The forest wasn't made of trees.
At first, Elías thought the trunks were natural—twisted, black, dry. But as they walked deeper, he realized each column was carved with symbols, clawed into the surface as if by broken fingernails. These were spines, stacked and fused. Their branches moved when unseen.
No birds sang here. No wind rustled. The only sound was the chattering of teeth—thousands of them—somewhere in the distance.
"What is this place?" Íria whispered, covering her mouth with her mantle.
"It's called the Forest of the Walking Bones," Cerrik answered, eyes locked on the horizon. "They say those who die without a name are buried here. But sometimes... they try to stand."
Elías gripped the Scythe of Death. It was hot to the touch, pulsing with a silent hunger.
Every step sank slightly, as though the forest floor was made of old, wet flesh. Fog coiled through the bone-columns, thick as sour milk. Then came the creaking. The whispering. And finally, the eyes.
They appeared between the vertebrae: sewn shut, leaking black tears. Some embedded in bone. Others floating, disembodied and hungry.
The creatures emerged slowly—bodies built from vertebrae, hands replaced with snapping jaws. Fangborn, they were called.
They didn't walk. They slid.
Each wore a candle on its skull, made from the bones of infants. The flame cast no light—only a deeper shadow.
Cerrik struck first, his spear splitting one Fangborn down the center. But no blood spilled. The creature exploded into ash and teeth, and from its remains, three new ones grew.
"They multiply through pain!" Íria cried. "If we kill them fast, they divide!"
"Then we bind," Elías growled, sprinting to a spine-column. His scythe swirled in an arc of shadow, not slicing but sealing.
The weapon understood. It wanted souls, not noise.
One by one, the Fangborn encircled them. Some whispered names. Others muttered prayers to long-dead gods, begging to die again.
"These were once soldiers," Íria said. "Forgotten in a war without a victor. Now, only their form remains."
"What keeps them standing?" Elías asked, dodging a strike made of sharpened ribs.
"Hatred," Cerrik replied. "Hatred that never found rest."
The battle raged. Creatures spilled from the columns, from the roots, from the fog itself. One bit into Íria's arm, tearing both skin and memory. She didn't scream. She pressed a symbol on her robe and whispered:
"Return to silence."
The thing vanished.
After long minutes—or maybe just moments—the forest grew still. The whispers faded. The bone-columns stopped shaking. And ahead, a bridge formed from fused skulls, leading to an altar of living stone.
Elías stepped forward. Atop the altar lay a book made of stitched flesh.
Its title: "The Gospel of the Boneless".
"Who would write such a thing?" he muttered, touching its pulsing cover.
"The one who built this place," Íria answered. "A fallen demigod named Nak'Thur, the Shepherd of Bones. Long dead. But his cult still prays here."
Elías opened the book. Pages of gristle. Letters formed from children's teeth. Every line a curse.
And one of them bore his name.
He turned to the others.
"This was written... before I was born."
"Or after you died," Cerrik said calmly.
The scythe trembled.
Far off, the sky cracked with thunderless lightning.
And the forest... laughed.
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Question for the reader:lf your name is already written in a cursed book before you were born... is your fate sealed? Or were you never truly alive?