Silence.

For the first time since the Shard shattered, Vaxel heard nothing. No screams, no howls, no frantic drums of his heart. Just the soft crackle of his own breath, like leaves underfoot.

He lay against a wall, still half-curled against the bone-laced floor. His arms shook beneath him. His hands, blackened and cracked, ached with every twitch. But they obeyed. He was alive. With only the dead to surround him.

His eyes drifted up to the walls. Bones formed spirals, lattices, patterns. It didn’t feel like a tomb. It felt like a home. A place of rest, instead of rot.

Vaxel tried to stand up. A burning lance of pain shot through him, but he resisted the urge to scream. There was no sense in alerting the werewolves to his position. As he held onto a wall for support, he noticed that the walls were, responsive, in a way. Even beyond the cold grasp of the grave, they still were leaning toward him, ever so slightly.

"What am I becoming?" The thought drifted through him like smoke. It wasn't fearful, rather, a simple acknowledgement of what had happened. But regardless of morals or ethics, this was his only way out of this situation. He had to learn, and swiftly, so he could guarantee his survival.

He knelt down by the bones on the floor, wincing as his knees cracked against them. His hand hovered over a rib. He closed his eyes, and focused on the cold stillness that had answered when blood spilled on bone. Slowly, cautiously, threads of mana began seeping from his fingertips. Thin as hair, brittle as frost. The threads drifted downward-one attached to a femur, the other to the rib below. They slowly came together-then snapped.

Vaxel hissed in displeasure. Too tight, too fragile. He tried again, slower this time. He carefully threaded the mana-strings through the marrow, weaving a delicate pattern of stability. Then he pulled it through a second bone. This time, it held. piece by piece, he stitched them together. A femur, and a few jagged ribs. He cinched the final thread and pulled it tight. The bones shuddered, then stopped. A small, crude scythe, the only thing he had learned to use that was even close to a weapon. The threads glimmered faintly, and even with the new structure, they only barely held it together. It might last for a swing, maybe two, and looked like a weapon made by a starving rat. But it was a weapon. "You'll do." he muttered.

The crypt offered one exit one exit, if he discounted the one where he came from. There was an archway that led into a chute to the kitchens. It was littered with bones. Vaxel tried not to think of what that meant. As he climbed up, the stench of the dead was slowly replaced with a one much more fresh-the scent of blood. After peeking out to ensure no one was there, he climbed out of the chute and into the kitchens. The servants were gone, and everything was swept to the corners to make room for a large table, rife with deep gashes and dark spatters.

Human. A special food. The words crawled through his mind, but he dismissed them. He couldn't afford to be distracted. He moved quickly now, dodging between servant halls and store-rooms. As he passed by the noble's quarters, he heard sounds from within. He quickly pressed behind a statue in an alcove, and listened.

"-Resisted the moon, more than most." Vaxel recognized the voice as the herald from the ceremony.

“Which makes her useless,” another said. Vider. “Too strong to break, too weak to be trusted. Put her down before she turns rabid.”

"Rabid or not, she still serves her purpose. She will remain in the dungeon." This one was older, calmer, but with a biting edge. He had heard it only rarely, so he couldn't be sure, but-Lord Rivener.

"And what of the boy?" The herald inquired.

"Probably dead." Vider replied.

"He is not dead," Lord Rivener said, "the Shard saw to that. He walks the crypts. But no matter. The Moon is patient, as are the fangs that follow." There was a clinking of goblets, and a brief moment passed. The door opened, and they came out. One of them sniffed the air for a moment, before moving on.