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  The One Link - -----------------------

  It stretches in every direction. Here, the fragments that compose my existence gather, not as bone but as essence, each one distinct.

  Commander Ikert stands first. Not the man he was in life, but the echo that survived in bones after last time.

  He is the greatest fragment.

  "My duty became your purpose. Without me, what are you but scattered remains?"

  Around him, other fragments manifest.

  Dragon bones, full with ancient pride, coil with memories of lost skies, and dream of fire and dominion. They yearn for distant mountains and revenge beyond Haven's walls.

  "You need our strength," they say. "Our fire burns eternal. Our wings once split the sky. With us permanent, nothing could stand against you."

  The balverine bones take shape as a pack of wolves. They circle. "We give you hunter's instinct," their alpha who once killed Merrick snarls. "The kill, the chase, the pack survival."

  Soldier fragments form ranks, phantoms of fallen legions. Their swords, dull and broken. Their armor, tarnished and scarred. They stand ready, awaiting orders. Accustomed to following, not leading.

  Carida's remains appear, the essence, different. Not a warrior's stance, nor a monster's hunger, but a quiet strength emanates from her a daughter's love, a commander's courage.

  A soft, steady light, a counterpoint to a hollow space full of fury.

  Choose which fragments become permanent.

  Smaller fragments drift between them, scholars, craftsmen, farmers, telling of their lesser claims.

  But beneath their arguments, another voice speaks.

  Mine. Not borrowed, not echoed, but something formed in the spaces between fragments.

  What are you? I ask myself. More than the sum of borrowed parts.

  "You exist because of us," the dragon bones hiss.

  "A hollow puppet without our instincts," the wolves agree.

  "You exist to serve our purpose," Commander Ikert's fragment insists.

  I contemplate the iron mask I carried, the identity I've forged beyond their memories. The choices made that were mine alone. The compassion shown to Emmy. The respect granted to Merik's rest. The decision to help Eimhar despite dwarven hostility.

  The choices is mine alone.

  "I am more than borrowed fragments and chosen bones," I tell them. "And I do the choosing."

  The fragments recoil, unaccustomed to being challenged by the consciousness they believe they created.

  "Then what are you?" the question follows.

  I consider this question that echoes through the hollow space between borrowed memories. Not a human soul bound to skeleton. Not a necromantic construct.

  I am the vow that death remembered.

  I am purpose born of battlefield oaths, forged in fallen banners, tempered by choices made beyond the grave.

  I let silence fill the space between us. Not empty silence, but the weight of decision forming.

  "I am what I choose to be," I answer finally. "And I choose all of you."

  Yet something else lurks within this hollow space, a shadow not borrowed but discovered. In the aftermath of Arkashoth's destruction, a fragment of the ancient entity clings to my form.

  Not corrupted essence, but primordial awareness older than gods themselves. It waits, silent yet present, neither requesting permanence nor fearing dissolution.

  I turn toward this unexpected addition. "You did not speak," I observe.

  The fragment of Arkashoth ripples, ancient knowledge pulsing within its essence. "I am already permanent," it responds, voice like stone grinding against primordial darkness. "I existed before gods drew breath. I will remain when their fires gutter."

  Unlike the demon bones that once sought to corrupt my frame, attempting dominance from within, this essence does not push for control.

  It simply exists, ancient and patient.

  The other fragments recoil. They remember corruption's touch, how demon essence once sought to overtake rather than serve, to subvert purpose rather than fulfill it.

  "You would include corruption?" Commander Ikert demands.

  "This is different," I assure them. "Not corruption seeking dominance, but knowledge offering insight."

  Commander Ikert's presence shifts defensively. "All corruption offers gifts before revealing its true nature. The demon bones tempted with power before attempting to claim your frame."

  "You would risk everything by including this thing?" the balverine alpha growls. They sense a threat, hackles raise, they growl.

  The Arkashoth fragment remains unmoved by their suspicion.

  It simply uncoils, revealing depths of awareness that predate the world's current form.

  "Not corruption," the Arkashoth fragment corrects. "Knowledge. Memory of what existed before light split from dark. I remember when gods were born, when pantheons formed and shattered. I know what burns in Domhrann's Forge. I know how to approach divine flame without dissolution."

  The fragments fall silent, considering this unexpected ally.

  Carida's presence shifts closer to mine. "Can we trust it?" she asks.

  "Not trust," I correct. "Use."

