Lethe.

The word settles into the Field of Broken Banners, not spoken from a throat of phantom flesh, but willed into existence by the core of my being. It is a key turning a lock deep within the blood-soaked soil, a command that resonates not with the living or the dead, but with the space between.

The power of the Chalice, the forgotten third aspect of Avernus, surges not from me, but through me. It is not my power to wield, but a current I can direct.

I am no god, no divine entity. I am a vessel, a conduit for a promise made when the god fell.

The Field responds, not with a tremor of stone, but with a shudder of purpose.

The ground does not break; it parts.

Their will, their final oaths, their desperate hope, it all flows upward, a tide of memory given form. This is not resurrection.

This is reclamation.

Within my frame, the permanent fragments stir.

Commander Ikert's memories surface, flooding through me with warmth and conviction. Not borrowed anymore. Truly mine, yet still distinctly his.

The balverine alpha's predatory instincts sharpen, but they carry wisdom now, the understanding of a hunter who protects rather than devours.

Carida's unwavering faith anchors everything. The dragon's ancient pride burns through me, but tempered with responsibility born from eons of defeat and loss.

Even the Arkashoth fragment contributes, its vast knowledge of consumption transformed into understanding of unity.

They are becoming something new. Something that has never existed before.

I feel my form shifting, not growing larger but becoming more concentrated, more deliberate. The spectral flesh gains solidity, not flesh as mortals know it, but substance born from collective will.

My bones restructure themselves, each fragment finding its perfect place not through compulsion but through harmony.

The Field's power shapes me as surely as I channel it. I am becoming what they need me to be.

What they have always needed me to be.

A general worthy of their sacrifice.

Around me, there is possibility. Not the false promises of Arkashoth's preservation or the consuming hunger of demons. This is the power of choice made manifest, of duty freely given rather than imposed.

Thousands of voices, each distinct yet part of a greater whole. They speak of home defended, of love protected, of hope preserved in darkness.

They died for something greater than themselves, and that something still exists.

Haven still stands.

Their children's children still draw breath behind walls they helped make sacred.

Ancient oaths, long dormant in blood-soaked soil, awaken at my call. I stand at the epicenter of this rising tide, a fulcrum of bone and purpose. The power of Lethe flows through me, not from me.

I am not its source, merely the lens that focuses its terrible and beautiful light.

I focus my will inward, toward the permanent fragments Veradin forged in divine fire. They are no longer mere passengers, no longer competing memories within my frame. They are seeds from which a new order will grow.

The cornerstones of an army I will build.

First, the balverine alpha.

Its savage essence strains within my ribs, a maelstrom of tooth and claw yearning for freedom. The eternal hunt denied by my greater purpose.

I feel its frustration, its need to run beneath starless skies with fangs bared.

I grant it release.

The spectral tissue that clothes my bones peels away, drawn toward a point in the air before me. It coalesces, twisting into a framework of phantom sinew and incorporeal muscle.

Then the wolf bones I carry, the alpha's remains and fragments of its pack, tear free from my structure.

They fly through the air, clicking into place.

This is not simple reassembly. This is creation.

From the corrupted earth, more bones rise. Skeletons of dire wolves that fell to ancient plagues. Twisted remains of shadow-hounds that once stalked Haven's perimeter, their tainted essence now purified by the Field's hallowed ground.

The animal dead answer the alpha's call, drawn by recognition of a superior predator.

The transformation unfolds in sounds of cracking bone. The skeleton assembling before me dwarfs any living wolf, its frame bearing the marks of balverine enhanced by divine purpose.

Its spine curves.

Extra limbs, harvested from things that died hunting in deep woods, sprout from its torso, each ending in claws of bone.

Its skull fuses wolf and something greater, jaw unhinging to reveal rows of serrated fangs crafted from the teeth of a hundred lesser predators.

A primal entity of the hunt rendered in yellowed bone and ancient rage.

Blue-white fire ignites in its hollow sockets, the same light that burns in mine. It is separate, yet connected.

Its purpose, once a conflicting instinct within me, is now its own sovereign will.

The Wild Hunt incarnate.

Yet still the alpha, the female balverine I killed in False Hamlet.

The great skeletal wolf turns its massive head, studying me with newfound awareness. Intelligence flickers behind those burning eyes, not the simple cunning of a beast, but the calculating mind of an apex predator elevated to divine purpose.

It dips its skull once in acknowledgment, alpha recognizing alpha, hunter honoring the one who granted it form.

Then it howls.

