Leaving Commander Ikkert behind, the sky shifts from black to deepest blue, stars fading against approaching light. My Legion stands motionless beyond the gates, awaiting commands.

They can wait a while longer.

I move through Haven's empty streets. No guards challenge me. Windows remain shuttered, though I sense watchers behind them. Fear and hope war in their hidden gazes.

The chapel rises before me, its stonework older than most of Haven's buildings. Original construction, laid when this place was Forward Command. When hope still lived alongside desperation.

The hinges protest but yield, opening into dim sanctuary lit only by distant candles on the altar. The space appears larger inside than the exterior suggests, stone pillars rising to vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Wooden pews stand in strict rows, facing the altar where three symbols dominate the wall behind:

The Scales of Judgment, perfectly balanced. The Shears of Severance, poised to cut. The Chalice of Transformation, waters rippling over its edge.

Aeternus, Atropos, Lethe. The three instruments of Avernus's divine authority.

One already rests across my back, its edge tested against corruption from battlefield to dwarven depths. The second has manifested through that blade when need proved greatest. The third remains unknown, its power yet unrevealed.

I move silently down the central aisle. My bone claws make no sound against the stone floor. The phantom tissue around my frame seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating shadow deeper than absence alone would justify.

The altar waits in silence.

I kneel before it, this form awkward in reverence. Bones grind against stone as I lower myself, skull bowing toward symbols carved in sacred stone. The blue white flames in my sockets dim to mere embers.

Prayer comes without words.

Father. Creator. Self.

The distinctions blur in the hollow space where divine essence once dwelt. Avernus sacrificed everything to animate the fallen, scattered his being across twelve legions of bone and purpose. What remains speaks not to distant divinity but to fragmented sacrifice made manifest.

Respect given.

For the miracle of purpose beyond flesh. For duty that transcends death. For the final gift that transformed defeat into guardianship, failure into eternal vigil.

Granted for miracle.

Not the resurrection of life but the preservation of purpose. The transformation of ending into beginning, of last breath into first step toward redemption.

The candle flames flicker without wind. Something in this space recognizes the prayer, though no divine presence answers. How could it? The god who might have listened gave everything to ensure these bones could kneel, could serve, could protect what he could no longer defend directly.

The prayer needs no response. Acknowledgment between what remains and what was given. Recognition of sacrifice that made this moment possible.

I remain kneeling as dawn light filters through stained glass windows, casting colored shadows across worn stone. The silence feels complete, sacred in its emptiness.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Footsteps echo from the chapel's entrance. Soft soled shoes on stone, moving with the measured pace of morning ritual.

I do not rise. Do not turn. The prayer is not yet finished.

The footsteps pause at the chapel's threshold. A sharp intake of breath, surprise, perhaps fear. Then silence again, longer this time.

The steps resume, moving around the outer edge of the sanctuary. Deliberately avoiding the central aisle where I kneel. A priest beginning morning preparations, lighting additional candles, arranging prayer books, maintaining the sacred space.

He says nothing. Makes no challenge. Offers no blessing or condemnation.

Simply allows this moment to exist.

The prayer concludes without ceremony. Purpose acknowledged, respect given, gratitude offered to sacrifice beyond measure. I rise slowly, movements careful not to disturb the chapel's peace.

The priest continues his preparations at the far altar, back turned. An elderly man in worn robes, grey hair catching candlelight. His hands tremble slightly as he arranges sacred object, not from fear but from age, from years of faithful service.

I move toward the chapel doors, footsteps silent on stone. The priest never turns, never acknowledges my presence directly. But as I reach the threshold, he speaks quietly.

"Go with purpose."

Three words. Not blessing or banishment. Simply recognition that purpose guides my path, whatever form it takes.

I step into Haven's awakening streets without reply. Some understandings need no response.

The hour has grown later.

I do not slow.

Haven's main gate looms ahead. The guards there stand rigid, weapons held but not raised. They know what I am. What I represent. Death walking among the living, however purposeful.

"Champion," one calls out, voice cracking. Young. Too young for wall duty, but these are desperate times.

I pause, skull turning toward him.

He swallows hard. "The Legion. They've been standing perfectly still since you entered. Like statues. Is that normal?"

Normal. As if anything about animated bones could be normal.

"They wait," I respond. "As they have always waited."

The guard nods quickly, not truly understanding but accepting the answer.

The gates creak open.

Beyond the walls, my Legion stands in perfect formation. Two hundred and more skeletal warriors arranged, not one having moved since I entered Haven. Not one has shifted position or adjusted stance.

Perfect discipline.

I approach them, feeling the threads of connection that bind us. Not control, I do not puppet them as a necromancer might. Rather, purpose shared. The same compulsion that drives me flows through their ancient bones.

The Captain steps forward as I near. He raises one skeletal hand in salute.

He wants orders. Command from a commander.

The word carries weight within the fragments I bear. Not champion, not guardian. Commander. As if some part of them recognizes what I carry within, fragments of their true commander from the Field of Broken Banners.

"Defensive positions on top of Haven's walls," I instruct. "Four hour rotation. Watch for threats from river and wasteland both. The Drowned Kingdom's herald spoke of three days. Expect probing attacks before the main assault."

The Captain nods once, turning to relay orders through silent communication binds the Legion. They move splitting into patrol groups, taking positions at optimal vantage points.

I watch them deploy.

Within me, soldier fragments stir with approval. Proper deployment. Overlapping fields of observation. Reserve units positioned for rapid response. Even in death, the Legion remembers its training.

As darkness deepens, I move to the highest point overlooking Haven's walls. From here, I can see the river to the east, the wasteland to the south, the distant mountains where corruption spreads like infection through stone and soil.

Three days.

Then I leave to hunt greater darkness, first the deeper depths, the drowned kingdom, then to seek the source of corruption itself. The Demon King waits beyond the horizon, beyond the Realm Lords and twisted kingdoms. The World Tree's corruption preceded even him.

But for now, I stand vigil.

The Legion takes positions below, spectral tissue glowing faintly in darkness. Silent guardians for a desperate fortress.

Haven's lights flicker behind walls, fragile life persisting against the dying of the world.

The weight of borrowed memories settles deeper into my frame. Commander Ikert's fragment rests dormant within my core, his words delivered to his descendant. Carida's remains rest secure in their cage of ribs. The dragon bones coil around my spine, satisfied. The wolf fragments prowl through my limbs, restless but contained.

Three days of preparation.

And mine will bring me back to where I started, the Field of Broken Banners.

A pull, a compulsion, takes me there.

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