is not a battlefield. This is something else.

  The dwarven officer, helm scratched, studies me. Then, with deliberation, he turns. The formation remains locked, but a murmur runs through their ranks, low, uncertain.

  Once more I bend bones in upwards gesture

  One of the older dwarves, war-plate dented, spits. His voice rumbles.

  “The Writ of Reckoning.”

  A law. I do not know, I do not move. I listen.

  Another dwarf, younger, shifts his grip on his war-hammer.

  “We invoke no guest-right for a cursed thing.”

  The older one shakes his head.

  “This is not guest-right. It is debt. We do not forget.”

  The warband leader tenses. His fingers tighten on his axe, but he does not refute them.

  The Writ of Reckoning. Not hospitality, but debt. I have seen many things written in stone. Nothing is carved deeper than dwarven debts.

  Eimhar was theirs. He should have died. He did not. My bones held him, kept him breathing, forced his heart to beat when his body failed. No magic of theirs could have done the same.

  They may hate it. Call it cursed.

  But it is their honor that calls for it. That is their hesitation.

  The officer snarls. He does not want to honor this, cannot deny it. Not when the elders have spoken. He gestures sharply. One warrior nods before vanishing down a side tunnel.

  I do not ask where.

  I already know.

  They have called a priest.

  The wait is brief.

  The tunnels amplify his approach—deliberate steps, steel scraping stone, a divine weight pressing down.

  He appears. Air shifts.

  A priest of Veradin. Not a warrior. A judge.

  The Hammer of the Spirit, dwarves call him.

  A god of divine will, of sanctification, of purging that which does not belong. Where Domhrann’s forge burns with creation, Veradin’s fire is destruction—purging, purifying, breaking apart the unworthy.

  His armor is ceremonial, thick fabric woven with steel threads. Runes blaze, flame and shattered chains.

  He carries a staff topped with an anvil and a hammerhead, wreathed in light.

  Not for metal.

  For purging.

  For breaking curses.

  To burn away unclean things.

  He sees me.

  Eyes narrow. No words.

  No questions.

  He raises his staff.

  Runes ignite along the priest's staff, ancient power surging through sacred metal. The light pulses with divine weight.

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

  The dwarven warriors brace behind their judge. They await holy fire to burn away what they see as corruption at their gates.

  I stand firm.

  Let judgment come.

  His staff strikes stone. Thunder rolls through the chamber.

  Divine power explodes outward, a wave of sacred might washing over hollow bones.

  It should scour me from existence, as sunlight burns lesser undead to ash.

  But the wave passes harmlessly.

  I feel its scrutiny, its probing force, yet it finds nothing to purify.

  I remain, untouched by holy fire.

  The priest's eyes narrow beneath his hood.

  Again he lifts the staff, invoking Veradin's name.

  Dwarven prayers grow louder, commanding divine wrath to strike down the unclean.

  A second surge crashes over me, more powerful than the first.

  Still, I stand unmoved.

  Silence fills the chamber. The warriors shift uneasily. Their officer's fists clench white-knuckled. Young soldiers exchange bewildered glances.

  The priest steps closer, divine flames dimming on his staff. His gaze travels across my frame, to Aeternus, then looks behind through gate where bone piece sustains Eimhar.

  When he speaks, his voice carries doubt rather than rage. "This is no necromancer's work."

  Murmurs ripple through the dwarven ranks.

  "What are you saying, priest?" The officer's voice strains.

  Veradin's hammer-bearer grips his staff tighter, eyes narrowed. "There is no corruption. No taint. No rot. This creature is not bound by undeath."

  The dwarves flinch.

  The officer's hands squeeze into fists.

  I do not believe the priest's words.

  These bones know what they are - fragments stolen from battlefields, held together by ancient vows and final breaths. I am no divine creation. No holy purpose flows through borrowed marrow.

  The priest circles me, staff lowered.

  His certainty troubles me more than his earlier judgment. I have seen too many horrors wearing false faces. I know what lurks beneath corrupted faith. I remember Loremenos and his disgrace.

  "Look closer," I say in death rattle. "Borrowed pieces of war-dead."

  The dwarven warriors lean forward.

  The priest shakes his head. "The dead do not speak their own denials. Nor do they spare lives in battle."

  He gestures to the disabled exo-frames, their pilots unharmed. "This is something else."

  Wrong. I am exactly what I appear to be, a thing of borrowed bones, bound by duty. Nothing more. These dwarves see too much meaning in what is simply necessity. I did not kill because it served no purpose. Their deaths would not have helped Haven.

  I repeat again, forcing out the words. "Undead. Nothing more." : "I am undead. Nothing more."

  The priest's eyes narrow.

  I have no answer. These bones remember only fragments, battlefield oaths, fallen banners, Haven's walls. Divine purpose belongs to gods, not to things cobbled together from war-graves.

  Yet something in my marrow stirs at his words.

  Memories that are not mine. I push them down. I am what I am, bone and borrowed time.

  The priest watches my stillness, reading meaning in silence that is simply uncertainty.

  I do not believe him.

  I cannot.

  These bones know their place.

  The priest's form blurs, divine light consuming his shape. Where a mortal stood, raw power manifests, stepping through his servant's flesh like a door.

  Veradin. Last god of the dwarves.

  My bones creak under the god's presence.

