The bones walk not because they must—but because he wills it. You may shatter their skulls, but so long as his crown remains, so does the war.
They say he still stands at the gates—armor rusted into his flesh, eyes full of that dull, waiting hate. He doesn’t wander. He doesn’t moan. He just waits… for the call.
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“Some things can be unmade—just mind what gets taken in trade.”
“Lay the candle down, traveler—here, in the quiet, even grief can see.”
“Lay the token true, and even the tide will hush.”
“If the wind swallows your name, the bell will give it back—once.”
“Light is a language the grieving can still hear.”
You don’t summon a Boneclaw. You birth one—when you make a promise soaked in blood, and break it.
Don’t look it in the eyes. Don’t call it by name. And never wander the fields after dark — or you’ll hear the rustling.
He doesn’t speak. He remembers. Every cut, every betrayal, every broken oath etched in steel. You don’t just die fighting the Hollow—you’re judged.
He fell from the skies like a comet of iron and rage. And when he stood, the ground burned with his name.