The wind howled like a starving wolf across the wastes, threading through the hollows of my ribcage and setting each bone to shiver. The world outside the catacombs was worse than the tomb. No walls sheltered me now. No shadows offered comfort. I had stepped into the corpse of a world, and it welcomed me with silence.
Ash drifted like snow, pale flakes settling on cracked earth. The sky bled red and gray, heavy with clouds that never wept. Ruins dotted the land—stone skeletons of towers, bones of kingdoms long crumbled. I felt no warmth, no sunlight. Perhaps the heavens had forgotten this place entirely.
Each step forward weighed on me like a question. I did not know where I walked, nor why. Instinct alone carried me, sharpened by a need deeper than thought. The sword I had claimed hung in my grip, its runes faintly smoldering. It hummed, faint as breath, as if acknowledging me.
And with each hour, the hunger gnawed deeper.
The essence I had taken from vermin in the tombs was fading, burned away by the act of existing. My movements slowed, joints creaked. My light dimmed. Without more marrow, I would crumble like the bones around me.
The whisper returned, curling inside my skull like smoke:
"Feed, Sovereign. Strength is stolen, never given."
I obeyed.
The first living things I found were not rats, but crows. They feasted on carrion—a stag fallen by the roadside, ribs cracked open by scavengers. The birds pecked and tore, feathers black as tar.
I approached. My bones rattled faintly, the sound startling them into flight. Yet one lingered, bold or foolish. It cawed, wings spread wide, talons slashing.
I struck.
The sword carved through feathers and flesh alike. The crow's cry was brief, silenced by the rush of essence flooding into me. Hot, sharp, bitter. My sockets burned brighter, my spine straightened. The weakness eased.
But the hunger was not sated. It deepened.
More.
By dusk I had fed on dozens—crows, foxes, a wandering wolf too weak to hunt. Each kill left me stronger, though still fragile, a shadow of what I might be. The more essence I consumed, the clearer my mind became. Fragments stirred within the void where memory should have been: echoes of iron gates, a voice calling my name, a battlefield drowned in fire.
But the name itself eluded me.
Night fell without stars. Darkness swallowed the land whole, yet my vision pierced it, sockets lit by spectral fire. The ruined city I had seen from the catacombs loomed closer, its towers jagged against the horizon.
There would be marrow there.
And danger.
The outskirts stank of rot. Corpses littered the broken streets, half-rotted, left to the mercy of scavengers. Yet as I drew near, some stirred. They were not corpses. They were like me—undead, bound by some forgotten curse.
But unlike me, they were hollow. Their eyes glowed no brighter than embers. They moved without purpose, staggering through the rubble, jaws gnashing at nothing.
Hunger guided me forward. One turned, sightless gaze fixing on me. It hissed, a sound of dry bones grinding. Then it lunged.
I met it with steel. My sword cleaved its skull, the runes burning hotter at the taste of its essence. The corpse crumpled, dust scattering in the wind.
Others followed.
Three. Five. Ten.
They fell, one by one, until I stood amidst ruin and silence once more. Yet unlike before, I was not weary. Their marrow filled me, richer than vermin or beasts. Their essence was kin to mine, bound in death, and consuming it lit a fire in my bones.
I felt it then—the faintest shift. My hand, once brittle, thickened with spectral strength. Bone reinforced itself, weaving denser, harder, sharper. My ribcage knit into a more formidable cage. My steps grew steadier.
I was changing.
Not merely surviving. Evolving.
The whisper returned, louder this time, almost gleeful:
"Yes. Feast upon the husks. Rule their hunger. Forge your throne from marrow and ash."
I did not resist. The hunger was too strong.
Through the shattered streets I hunted. Undead fell before me, their empty lives feeding mine. Each kill brought clarity, power, weight to my bones. The sword sang in my hand, its runes blazing brighter.
And then I felt it—the pull of something deeper, hidden beneath the ruins.
A doorway, broken and half-buried in rubble. Beyond it, a staircase spiraling into darkness. Essence seeped from below, thick and heavy, like blood dripping from a wound. My hunger clawed at me.
I descended.
The chamber below was vast, an old crypt beneath the city. Broken sarcophagi lined the walls, their guardians long since fallen. At its center lay a throne of bone, crude yet deliberate, crafted from femurs and skulls stacked high. Upon it sat a figure.
Not dead. Not alive.
Its eyes burned with pale fire, brighter than mine, sharper, commanding. Armor clung to its skeletal frame, jagged and cruel. In its hand rested a spear of bone, polished smooth and deadly.
A guardian. A rival.
The figure rose, towering over me. No words passed between us, only the clash of purpose. It sought to defend. I sought to consume.
The duel was unlike any before. Its spear struck with blinding speed, shattering stone where I had stood moments before. I parried clumsily, the sword sparking against bone. My body rattled with each impact, fragments threatening to break away.
But hunger drove me.
I lunged, slashing wide, only to be repelled by its strength. Again and again, the spear struck, forcing me back. I faltered. My bones cracked. I was weaker. Smaller.
The whisper seared through my skull:
"Steal its marrow, or be dust forgotten."
I roared—a soundless cry—and charged. Spear pierced rib, shattering bone. Pain flared, though I had no nerves. Yet I pressed forward, sword driving deep into the guardian's chest. Runes blazed, fire erupting from the blade.
The guardian shuddered. For a heartbeat, silence hung between us. Then it collapsed, bones scattering like sand.
The essence that burst forth was overwhelming. It poured into me like molten iron, flooding every hollow, reforging me from within. My ribcage sealed, cracks knitting into seamless ivory. My limbs lengthened, thicker, stronger. My sockets blazed with a fire no wind could snuff.
When the storm of marrow faded, I stood transformed.
Not a brittle skeleton.
Something greater.
Something sovereign.
The bone throne before me lay empty. Its master was gone, devoured.
Slowly, with purpose, I ascended its steps. I sat upon the throne, sword across my knees, the glow of runes filling the crypt.
For the first time, the whisper was not within me.
It was around me.
A chorus of voices, countless, rising from the bones that littered the crypt. They bowed without moving, their hollow gazes turned toward me. Not servants yet, but witnesses.
"Sovereign," they hissed in unison.
The word echoed through the dark.
And though I had no tongue, no flesh to smile, something deep within me curved in silent satisfaction.
I was no longer merely awakened.
I was becoming.
The Bone Sovereign.