Greater threats loom beyond Haven's walls. What I destroyed beneath the fortress was nothing, a servant's servant, a lesser darkness.

  True monsters await in the corrupted realms, horrors that turn nature itself against life. Where swamps breathe like beasts and forests hunger for flesh.

  My purpose demands I hunt them all.

  It demands I end the terrors festering in unknown corners. And yet, to guard against threats I cannot name, I must learn from the living.

  They hold maps, rumors, bestiaries scrawled by frightened scouts.

  Where does death find words to request the knowledge it lacks?

  I clear black ichor from my blade. Ancient memory surfaces, not knowledge, but motion.

  My arms move of their own accord, guided by countless warriors who knew this ritual. The sword rises, turns, presents itself across empty palms. Blade reversed, pointed back toward these borrowed bones.

  A warrior's request for parley.

  My skull bows over the offered weapon. It is a gesture.

  Gasps follow from up on Haven's walls. The gesture strikes deeper than fear, it reaches into their own memories, their traditions.

  "It makes the old sign!" A voice shouts out from the battlements. "The dead thing offers warrior's peace!"

  "Impossible," another says. "It's a trick. Undead don't know the ancient ways."

  But they do. These bones remember everything that matters. The ancient ways far more ancient than the oldest living still on the wall.

  They do not know what memories stir within this marrow. Final stands, ancient oaths, battlefield codes carved deeper than flesh could ever hold.

  More figures appear along the walls. The morning sun, the first these people have seen in their lives, catches on spear points and drawn bows. They cluster together, uncertain whether to take hope in new light or retreat away from the skeletal warrior that brought it.

  They see omens of hope amid grim tidings.

  A figure moves through their midst. Her armor bears the marks of command, not fresh steel like the others, but battleworn plate that has seen true combat. Scars cross her face, but her eyes remain sharp, calculating.

  "Lower your weapons," she orders. "If it meant us harm, we'd be dead already." Her gaze fixes on my offered sword. "It drove back the shadows. Now it offers parley in the old way."

  The commander studies each aspect of my pose - the reversed blade, the bowed skull, the precise angle of presentation. Measuring not just the gesture, but the knowledge behind it.

  "There's purpose in you, dead thing. More than simple animation." Her words carry weight, an understanding that pierces deeper than most. She sees beyond the bone and magic that drives me, recognizing something that even I am only beginning to grasp. The truth of what I am - not merely risen, but chosen by ancient oaths.

  I remain motionless, blade still offered. Waiting.

  She makes a decision. "Open the sally port."

  Protests rise from the defenders. She silences them with a raised hand. "Whatever drives those bones could have attacked us at any time. It chooses to stand outside. Chooses to follow the old forms."

  Chains grind. The small door beside the main gate opens just wide enough for a person to pass. The commander descends, each step deliberate.

  Others move to follow.

  "Stay at your posts," she orders. "Keep watch on the field. The shadows may have fled, but darkness wears many faces."

  She approaches alone, one hand resting near her sword hilt. Close enough now to see the blue-white pinpricks of light in my hollow sockets. To read whatever purpose shows in this fleshless face.

  "I am Commander Serrah Ikert," she says. "Warden of Haven's walls." A pause. "You understand me, dead thing?"

  I move my skull just once. Slowly. Precisely.

  "Can you speak?"

  I straighten. My free hand rises to where a throat should be, gestures at the absence, towards a voice that cannot speak.

  "But you can understand me. You reason. You remember the old forms."

  Another nod.

  Her jaw sets. Probing for answers I cannot give. "I've seen mindless undead rove these fields, and I've seen other signs of dark sorcery. But you, you remember ways that only living warriors once knew.

  The commander's eyes narrow. Her hand tightens on her sword hilt, though she makes no move to draw. "Why you? Why do others not return?"

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  My hand spreads wide, encompassing all the bones that form this shape. Not one warrior's remains, but legion. Not one oath, but thousands bound together. Each fragment remembers its purpose, to protect, to stand, to hold the line until the last.

  But to her, I cannot explain.

  My skull tilts. Empty sockets hold her gaze.

  Her fingers drum against her sword hilt. "You understand everything I say, yet cannot answer." Frustration edges into her voice. "Are you bound to silence? Cursed? Or is it simply the lack of..."

  She gestures at my skeletal form.

  I tap my exposed neck bones. Where vocal cords once stretched, only hollow space remains.

  "Then we must find another way to communicate." She studies my still-offered blade, my warrior's stance. "You came here with purpose. You drove back the shadows, purged corruption from our foundations. These weren't random acts."

  My free hand rises, gestures toward Haven's walls, toward the people who shelter behind them.

  "Protection?" Her eyes narrow. "You stand guardian over the living?"

  A single, precise nod.

  "A noble claim." Her tone carries doubt. "We must find another way to communicate."

  I plant my sword in the earth, blade sinking deep into soil. My finger scrapes against black ground, leaving letters carved by bone against earth.

  WHAT MONSTERS LAY BEYOND?

  Commander Ikert stoops to read, brow furrowed. “So you want to know the horrors out there?”

  My response forms with a few stroke.

  MUST HUNT. MUST KILL.

  Commander Ikert’s hand tightens near her sword hilt. "Why? What drives a thing of bones to hunt the dark outside these walls? Do you think yourself a man? One of us?”