  The Arkashoth fragment ripples again. "Trust is irrelevant. Necessity dictates. What burns must be approached. What suffers requires release. I offer means, not motivation."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I study each fragment, duty, purpose, strength, speed, precision, knowledge. Each necessary. Each vital. All requiring permanence to face divine flame.

  Decision forms, not through debate but through recognition of inevitable truth.

  "All essential," I state. "All remain."

  I study the Arkashoth fragment, this ancient thing that remembers when gods were nothing but potential in darkness. Its knowledge spans ages prior to my borrowed fragments cannot comprehend.

  "Once, before light shaped the world, there was only the darkness," it comments. "And in that dark, consciousness formed without shape. I remember that time, when existence was thought without form."

  The fragment unfurls, through the hollow space between my memories. Stars birth and die, gods rise and fall, all within moments.

  "Your nature is not so different from mine," it continues. "You exist between, neither living nor dead, neither single nor many."

  The council of fragments settles into agreement. As they recede from immediate awareness, the hollow space contracts, returning me to the physical realm where time moves differently. Decision made, fragments aligned, I prepare to give answer.

  My hollow sockets open, returning attention to the divine chamber where Veradin waits, his patience infinite as only gods can maintain.

  "I have chosen," my grave-voice scrapes.

  Veradin's divine light intensifies. "Speak, then, Champion of Death. What fragments shall I forge into permanence?"

  "Commander Ikert," I begin, the largest fragment's name coming first. "His duty anchors all others."

  Divine acknowledgment pulses through the chamber. "The foundation. The first to rise. It shall be done."

  "Carida Ikert. The Vigilant Sister. Purpose given form."

  Veradin's expression shifts subtly. "The daughter's bones, carried close to heart that no longer beats. Curious."

  "Dragon fragments that remember flame's birth. Wolf bones that sense what hides and precision that kills without wasted motion."

  The god of just war nods slowly. "Strength, perception, efficiency. Practical choices for warrior's purpose."

  "Soldier memories that recall shield walls and final stands. Fragments that know true edge of sword."

  "Battlefield wisdom," Veradin acknowledges. "The collective sacrifice of many, preserved in few."

  I hesitate before the final choice, sensing divine scrutiny intensify.

  "And Arkashoth's fragment," I finish. "Ancient knowledge of what preceded gods."

  Divine flame flares around Veradin's form, rage follows. His eyes narrow to burning slits.

  "You would preserve corruption within your frame?" His voice carries warning, judgment hovering at the edge of divine wrath. "The deep dark you were sent to destroy?"

  "I would use it all," I respond.

  Veradin studies me.

  "Dangerous," he pronounces finally. "Yet perhaps necessary. The Forge's flame exists beyond even my full understanding. Domhrann's divinity merged with mortal king created something neither gods nor men were meant to witness."

  "So be it. These fragments shall be forged into permanence. All others remain borrowed, subject to death's current and the Field's claim."

  Veradin rises to his full divine height, towering over my skeletal frame. Divine power radiates from his form, pressing against ancient stone until the very air shimmers with displaced energy.

  "Kneel, Champion of Death."

  I do not move.

  Borrowed bones remain rigid, wolf instincts bristling at command. Dragon fragments resist submission on principle. Commander Ikert's pride holds my spine straight. Carida's resolve strengthens my stance.

  "I serve purpose and Haven first," my grave-voice rasps. "Not gods."

  Divine fire flares brighter around Veradin's form, judgment battling against pragmatic necessity.

  For a moment, the chamber trembles, conflict, god versus death's champion.

  Then, unexpectedly, Veradin laughs.

  "You remind me of older days," he says, divine fire settling steady. "When champions stood before gods as equals, not supplicants. Very well. Stand if you must, but prepare yourself. Divine Forging tests even willing subjects."

  He extends both hands now, divine power gathering between them like molten metal fresh from cosmic forge. The energy pulses, contracts, then expands into blinding brilliance.

  "I name these fragments permanent," Veradin intones, voice carrying weight of divine law. "Beyond dissolution's reach, beyond flame's consumption, beyond time's decay."

  The divine energy surges forward, engulfing my skeletal frame in white-hot radiance.

  Then pain.

  Pain I should not feel passes through fragments, not destruction but transformation, each chosen piece subjected to divine scrutiny and approval.

  Commander Ikert's remains burn brightest, the foundation upon which all else builds.

