Dawn breaks across the survivors' camp. They wake slowly, stiff from sleeping on hard ground. Fear returns with consciousness as they remember why they're here.

  The stone-thrower rises first, checking his children still breathe. They gather closer to dying embers, speaking in hushed tones.

  Children whimper at empty stomachs. The old struggle to stand on weakened legs. Two weeks of the horror's methodical culling has left them diminished.

  "We need to go back," a woman says, clutching her clothing around thin shoulders. "Our homes."

  "Our food," another adds. "Our supplies."

  "Our walls," the stone-thrower stands. "The settlement's walls have protected us since grandfather's time."

  "The tunnels run under everything," another answers. "Our homes, our fields. It shaped the ground beneath our feet for weeks while we lived blind above."

  Some nod. Others stare at soil that might hide more horrors. The horror died, but they know now what darkness can hold.

  "The cellars," a woman clutches her rescued daughter. "All those passages. How do we know what else lives down there?"

  These bones offer no answer. The horror died, but instinct drives this frame to follow the survivors. Their protection commands priority.

  The stone-thrower looks to my silent vigil. "Will you come with us? We need to gather supplies."

  The sword rises, blade catching morning light. These fragments sense no immediate danger, yet purpose demands vigilance.

  The village waits, a cluster of wooden structures surrounded by a simple palisade. They approach with caution, memories of the horror's hunting ground still fresh. The gate stands open, just as they left it during their flight two weeks past.

  "Stay together," the stone-thrower commands. "Move quickly. Take only what we need."

  They move with purpose bred from desperation. The stone-thrower organizes them into teams, each with specific tasks. "Grain from the communal stores. Preserved meats from the smokehouse. Tools from the smithy. Medical supplies from the healer's cottage. Warm clothing for the journey."

  Three strong men head to the grainery with empty sacks. Women gather at the communal ovens, collecting bread that somehow remains fresh. Others retrieve smoked meats from hanging racks, water from the wells. The village holds enough to sustain them, if they can carry it.

  "The cart," an old farmer suggests. "The one we use for market days. It could carry more than our backs."

  The stone-thrower nods. "Good. Find it. Check the wheels, the axles. We'll need it sound for the journey."

  Two men retrieve the cart from behind the meeting hall. Its wheels turn true despite sitting idle. They begin loading it with provisions, sacks of grain, sealed jars of preserves, coils of rope, extra clothing for the cold nights ahead.

  "Take the medicines," a woman directs. "The tinctures for fever. The salves for wounds. Who knows what we'll face on the road."

  Children gather smaller items, flint and steel for fires, needles and thread for repairs, small keepsakes to remember home. The stone-thrower oversees it all, ensuring they take only what serves survival.

  "The weapons rack," he directs a group of younger men. "Bows for hunting. Spears for protection. Knives for all."

  They work with efficient desperation, filling the cart and their own packs. Food enough for weeks if rationed. Water skins for the journey. Tools that serve multiple purposes. The stone-thrower examines the cart's growing load.

  "Not too heavy," he warns. "We must move quickly if needed."

  These fragments patrol between groups, hollow sockets scanning for threats. The village holds strangeness beyond empty streets. Fires still burn in hearths abandoned days ago. Candles remain lit. Gardens show signs of recent tending. Food on tables appears fresh.

  "How?" A woman stares at her untouched kitchen. "Two weeks, yet everything looks, fresh."

  "Someone's been here," the stone-thrower says, "Someone's been maintaining our homes."

  A survivor points to footprints in scattered flour on a baker's floor. "Look. These aren't ours."

  These fragments scan the disturbed earth. The prints seem human, yet subtly wrong - too precise, too uniform. The sword rises slightly, sensing deception where others see mere strangeness.

  "Take what you can, quickly," the stone-thrower urges. "Something isn't right here."

  They work with desperate efficiency. Packs fill with food still fresh despite weeks of abandonment. Water drawn from wells. Tools and clothing packed with care.

  A child cries. "Father, look!"

  Everyone freezes as they follow his pointing finger. A girl stands at the end of the street. Her dress matches the one Emmy wears, clutched in her father's arms. Her face bears the same features, down to the small birthmark beneath her left eye.

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  "Emmy?" The stone-thrower's daughter presses closer to his leg. "That's not me."

  The second Emmy smiles. Her lips stretch too wide for a human face. "Father? Why did you leave me behind?"

  The stone-thrower pushes his daughter behind him. "That's not Emmy."

  The copy steps forward, movements jerking like a puppet with tangled strings. "Don't you recognize me? It's Emmy."

  My sword rises. These fragments sense wrongness beyond simple mimicry. The horror's death left offspring - smaller versions that had learned to mimic without mastering the full art of their parent.

  "Everyone back," the stone-thrower commands.

  The survivors retreat, remembering terror too fresh to forget.

  "Father, don't you want to take me home? Take me to our new home?"

  These bones move forward as the survivors retreat. The sword points toward the aberration, recognizing corruption that must be cleansed.

  "Father, why does the skeleton want to hurt me?" The voice changes, grows more childlike, more perfect in its mimicry. "I'm scared."

  The stone-thrower's daughter screams from behind her father's protection. "It's copying my voice! Make it stop!"

  A realization forms in these fragment, the Harvester never needed to claim the faces it wore.

  Different method of mimicry.

