The blue screen is still hanging in the air where I left it, patient as a butler who knows I'll say yes.
Would you like to make this beast your first undead summon now.
Begin Quick Forge: Bone Hound — Y / N.
"Fine," I say. "Yes."
"Enthusiasm detected," the Compass says in my head, pleased. "Do try to pace yourself. We only have one corpse."
The cave lurker is where I dropped it, white hide already dulling. Bones are bones. Somewhere inside that mess is the memory of a hound.
The screen simplifies into a sketch: spine, ribs, four legs, a jaw, and a small heart-mark I have to trace in three strokes. No circles, no chanting, no mathematics. Just cuts, ties, and intent.
"Internal Darkflow in short pulses," the Compass says. "You will be tempted to flood your hands with the current and go faster. Please do not turn your fingers into numb sausages."
"I can take a hint."
I breathe the way the primer taught me. Four in, hold two, roll out on three. The cold sits in my palms like a well-behaved weight. Knife first. Joints part with ugly sounds. The spill of blood smells like iron coins. I work slowly—bone from tendon, tendon from muscle—until I have a tidy pile of ribs and long bones, a spine, and a hinged jaw. The cave feels like a workshop that forgot it's a cave.
"Lacing," the Compass says, "is where many promising students discover the word 'patience.'"
"Lucky for you," I say, "I like the word 'alive' more."
Leather from my pouch becomes ligature. I try the first joint, pulse the cold a hair too long, and my fingers go to sleep up to the second knuckle. The tie slips ugly and the leg shivers apart.
"Too much," I tell myself. "Again."
"Welcome to External Darkflow," the Compass says. "Placement, not volume. Timing, not drama."
On the second try I only sip the current when the leather cinches. No numbness; tight lash. The third joint inherits the lesson. Fourth goes quicker. I settle ribs along the spine and see the outline of a dog the way a sculptor sees a face in rough stone.
"Heart-mark," the Compass prompts. "Remember your penmanship."
Hook. Loop. Line. The mark sinks into the breastbone like a thumbprint into warm wax.
"Wake word," the Compass says. Its voice goes softer, like we've stepped into a church without agreeing to.
I look at the shape I've made. It is thin and wrong and right and terrible and necessary.
"Here," I say.
The bones take a breath they don't need. The ribcage lifts and settles. The spine tightens. The jaw clicks once, a dry sound. Two empty sockets turn toward me like they remember eyes.
It stands, first like a foal, then like a dog. The skull dips to my hand. The gesture is nothing like a living animal would make and exactly like it at the same time.
The blue writes a neat line.
Construct achieved. Register and bind.
"Terms," the Compass says. "This is a pact, not a collar. You promise to use what you build for your stated desire—live well, protect those you choose and who choose you. You do not send it to harm innocents. If you break the promise, it walks away. If you keep it, it will try not to fall apart when you sneeze."
"That seems fair," I say.
"It seems functional," the Compass says. "Fair is a bonus."
"Then I promise," I say. "No innocents. Protection first. You get to leave if I betray that."
The blue warms and resolves into a clean stamp over the breastbone that mirrors the mark I drew.
Bone Hound — bound.
Name your construct.
"Marrow," I say, because it feels like a joke and a prayer, and because I need something to call when I don't have a whistle.
"Acceptable," the Compass says. "Please do not name the next one 'Bone Jovi.'"
Marrow's skull tilts as if trying on the sound. I test a few moves. Here brings a quick step. Stay makes it freeze so completely a sensible man would trip over it. Heel is wobbly but promising. Scout earns me a cocked head and a step into the dark before it returns to put its jaw in my palm again. Not clever, not stupid—waiting to be taught.
"Range?" I ask.
"Leash distance twenty paces with your current External Darkflow," the Compass says. "Past that, it forgets you exist and becomes a very confusing art installation."
"Capacity?"
"Also one," the Compass says, with apologetic brightness. "Your External channel is a narrow river at present. You may maintain one construct or one tame at a time without losing control or becoming the subject of a cautionary ballad."
"One," I repeat.
"For now," it says. "You will expand your leash by keeping the construct active without collapse, using it in a live exchange without friendly harm, and completing your first ethical bind. After that, two. Think of it as not-dying prerequisites."