The sound transcends, a bone-shaking howl that carries across the Field of Broken Banners.

Every shallow grave trembles.

The ground answers.

From cracked earth, more bones rise. Not human remains, but skeletons assembling themselves from pack-bonds that transcended death.

Skeletal wolves emerge by dozens.

An army of fangs and fury awaiting command.

The alpha regards its pack with satisfaction, then turns back to me. In its burning gaze, I read acknowledgment and purpose.

It knows what I need from it. What Haven needs.

The Wild Hunt will run again, but not as mindless beasts seeking prey. They will be shepherds of death, culling the corruption that spreads across the land.

Where demons mass, where balverines gather, where things-not-meant-to-be take root, there the Hunt will find them.

The alpha steps forward, its massive frame radiating cold purpose. It presses its skeletal muzzle briefly against my outstretched hand, a gesture both farewell and pledge.

Then it wheels away, leading its pack toward the southern horizons where darker predators wait.

I watch them go, feeling lighter yet somehow more complete. The balverine instincts no longer war within me, no longer demand blood and violence for their own sake.

They have found their proper expression, not as my burden, but as allies in the greater war.

The Wild Hunt fades into distance, leaving only the echo of their silent howl.

One fragment given form and purpose.

Others stir within me, sensing their time approaches.

The pack circles their alpha, a churning mass of bone and spectral sinew.

The Wild Hunt made manifest.

The alpha turns its massive skull eastward, sensing prey beyond my perception. Its pack follows the gesture, heads swiveling in perfect unison.

They know their purpose, to stalk the corrupted beasts that prowl between settlements, to thin the herds of shadow-spawn before they can threaten the living.

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"Three days, then return."

The words carry across the Field with absolute authority. Not a request.

A command from general to lieutenant.

The alpha acknowledges with more than a nod. Its massive frame lowers, forelegs extending as its great skull touches the bloodsoaked earth.

Full prostration. The gesture of a lesser alpha recognizing the greater.

Behind it, the pack mirrors the movement. Dozens of skeletal wolves pressing bone to soil.

The Wild Hunt bows to Death's Champion.

The display sends satisfaction through my frame. Not pride, but recognition of proper order. Hierarchy established through power, not fear.

They follow because I am worthy to lead, not because I compel their service.

The alpha rises, blue fire meeting blue fire as our gazes lock. In those burning sockets, I read understanding. Three days to hunt the spaces between settlements.

Three days to cull the corruption that festers in forgotten places.

Then return to Haven.

It wheels away without another gesture, leading the pack southward. Their silent steps carry them toward distant corruption, supernatural predators given divine purpose.

I watch until they fade into twilight.

Other fragments stir within me, awaiting their own transformation.

The Field trembles again. More bones stir beneath the surface, drawn by Lethe's transformative power.

The ground splits wider, revealing glimpses of ancient armor, broken shields, shattered standards.

Next, I turn inward to Commander Ikert's fragment. The warrior-king, the commander, the one who held the line when all seemed lost.

His essence pulses with martial discipline, with the weight of command.

The greatest fragment who once was the closest to "I" but is no longer.

I grant him form.

The commander's essence demands something grander than mere resurrection. His fragment carries the weight of impossible choices, of holding doomed positions while armies crumbled around him.

Such leadership deserves a form to match its burden.

From the deepest trenches of the Field, ancient bones respond. Not a single skeleton, but dozens fusing together. A ribcage expands beyond mortal proportions.

Arm bones stretch and thicken, accommodating the spectral sinew that wraps around them like ceremonial armor.

The skull that emerges bears a crown of bone spikes, each one a fallen standard from his final battle. His jaw elongates, accommodating fangs that speak of authority earned through blood.

This is no mere knight risen from death.

This is a Graveking.

Blue fire erupts in sockets deep as caverns. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of ten thousand final orders.

"My lord."

The words resonate through ground and air alike. Not subservience, but recognition. General acknowledging the one who elevated him beyond mere death.

He rises to his full twelve-foot height, spectral flesh clothing bones like royal vestments.

A crown manifests on his brow, not of gold or silver, but of steel.

The Graveking bows, awaiting command.

The bones that rise answer to no primal call.

Ancient plate mail, pulled from buried kings and fallen champions, fuses to his bones. Not worn, but grown.

Metal and marrow become one.

Command made visible. In his empty sockets, blue fire kindles, but colder than mine.

The flame of absolute order.

A great sword materializes in his grasp, forged from the iron of spilled blood of his soldiers, his own.