  The offspring doesn't wear Emmy's skin - it wears an approximation formed from its parent's memories. A shadow of a shadow, a copy of a stolen image. Less perfect than the original horror's method, but no less dangerous in its deception.

  The false Emmy's face splits into a too-wide smile. Beneath her skin, something moves that has no place in human flesh. Her limbs elongate, joints bending in impossible directions.

  My shield braces as the sword rises. The battle instinct requires no thought.

  The copy lunges, movement unnaturally fast. Not as fast as the horror, but quick enough to threaten the living. My blade intercepts, parting false flesh that yields no blood. Instead, black ichor spills from the wound, thinner than the horror's but bearing the same corrupt essence.

  The survivors scatter, seeking shelter in nearby buildings. The stone-thrower pushes his children through a doorway. "Stay inside! All of you!"

  The false Emmy screams with perfect human terror as the sword cuts deeper. Its form begins to shift, skin sloughing away to reveal something altogether different. Not the segmented horror of its parent, but a paler imitation. Fewer limbs, less armor, more dependency on mimicry than brute force.

  Its true form emerges, a pale grub-like creature with rudimentary plates beginning to form. Face-stealing remains its primary weapon, but it lacks the horror's centuries of hunting experience.

  The aberration abandons its human guise entirely, revealing six developing limbs and a partially formed mouth structure similar to the horror's feeding apparatus. It flees, scuttling between buildings with surprising speed.

  These fragments give chase. The offspring poses less threat than its parent, but purpose demands completion. The sword follows, tracking black ichor across village streets.

  The creature leads toward the well at the village center. It descends the stone shaft, limbs finding purchase where human hands would slip. These bones follow, descending into darkness without hesitation.

  Below, tunnels branch from the well shaft - smaller passages than the horror's main chambers, but unmistakably the same design. Young tunnels, recently dug. The horror's offspring had begun creating their own domains beneath the village, separate from their parent's hunting ground.

  The ichor trail leads deeper. My sword scrapes low ceiling as these fragments track the wounded creature through passages sized for its smaller form. The shield catches on narrow walls, slowing progress.

  The tunnel opens to a small chamber, a miniature version of the horror's larder. No cocoons hang here yet, but the walls bear fresh secretions, preparation for future hunting. The offspring crouches in the chamber's center, limbs splayed in defensive posture.

  It has no stolen face now, only sensory pits that pulse with recognition. Its mandibles click, producing sounds that approximate human speech. "Why hunt? Plenty for both. Village big."

  Behind it, three more figures emerge from shadowed recesses - not fully formed horrors, but grotesque approximations of villagers these fragments recognize from survivors' descriptions. The blacksmith. The miller. The healer. All disappeared during the horror's earliest hunts.

  These fragments understand now - the offspring maintained the village above, preserving it as a lure for returning survivors or new prey. They kept fires burning, food fresh, appearances normal. A trap layered upon trap.

  My sword rises, recognizing corruption that must not be allowed to mature. The offspring lack their parent's power now, but given time and feeding.

  The false Emmy lunges with desperate speed.

  Simple scythe-limbs slice toward borrowed bones. My shield deflects while the sword strikes with purpose born of ancient duty. Steel slides between developing plates, finding vulnerable flesh beneath.

  The offspring thrashes, black ichor flooding the chamber floor. Its limbs shudder, then grow still. Light flares from blessed steel, burning corruption from within.

  The other copies retreat deeper into tunnel networks, abandoning their wounded sibling. These fragments would pursue, but the shield pulls toward the surface, toward duties more immediate. The survivors remain vulnerable above.

  These bones retrace their path upward, emerging from the well to find survivors gathered in cautious distance. The stone-thrower steps forward, Emmy and Merik clutched close.

  "Another one?" he asks, voice tight with controlled fear.

  My sword scrapes dirt before them.

  OFFSPRING. SMALLER. DEAD. MORE BELOW.

  "There are more?" someone whispers. "The horror had children?"

  My sword continues its writing.

  MUST LEAVE. NOW.

  A woman points to fresh smoke rising from a chimney that had been cold moments before. "They're still here. Still watching. The whole village."

  The stone-thrower nods, understanding the urgency. "Everyone grab your packs. We've taken what we can." He meets hollow sockets with renewed resolve. "Lead us north. To these walls you promised."

  They gather with purpose born of fresh fear. The stronger help the weaker. Parents carry children too young to keep pace. The wounded receive support from those still whole.

  My shield points northward, toward distant Haven where walls stand higher and stronger than this village's simple palisade. The sword remains ready, watching for other disturbances in the natural order.

  As they walk, more faces appear at windows they had passed minutes before. Familiar faces worn by unfamiliar things. A baker watches from his shop. A child stands in a doorway. A farmer pauses in his field. All watching with eyes too still, expressions too fixed.

  The survivors look back one final time at the place they called home. The stone-thrower speaks what all think. "It was already lost. We just didn't know it yet."

  "Don't look back," mothers tell their children. "Just walk."

  The road stretches ahead, worn stones marking the way north. These fragments remember its path - three days to Haven's walls, if the living can maintain the pace.

  The mist of Joist and new horror remains behind. But its patience means little. Other horrors wait between this place and safety.

  Some feet blister. Some legs cramp. Some backs ache under loads growing heavier with each step. But they keep moving. The dead city behind offers no sanctuary, and Haven's walls wait ahead.

  A child falls, exhausted. Before her father can lift her, others take his burden so he can carry her.

  They learn. They adapt. They survive.