  She waits, hand braced near her sword, expecting—perhaps wanting—some human spark behind this skull. The silence between us grows heavy, as if demanding I speak.

  I do not, cannot. Instead, I scrawl.

  PURPOSE. PROTECT. DESTROY.

  She circles the writing, reading and rereading. Concerned, bothered by what she sees.

  "The demons left worse than shadows when they claimed the realms," she says finally. "Things that should not be. Horrors that corrupt all they touch. Each land breeds its own nightmares now. For the things beyond these walls, we do not have names for all."

  My finger presses deeper into black soil.

  SHOW WAY. NEED MAPS.

  Commander Ikert's boots scrape against soil as she paces, studying my markings. "Maps?" She laughs, sharp and hollow. "Our maps end at Haven's walls. Few who venture beyond return to tell what they've seen."

  Her gauntlet traces old scars along her jawline. "We used to send regular patrols. Scouts to mark safe paths, catalog threats. But the darkness only grew stronger with each passing season. Last year alone, we lost three full teams. Only one survivor made it back, babbling about forests that walk and swamps that breathe."

  My finger carves deeper into black earth.

  SCOUTS DIE. WHY STILL TRY?

  "Because we must." Her voice hardens. "Haven needs supplies. Medicine. Materials we can't produce inside these walls. If it wasn't for the undertrade..."

  She stops herself, jaw tightening.

  That word - undertrade - carries weight. A secret not meant for dead ears, even ones that seek to help.

  I do not press. The living guard their desperate measures closely.

  Instead, my finger scrapes new letters. HOW MANY LOST?

  "Too many." Commander Ikert's armor creaks as she shifts. "We've had to limit expeditions. Only our most experienced scouts, and only when absolutely necessary." Her hand clenches. "Too many who don't return."

  I need their knowledge, however fragmentary. Need to know what terrors wait in the corrupted lands. But first, I must prove myself worthy of such trust.

  My finger presses into soil once more.

  SHOW. NEED KNOWLEDGE TO FIGHT. NEED PATHS TO FOLLOW. WHERE?

  "Why should we trust you, dead thing? What binds you to this hunt?"

  I step back from my writing. The Commander puts hand on sword, readying to defend.

  Another gesture rises from borrowed memory, ancient as these bones. I kneel beside my planted sword, empty hands spread.

  A warrior's pledge, older than Haven's walls.

  The commander watches each movement. Studies how borrowed bones align, how purpose guides each gesture. Others talk amongst themselves on the walls behind her, some fearful, some hopeful.

  They see only a skeleton in ancient armor. She sees something else.

  "You offer a warrior's oath," she says finally. "Yet you have no lips to swear, no heart to bind."

  I trace another line.

  PURPOSE BINDS DEEPER THAN OATH.

  Silence stretches across the battlefield. Wind catches torn banners along Haven's walls, the first true breeze many have felt. Commander Ikert's hand finally leaves her sword hilt.

  "Return when the sun sets," she says. "I'll have what knowledge we possess gathered. Maps of the lands our scouts have seen. Reports of the horrors they've encountered." Her eyes narrow. "But know this, dead thing - betray Haven, and these walls still hold enough power to ensure your bones never rise again."

  I stand, retrieve my sword. Her threat means nothing. Only the mission matters.

  "What should we call you?" she says as I turn away. "We need some name for our records."

  I pause.

  My finger scrapes one last time in the dirt.

  NAMES ARE FOR THE LIVING.

  I move away from Haven's walls, toward the field of Broken Banners. Somewhere beyond this graveyard of battle, monsters greater than shadows wait.

  The compulsion pulls. Purpose demands they fall.

  Behind me, Haven's people still stare at sunlight they've never known. They do not understand, what I destroyed beneath their walls was nothing. A lesser servant of greater darkness.

  The true monsters wait in distant realms.

  Let them keep their sun for now. Let them taste hope. These bones have darker work ahead.

  I move away slowly and the Commander does the same. The humans worry.

  I station myself at the edge of the weapon-field. The sun crawls across the sky - the first true day these people have seen in their lives. They watch me from their walls as shadows lengthen.

  Some brave souls venture out to gather supplies, always keeping their distance, always watching.

  No matter. The dead can wait.

  And I wait amidst the field of fallen weapons, power surges through borrowed bones. The lesser darkness I destroyed left something behind, not corruption, but potential. The magic that drives these bones pulses stronger, demanding change.

  Ancient memories surface. Paths stretch before this hollow frame, each promising different means to fulfill purpose.

  The first speaks of endurance. Bones that cannot break, armor fused to frame, an immovable shield between darkness and the living. The Bone Sentinel's path, to stand bulwark against the dark.

  The second path is of the blade. Death's own warrior, blade of ancient battles and of forgotten wars.

  The third offers subtler power. The ability to walk between worlds.

  But these bones know their truth. What use is an unbreaking shield when darkness breeds faster than it dies? Why sense threats from afar when steel can end them now?

  Let others fear death. These bones are death's own champion.

  Power surges through hollow frame. Ancient knowledge floods these bones. Not memories, but something deeper - ritual and purpose older than corruption itself.

  Golden script crawls across my blade. Runes in a language no living tongue remembers. They speak a name that makes borrowed bones resonate.

  A Grave Knight who wields Aeternus.

  The blade remembers. It has carried such blessing before, in hands long turned to dust.

  I am death's own blade.