  Each fragment yearns to kneel, to bow before such overwhelming divinity. But I remain standing. I am what I am.

  The chamber fills with burning radiance. The dwarven warriors drop to their knees, faces pressed to stone.

  Veradin towers above us all, a figure of pure light and judgment. His true form defies mortal sight, column of sacred flame shaped vaguely like a dwarf, vast, where his eyes should be, twin forges burn.

  "You deny what you are," his voice goes through stone and bone alike. "Yet you cannot hide your nature from divine sight."

  I want to argue, to insist again that I am merely borrowed pieces held together by battlefield oaths.

  Something deeper than borrowed memory stirs within these fragments.

  I feel Veradin's divine scrutiny pierce through borrowed bone and ancient vows. His presence weighs upon each fragment, testing, searching.

  "There is Juridan's mark upon you," his voice resonates through stone. "And echoes of Lormenos, now freed from corruption."

  The god's burning gaze narrows.

  "Yet that is not what I sense."

  Divine fire dims. Uncertainty crosses his radiant form.

  "There is something else. Something I cannot name." His voice holds ancient confusion. "A power that should not be. Forgotten or struck from the annals of gods themselves."

  The dwarven warriors remain prostrate as their deity's certainty wavers.

  "What are you, creature of bone? What walks in your marrow that even I cannot recognize?"

  I have no answer. These fragments know only duty, only Haven's walls and fallen banners. Whatever Veradin senses lies deeper than borrowed memories.

  His light flickers, troubled.

  I lift Aeternus in formal salute, bones creaking as I assume the ancient stance of parley. These fragments remember, countless soldiers who lived and died by codes of honor.

  "Parley," my death-rattle voice scrapes against stone. "I serve Haven's walls. Nothing more."

  The god's burning gaze dims slightly.

  His divine presence pulls back, allowing space for formal exchange.

  I lower Aeternus slowly, point down, non-threatening. Each movement deliberate, measured. The dwarven warriors remain kneeling, but their commander rises cautiously.

  "Haven. Aid. Trade. Alliance. Food," my hollow voice continue.

  The borrowed bones remember proper forms. How to stand. When to speak. The weight of ceremony that largest fragment carried longest.

  Veradin's light pulses once.

  "You invoke soldiers' rights. Yet claim to be mere bones."

  I do not waver. "I am death's champion. I serve purpose."

  My skull tilts upward, meeting divine flames. "Duty. Honor. Law."

  The dwarven commander steps forward, war-axe lowered but ready. His beard bristles with tension, but he observes proper form. Centuries of tradition demand it.

  "Speak your terms, death's champion," he growls.

  I raise my free hand, palm outward. Ancient gesture. Peaceful intent.

  "Haven stands alone. Children hunger. Walls crack. They need allies." My voice grates against stone. "I offer service. Protection. In exchange for goods, safe passage, dwarven roads to open."

  The old laws still hold. Even here, deep beneath mountain roots, before gods and kings. Parley must be honored. Terms must be heard.

  I am what I am. Death's champion. Guardian of Haven.

  The dwarven commander's axe lowers further. His weathered face tightens with grim purpose.

  "There is a price," he says. "The deeper dark spreads beneath Maha Marr. Ancient forges lie silent. He burns in the foundry depths."

  My bones creak as memories surface - warnings carved in stone, runes spelling danger. The sealed passage I bypassed to reach this chamber.

  "The invasion came from below," another dwarf adds, voice hollow. "When King Brannug merged with Domhrann, it was to save us. But something followed. Something old."

  Veradin's divine light dims, acknowledging truth in their words.

  "The foundry must be cleansed," the god's voice resonates. "Before trade routes open. Before aid flows. The deeper dark must be purged."

  I feel it now - corruption seeping through stone, ancient and patient. Different from demon taint or balverine hunger. This darkness has weight, presence, divine purpose twisted wrong.

  The commander steps closer. "You seek alliance? Prove worth. Cleanse the deeper dark. Enter the foundry. Face what churns below and then what burns.. "

  My borrowed bones remember similar tasks.

  Similar prices paid in blood and blade. Haven needs this alliance. These dwarven roads could mean survival.

  I incline my skull.

  The priest's staff strikes stone.

  I incline my skull once more, accepting their terms. Ancient memories of dragons stir, monsters that lurk in depths.

  "The deeper dark first," my hollow voice confirms. "Then what burns."

  The dwarven commander nods grimly. "The invasion rose from below. Before Domhrann's fire can be cleansed, the source must be destroyed."

  "Show me the way." My death-rattle speech makes several warriors flinch.

  An elderly dwarf steps forward, beard braided with steel rings. "The old mining shaft. Past the sealed gates where warnings speak of burning." He points down a darkened tunnel. "Follow it until you reach the great crack. That's where they came through first."

  Veradin's divine presence dims slightly. "What crawls below must be destroyed."

  I secure Aeternus across my back.

  "Eimhar?" I rasp.

  The priest answers. "We will tend him until your return." His eyes narrow.

  I turn toward the indicated tunnel. The darkness ahead feels different - heavier, more absolute. Not demon-taint or balverine hunger. Something older.

  The commander calls out one final time. "Death's Champion. Should you succeed, you will have your alliance. Haven's children will not starve."

  My bones remember similar promises.

  I move forward into the waiting dark.