I rub a finger along the ridge of Marrow's skull. The bone feels cooler than the air. The leash is a line I can't see, humming faintly between my chest and the hound's sternum. If I think heel again, the hum draws tight for a moment and then relaxes when Marrow obeys. Too much pull makes it stumble; too little and the command is a suggestion. Timing, not drama.
"Why didn't Armand have one?" I ask. "He had the current. He used it on himself. Why not this."
The Compass thinks in the polite way people use when they already have the answer but want you to ask nicely.
"Armand had notes," it says. "Not many. He called External work 'messy' and 'for artisans.' He liked the attention of winning duels with his own hands. He also had a warning on his student record: first-year forging unsupervised attracts discipline. He disliked being told where to stand and whom to ask. Pride is louder than instruction."
"So he never hit the page."
"Never," it says. "He had a house wright for funerary automata and believed that counted."
"And now?"
"You are not Armand," the Compass says. "You have access to his moves, his etiquette, his coat, his very fine shoes, and his talent for learning a routine and then breaking it. But the person using them is different. Please consider this good news."
Marrow circles once and sits, an elegant museum of a dog waiting for a tour. I let myself smile for one steady breath.
"All right," I say. "New rule. We build when it keeps people breathing. We don't build just to watch something stand up. We keep our promises and we don't make puppets out of thinking things."
"Logged," the Compass says. "Would you like the short manual on consent-based Accords for lesser undead?"
"Later," I say. The word catches in my chest. There's a list hiding behind it. Later is a dangerous country where everything you love might still be alive.
I sit with that for a moment because I owe the truth the courtesy of being seen. Lila's smile, carefully held when she didn't want to cry. Nora's braids, too tight because she wanted to be perfect. Max's dinosaur, rawr every hour on the hour. They live where I can't go.
"I won't use this world to claw backward," I say, to the cave and the crack of light and the ridiculous screen that saved me from talking only to myself. "I'll live here. For me. For the people who choose me. I'll carry them, but I won't chase ghosts. That's the promise."
The Compass is quiet as long as I need it to be. When it speaks, it's soft.
"Second Life Compass thanks you for your clarity," it says. "Also, clarity helps with not dying."
"Back to work," I say, and stand.
The cave is still a cave. The crack in the ceiling is still a rumor of sky. The floor still wants to tilt a man who isn't paying attention. Marrow heel-walks at my left knee with the determinism of a good idea and the awkwardness of a newborn. It will get better.
The blue screen offers a tiny list in the corner of my sight that doesn't get in the way. Not levels. Not homework. Just three boxes.
Keep construct stable for one hour while moving.
Use construct in a live exchange without friendly harm.
Complete first ethical bind.
"Ethical bind means a tame," I say.
"Yes," the Compass says. "Or a release with terms. There are more interesting undead in the world than skeletons. Many of them have opinions. You will find that negotiating with opinions is your skill set."
I gather the leather scraps and what I can use later. The rest I leave. I do not have a sack for a home bone collection and I would like not to smell like storage. I check the sabre. Clean. The knife. Clean. The tear in my sleeve. Untidy but serviceable. I light the torch kit from the coat lining and the cave gains shadows instead of only being one.
"Exit?" I ask.
"Follow the draft," the Compass says. "Or buy a map scrap for one coin you do not have. I suggest you follow the draft until an opportunity to become slightly wealthier presents itself."
We move.
It is a relief to walk, to do something ordinary in an unordinary place. Anchor Step pulses in my heels when the ground tries to be treacherous. The torch paints Marrow in moving lines and edges. The leash hums against my sternum like a string you pluck when you're trying to remember a song.
I don't get far. The tunnel kinks left, then widens into a chamber where the roof has peeled back another handspan. Drip becomes trickle. Air tastes newer. Good. Also bad. The new air carries new smells.
Fur. Damp. The sweet rot of something that ate and then waited.
"Contact," I say.
"Contact," the Compass agrees. "Two small, one medium, right ahead. They have a healthy appreciation for dinner."
Shadows detach from shadow. Two creepers, lower to the ground than the lurker I killed, noses up, whiskers trembling. Behind them something heavier scuffs stone. The torch flare makes dull hide gleam gray-white.
"Range, twenty paces," I remind myself. "Capacity, one."
"Correct," the Compass says. "However, bones store beautifully."
I set my feet. Anchor. Breath. The cold sits where I ask it to. The sabre finds my hand like it lives there. Marrow lowers its skull and points like a weather vane at the first creeper.
I smile despite the math.
It was time to get more summons.