The captain with the skull wound leads the Hallowed Legion despite the gaping hole that ended his mortal service.

  Bone fingers snap orders without sound, yet his intent is made clear.

  I watch as scattered remains configure into proper battle formation, discipline born from memory rather than muscle.

  Three hundred seventeen warriors, each bearing marks of their final stand, arrange themselves by squad and function.

  Archers with quivers of rusted arrows stand behind shield-bearers whose rib cages still show impact fractures.

  Unlike my partially restored form, they remain only bone, yellowed, white, and soil-darkened ivory underneath corroded armor plates.

  A standard bearer rises, spine curved from what must have been a crushing blow, yet he stands straight now, purpose overcoming permanent damage.

  His skeletal fingers grasp a pole where only tatters of cloth remain, yet all eyes turn to it as though seeing a full banner.

  Scouts with lighter armor plates assemble at the flanks.

  Some warriors bear weapons fused to their hand bones, metal merged with bone.

  Others reclaim blades from wall mountings and floor debris.

  The third rank forms of heavier infantry, their armor more substantial, breastplates bearing insignias I recognize from ancient memories.

  They arrange themselves, left, right, then left again, though no footfalls echo against stone. Each takes position as soldiers once more.

  I flex my skeletal hand, watching tissue stretch between fingers.

  Not flesh, not quite. Something between, a divine memory of what once was.

  My voice, when it comes, holds depth. "Prepare to march."

  The sound carries weight beyond mere words.

  The Legion responds instantly, bone grinding against bone as they shift to attention.

  I approach the captain with the skull wound.

  "Captain," I say, the title settling between us like an old pact renewed.

  He salutes, arm crossing chest.

  His empty eye sockets somehow convey recognition.

  I run fingers along my jaw, feeling the strange new phantom tissue. Not quite skin, more like the suggestion of form, an outline around death's framework.

  "The dwarves have opened trade with Haven," I tell him. "Forty-two soldiers will secure that route."

  The captain understands, and doesn't hesitate.

  He turns, selecting units.

  Archers with intact bow arms. Shield bearers whose defensive stances remain.

  Veterans whose bones show marks of previous campaigns.

  I watch as he divides them without my instruction, forming them into patrol rotations, two thirds on duty, one third in reserve.

  The remaining forces arrange themselves into tactical units. Heavy infantry forms the core. Skirmishers and scouts establish the vanguard. Specialists—those with unique weapons or abilities—position themselves where they'll provide maximum advantage.

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  I nod approval as the captain returns.

  "Your Legion remembers its purpose," I say.

  The captain's jaw moves. No sound emerges, but I understand nonetheless. They remember because I remember. Death's Champion has called, and the fallen have answered.

  Not life, but something else. Divine purpose made manifest.

  I emerge from the Hollowed Bastion.

  Behind me, the Legion follows in formation. Three hundred warriors of bone and rust cross the threshold of gates that haven't opened in an age.

  Ancient hinges protest as gates swing wide, releasing a cloud of dust that hangs. The outpost's courtyard stretches before us, cracked stones overtaken by stubborn weeds that have forced their way through every seam.

  The captain stands at my side.

  I feel his thoughts without words. Assessment. Strategy. The instincts of command still embedded in the fragments of his being.

  "Deploy the scouts," I say.

  The captain gestures, and twenty skeletal warriors break from the main formation.

  I gesture forward. "The road lies there. Hidden but passable."

  The captain nods, remembers. Beneath fractured bone, thought remains.

  "Deploy scouts along the cliffside approach," I command.

  It resonates through bone and empty space, compelling action they must obey.

  Twenty skeletal warriors move, taking positions along the hidden road carved into the mountain face.

  Beyond the gate, the hidden road stretches away, hugging the mountainside before descending toward the plains.

  In the far distance, Haven's walls rise against the horizon.

  "There," I tell the captain.

  The captain points toward the plains, then to his assembled forces, a silent question about formation.

  "Wide deployment once we reach open ground," I answer. "Show Haven what approaches. Let them see what marches."

  The captain salutes again.

  We descend.

  No breathing, no heartbeats, only the occasional scrape of armor or clatter of weapons against shields.

  The Legion requires no rest, no water, no encouragement. They follow because purpose has called them.

  By midday, we reach the edge of the plains. Haven's walls rise in the distance, still hours away but visible across the open expanse.

  "Deploy in marching formation," I command. "Four columns, standards raised."

  The Legion responds.

  Shield bearers form the outer columns. Archers and heavy infantry compose the inner ranks.

  The standard bearers move to the front, raising poles with tattered remnants.

  "Let them see us approach," I say, gesturing toward Haven. "Let them know what marches to their aid."

  I march at the head of the Legion, Aeternus in skeletal grip.

  The distance to Haven shrinks with each step, yet something tugs at my awareness.

  A subtle pull.

  My steps falter. The compulsion strengthens.

  "Adjust course," I tell the captain. "Northeast."

  He tilts his skull, empty sockets questioning.

  "I feel it," I explain, "Something calls."

  The Legion pivots and moves. Three hundred seventeen warriors responding to command.

  The captain signals with bone fingers, and the columns realign, our path now angling away from Haven's direct approach.

  The pull grows stronger as we near a river's edge.

  Water flows dark, carrying corruption from distant sources. The banks rise muddy and steep, yet something has been built here.

  Wooden frameworks rise from the earth. Half-constructed battlements. Supply crates stacked.

  The beginnings of fortification where none should exist.

  I raise my hand, halting the Legion's advance.

  "Scouts," I command.

  Four skeletal warriors break formation, moving silently toward the river. They have no need for caution, for safety, or discovery. They simply move.

  The captain points toward banners I hadn't noticed, unfamiliar symbols in faded blue, depicting a crown submerged beneath stylized waves.

  Recognition flares through my borrowed memories.

  The Drowned Kingdom.

  The river runs toward Haven's western approach. A staging ground. The first outpost of an invasion force.

  The compulsion that guided me here now burns.

  This threat must be eliminated before it can grow.

  I turn to the captain, decision made.

  I signal to him, a simple gesture toward the half-built fortifications.

  "We wait till they return, then kill them all."

  The captain's jaw clicks once in acknowledgment. His skull turns to the Legion, and bone fingers make precise motions. The Legion understands without sound.

  The Legion disperses. Shield-bearers sink to their knees in the mud, positioning themselves behind half-built fortifications. Archers find perches among supply crates and unfinished battlements, bone fingers testing bowstrings that should have rotted centuries ago.

  I watch as twenty warriors bury themselves completely, digging into soft earth with bare skeletal hands until only eye sockets remain visible above the muck. Others submerge in the river shallows, armor plates anchoring them against the current.

  The captain remains at my side, pointing to a ridge overlooking the encampment. Perfect vantage point. I nod approval.

  "Position heavy infantry there. When they return, let none escape."

  He salutes, then signals to his most formidable units. They move without hesitation, taking positions where they can descend upon the returning force.

  I find a position behind a partially built wall, where mud and timber form the beginnings of what would have been a guard post.

  The borrowed pieces within me stir.

  Yet their voices have quieted since my transformation. Where once they competed for dominance, now they merely inform. I am still their sum, but no longer governed by their competing wills.

  Water laps against the riverbank. Wind rustles through incomplete fortifications.

  We wait.