The Graveking rises.

He turns toward me, and in that burning gaze I read acknowledgment. Not submission, kings do not bow to kings.

But this runs deeper than rank.

He sees what I am. Not the commander he once was, though his fragment shaped my core as surely as Avernus forged my purpose. I am Death's Champion, the final miracle, something closer to divine than mortal.

Yet we share kinship that transcends hierarchy.

His great sword dips toward the blood-soaked earth in salute. Not the prostration of the alpha, but the recognition between general and the champion who carries his essence forward.

He helped forge what I became, just as Avernus granted me form.

"My lord," he rumbles again, and this time I hear the deeper meaning. Not master and servant.

More. He is me, or I was once him. Or of him.

He straightens to his full height, awaiting orders.

We serve.

Two aspects of the same inexorable purpose.

The Field trembles again. More bones await transformation, and I have only begun to shape what will stand against the darkness.

But alliance. Purpose aligned.

Around him, skeletal warriors emerge from the Field's depths, awaiting their sovereign's command.

I regard the Graveking, then extend my will deeper into the Field.

"Rise."

The command carries across consecrated ground. From shallow graves and deeper trenches, bones stir.

Not the purposeful assembly of the Graveking's manifestation, but the sluggish awakening of mass resurrection.

Around him, more bones answer the call. Officers, sergeants, foot soldiers, the remnants of the Twelfth Legion that made their final stand at this very spot. They rise forming ranks behind their commander with shields that remember their positions, swords that recall their purpose.

They emerge by hundreds. Infantry with rusted mail, archers clutching phantom bows, pikemen whose armor barely clings to ancient bone.

These are echoes, shadows of the warriors who once stood in formation. They lack the intelligence of their king, the burning awareness that marks true consciousness.

But they remember discipline.

They assemble in ragged lines, muscle memory of muscles they no longer have guiding skeletal hands to phantom weapons. Companies form without conscious thought, the eternal drill of soldiers who died as they lived, in formation.

The Graveking surveys his army with satisfaction. He raises his great sword, and twelve hundred skeletal warriors snap to attention.

Their hollow sockets turn toward him with vacant devotion.

I regard the assembled legion, twelve hundred skeletal warriors standing in perfect formation under their Graveking's command. The Field of Broken Banners has yielded its greatest treasure, not gold or steel, but purpose given form.

The question burns through my consciousness, where to deploy them?

Haven needs protection, but the Legion already holds those walls. These warriors serve a different purpose.

They are not defenders but conquerors, meant to reclaim what was lost.

The Graveking turns toward me, awaiting orders. In his burning gaze, I read tactical awareness.

He knows terrain, understands strategy. His fragment carries memories of campaigns across corrupted lands.

"The Endless Rot," I command.

His massive skull nods once. The southern corruption spreads like a plague, consuming settlements and transforming the living into twisted horrors.

The Graveking's forces cannot be infected, cannot be turned.

He raises his sword, and the skeletal army wheels in perfect unison. Twelve hundred warriors marching toward the rotting heart of corruption, their hollow steps drumming against consecrated earth.

Strategic positioning. The Wild Hunt culls predators in the spaces between.

The Graveking's legion strikes at corruption's source.

I have begun to remake the world.

The dragon fragment rages, incomplete. Unlike the Alpha or Commander Ikert, it lacks unified voice, a collection of shattered memories from different wyrms consumed by Tiamat's betrayal.

Still, I try.

I turn my will toward the ancient pride coiled around my spine. The memory of sky and fire burns through borrowed marrow, serpentine power yearning for release.

But the Field offers too few of its kind. Dragon bones lie scattered and rare, insufficient fragments to grant the form it craves.

Patience, I command the raging essence.

Your strength serves a greater purpose integrated with my own.

The dragon bones roar their frustration, a tremor of anger that shakes my frame. It wants freedom.

It wants vengeance. But it cannot have it.

Not yet.

When the time comes, I promise, when sufficient remains gather, then you shall have form.

The rage subsides slightly, mollified by oath rather than command. Dragons respect promises of vengeance above all else.

For now, they remain integrated. My wings when I need flight.

My fire when I need destruction.

The Arkashoth fragment stirs, different from the others. Where Commander Ikert wanted form and the dragon raged for freedom, this ancient consciousness speaks directly into my awareness.

You offered me what I had sought for eons, it says. Unity without consumption. I desired to gather minds into myself, to become more.

Instead, you absorbed me into something greater.

