The crypt welcomed him home as if he had a headstone with his name on it. He could feel a buzz of excitement in the air at his return as he slid back down the chute. But he had no time for greeting the ghosts of the past. If he didn't hurry, his sister might become one of them.

They have her. She's alive. But not forever.

He collapsed at the foot of the throne of bone once more. The room felt different now-less unfamiliar with his presence. The ribs curling along the altar seemed to lean closer, like listeners awaiting his decision. And so he spoke.

“I know what I am,” he whispered. “And I know what I need to do.” There was no answer. He didn't need one. His eyes caught on a corner in the room, littered with shattered bones, too small to be of use. Unless ...

With a grunt of effort, the thin mana threads spread from his fingertips once more. It was harder, manipulating it on such small bones, but the adrenaline surging through him gave him resilience and strength.

As the shape became more defined, it was clear-This was not a weapon. Rather, something to move in his place, to scout, to find. He stitched broken bone to broken bone, until he tied the final knot: and it twitched.

A thin thread of mana connected them, faint, but there. He couldn't see from it, in the way that one is used to, but he could feel instincts: hide, dark, fear, and death. "Find her." He whispered. It didn't move. He gave a small tug on the mana-thread, and it jerked towards him. It seemed he couldn't make consciousness yet. Yet another delay in saving his sister. But save her he would.

Vaxel lowered his creation to the floor. Its bones clicked softly, dragging itself more than skittering, but it moved. That was enough. It had to be. He followed it back through the chute, retracing the grave-slick tunnel.

The kitchens were deserted again. Blood still stained the table. The air stank of iron and smoke. Nothing had changed. He pressed the spider against the door. No warning pulses. He stepped out and moved fast, ghosting through corridors and servant halls. Every shadow felt like breath on his neck. Every creak might have been claws. Eventually, the halls gave way to stone. Cracked steps spiraled downward, past crumbling arches and rusted sconces. He reached the dungeons.

Empty.

No guards. No patrols. They're still hunting me, he thought, good. He searched the cells. Empty. Empty. Collapsed-“Estrelia!” She shifted at the sound of her name, stepping forward into the light. Vaxel’s breath hitched. Her face was the same. But wrong. Hair matted and darker in patches—fur, not dirt. Muscles too taut. Scars jagged across her arms. Her fingernails had grown into something closer to claws. The walls behind her were etched with claw-marks. Bloodstained.

“Vaxel?” she croaked. “You shouldn’t be here!”

“I’m getting you out.” His voice cracked, but his resolve didn’t. He raised his crude scythe and brought it down on the lock.

Snap—crack.

The blade shattered, but the lock fell away. The cell creaked open.

“No—Vaxel, listen. You have to run-!”

A voice like silk through rot cut across the air: "I'm afraid it's far too late for running, my dear bait."

Lord Rivener stood at the far end of the hallway. Torches guttered behind him. Dozens of shapes loomed—some half-man, some fully wolf. All eyes burned with silver light.

“Why don’t we have a small talk,” Rivener said, smiling wide, "about how nicely your corpses will decorate my throne!"

"AAAGH!" As Lord Rivener extended his hand, Estrelia began screaming violently.

"What are you doing to her?"

"I am simply intensifying what was already there. You saw it yourself, did you not? See what your sister has become!" He raised his arms in a dramatic flourish. Then, half a second later, a blur whizzed past.

"Vaxel!" Estrelia roared. "I'm not safe anymore! Run!" She moved through the horde of werewolves, decimating their ranks as they stood still, dumbfounded.

"Tch." Lord Rivener lowered his hand to his side, flicking away the droplet of blood that coalesced from a strike he had barely avoided. "Seems this newborn is truly rabid after all. Such a pity." As Estrelia turned to face him, he let out a howl, his shape rearranging once again into that of a werewolf. Estrelia instantly stopped, the blood still dripping from her claws. "Much better. Now die like the beast you are, by the Moon's command!"

Estrelia slowly raised a hand, her claws pointing toward herself. Her eyes locked with Vaxel's. "I'm sorry," she mouthed. Then her arm pierced her chest, a fountain of blood erupting from the now corpse.

"Hmph. Couldn't even die with some dignity. Do you know how hard I work to maintain my fur?"

Vaxel wasn't listening. He was in his own world, where the last few seconds of his life repeated in front of his eyes. I'm sorry.

A raging torrent of mana burst forth through his veins. His eyes darkened, the pupil expanding until it covered even the whites of his eyes. His body bent in unnatural ways, as if he had gained new joints, his limbs cracked and reshaped, and his form became translucent, revealing every bone in his body, a cage that both bound him and set him free. "Lord Rivener." He was beyond simple speech. It was a command. And nothing more needed to be said. A thread of mana extended from his finger towards him, now cowering in fear. Vaxel had a thought. The living are simply the dead pulled by strings. He is already dead. I just need to show it to him. The string reached Lord Rivener's neck, then burrowed its way inside his skin. He screamed, in pain, fear, confusion. Then, his skin began to peel. It released its hold on his bones and flesh, and fell away, revealing the organs inside. Vaxel reached in, and grabbed his heart. He gave a small smile, drastically enhanced by his form. For a moment, a tug of some emotion he couldn't name pulled at him. Regardless of what he had done, this was a human, in their own right, with a will to live and-Then he ripped it out, and Lord Rivener was no more. He sat there for a moment. Then he turned to the hallway, where his sister lay. It did not cry. There was no more space for emotion left in it. it simply sat on the stone floor, and began to sew. A requiem for what was lost, and a promise for what was to come.