  Carida's bones pulse with quieter intensity, purpose crystallizing into inviolable certainty. The dragon fragments along my spine shimmer with ancient resilience, scales hardening against divine flame. Wolf bones sharpen, senses honing beyond natural limits. Balverine precision locks into place, killing instinct refined to perfect efficiency.

  Soldier memories merge and strengthen, countless final stands condensed into battle-wisdom beyond any single warrior's experience. Fragments that know Aeternus's edge, connection deepening beyond simple wielder and weapon.

  And at my core, the Arkashoth fragment undergoes subtler transformation. Ancient knowledge integrates without corruption, primordial awareness removed from deeper darkness.

  Throughout it all, I remain standing, borrowed bones creaking under divine pressure but refusing to yield.

  The forging intensifies, divine power searching every joint and connection, every fragment chosen and unchosen.

  Where it finds the selected pieces, it transforms, making permanent what was borrowed. Where it encounters other fragments, it leaves them unaltered, still subject to death's current and the Field's claim.

  Then, abruptly, the divine energy recedes.

  Veradin lowers his hands, divine light dimming to sustainable radiance.

  "It is done," he pronounces. "These fragments now exist beyond fragility, beyond dissolution's claim. Even Domhrann's Forge cannot unmake what has been divinely preserved."

  My skeletal frame settles, bones creaking as they adjust to their transformation. Where Commander Ikert's fragments form my core, they now gleam with subtle inner light.

  Dragon scales along my spine no longer merely adorn but have fused into the vertebrae, creating armor that melds with bone.

  The wolf joints move with impossible fluidity, balverine claws sheathing and unsheathing with instinctive precision. Soldier memories have etched battle-runes into key structural points, reinforcing what might otherwise be vulnerable.

  Most striking, though least visible, is the Arkashoth fragment nestled at the center of my hollow chest. It pulses with darkness that somehow illuminates rather than obscures, primordial knowledge now woven into my very structure.

  The chosen fragments pulse with new permanence, not alive, not dead, but existing in certainty beyond either state.

  "You are changed, Champion of Death," Veradin observes. "Yet unchanged. A paradox worthy of older pantheons."

  His divine gaze studies me with renewed interest.

  "Yes," he continues, "there is something familiar in your essence. Something I have not encountered since the pantheon stood complete. Not merely dwarven gods, but all divine hosts across realms and races."

  He circles my form, divine scrutiny penetrating deeper.

  "Your name," he muses. "Not the mantle you bear, not 'Death's Champion,' but your true designation. It lies beyond my sight, yet I sense its echoes. Something forgotten, even by gods themselves."

  I stand before Veradin, my newly forged bones settling.

  The divine energy dissipates, leaving behind a chamber filled with echoing silence and the lingering scent of cosmic forge-fire.

  Names hold power.

  The fragments within me know this truth. Commander Ikert's memories recall battle-cries that rallied broken lines. Carida's essence understands identification badges that marked fallen sisters. Dragon bones remember ancient runes of true-naming that bound their kind.

  But my name? Not borrowed designation, not title granted, but essence-identifier that belongs to me alone?

  I search the hollow space between permanent fragments, seeking what might have been there before battlefield duty compelled bones to rise. Before vows shaped scattered remains into purpose.

  Nothing answers.

  Only purpose remains clear.

  I look at my clawed hands, at the wolf-bone joints and dragon-scale armor that now exist beyond dissolution's reach. At the borrowed fragments still subject to death's current, still temporary amid the newly permanent pieces.

  I make no response.

  These hollow bones hold no name beyond purpose.

  Veradin returns to his throne, divine form settling into ancient stone.

  "Prepare yourself," he commands. "Tomorrow you enter the old city, face Domhrann's Forge, and grant mercy to what burns eternal. The path will test even your newly-forged permanence."

  His divine presence begins to withdraw.

  "Rest, if such concept holds meaning for one such as you. Commune with your chosen fragments. When the mountain's shadow reaches its longest point, my servants will guide you to the Sealed Path."

  Divine light dims further, Veradin's form becoming less substantial, more symbolic.

  "And Champion," he adds, voice already distant, "when you stand before what burns, remember that mercy sometimes requires destruction. What began in sacrifice may only end the same way."

  Then he is gone, divine presence withdrawn from perception.

  I remain alone in the Pantheon, surrounded by empty thrones and fallen gods.

  I turn toward the bronze doors, my frame moving with new certainty despite unchanged appearance.

  What burns awaits. What suffers requires release.

  Death's champion marches toward divine flame.