The fragment's satisfaction radiates through my frame. We are kin, you and I. Collections given purpose.

I am content to remain, to lend my knowledge to our shared will.

Carida's essence shifts uneasily at the exchange. Her remains rest secure within my ribs, but her moral core recoils from the Arkashoth's presence.

"I helped you resist the demon duke's corruption," she states. "I anchored you against its influence. I will remain to guard against other temptations."

Her wariness of the ancient fragment creates tension within my frame. Two opposing forces, one that consumed indiscriminately, another that protected absolutely.

Yet both serve me now. Both chose to stay.

The tension between Carida and the Arkashoth fragment settles into something resembling equilibrium. Not harmony, but balance.

Her unwavering moral compass and its ancient hunger, their opposing forces creating stability rather than destruction.

I am the center they orbit.

The Field trembles beneath my feet as I survey what I have wrought. The Wild Hunt ranges southward, skeletal predators given purpose. The Graveking leads his legion toward the Endless Rot, twelve hundred warriors marching against corruption itself.

Balance achieved. Order imposed through will rather than domination.

Yet something remains incomplete.

The ground beneath me pulses with residual power, Lethe's transformative force not yet fully spent.

The Field holds more than I have claimed, depths yet unspent.

Avernus's final miracle burns through my frame, demanding completion.

The Wild Hunt serves as my left hand. The Graveking as my right.

But I am the heart. The center.

The god-fragment given form.

I am what remains, divine essence trapped in bone and purpose.

I pull.

The pull comes from within, not from the Field around me. Deeper than bone, deeper than the fragments that compose my frame.

Something fundamental shifts in my understanding.

I am not Avernus.

I am what grew from his sacrifice.

Something new. Something that never existed before.

I am the first of my kind. Death's Champion, born from a god's willing dissolution.

I am what Avernus could never be. Unbound by divine law, unrestrained by celestial hierarchy.

I serve because I choose to serve.

I am will.

The transformation ripples through my frame, through the Wild Hunt ranging in the distance, through the Graveking's marching legion.

They feel it too.

We are no longer echoes of what was.

We are harbingers of what must be.

The transformation begins with recognition.

I am not borrowing power. I am inheriting it.

My skeletal frame expands, bones elongating and thickening as spectral flesh weaves itself around ancient marrow. Not the crude reconstruction of undeath, but divine substance made manifest.

The field responds to my ascension, power flowing upward from ten thousand graves.

I grow taller, broader, more terrible.

Twenty feet. Twenty-five. My ribs stretch outward like cathedral arches, each one capable of housing a mortal man.

My skull reshapes itself, jaw unhinging to accommodate rows of fangs carved from the sorrow of final moments.

Wings of bone and shadow unfurl from my shoulders.

Spectral tissue bridges bone-struts forged from forgotten prayers. These wings could bear me across continents, through realms where light fears to tread.

Horns of yellowed bone spiral upward from my crown, each twist carved with the names of the unremembered.

Aeternus grows with me, its blade stretching into a sword fit for divine hands.

I am becoming what I was always meant to be.

What I must be, to face the true threat beyond the Drowned Kingdom, beyond Tiamat's rage, beyond the Endless Rot.

The Demon King waits, secure in his dominion over a broken world. He believes himself supreme among the ruins of divinity.

He does not know what rises to challenge him.

Something born from the graves he filled.

Divine fire ignites along my bones, cold blue flame that burns without consuming. This is not borrowed power, it is reclaimed inheritance.

I am not Avernus.

I am what comes after gods fall. What rises when divinity surrenders itself to purpose.

The transformation completes itself. My new form towers over the Field of Broken Banners, casting a shadow that stretches toward Haven's distant walls.

The blue flames along my bones burn colder, brighter, with purpose rather than rage.

Aeternus pulses in my grasp, no longer just a blade but an extension of divine will. The sword that severs. The judgment that ends.

The mercy that releases.

I flex wings that could span fortresses, feeling the weight of bone and spectral sinew. These are not for flight alone, but for covering, for sheltering what remains of humanity from darkness above.

My jaw stretches, accommodating fangs forged from final prayers.

My ribcage expands, housing Carida's steadfast spirit.

I am becoming the answer to a question the world has forgotten how to ask.

Who stands for the forgotten? Who remembers when all else fades?

I do.

I am Death's Champion, the inheritor of Avernus's purpose but not his divinity. Something new.

Something necessary.

I turn my burning gaze toward Haven. Three days until the Drowned Kingdom attacks.

Three days to prepare.

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