Temple of Bones

“They buried the gods here. But something stayed awake.”

Far beyond the reach of men, past the last frozen river, stands a structure no map dares to mark. It was not built — it was grown. From tusks and femurs, horns and skulls. No mortar. No stone. Just death, shaped with purpose.

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They call it the Temple of Bones. No one remembers who first raised it. Some say it was the last warriors of a dying tribe, who offered themselves one by one, bone by bone, to build a doorway to the other side. Others say it simply appeared one winter — a monument to things older than gods.

Ravens circle above it in perfect silence. The wind stops near its walls. Nothing decays inside.

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Those who enter speak of voices in a tongue that tastes like ash, of eyes watching from sockets still wet with memory. No one ever finds remains inside — just footprints that lead in, and none that lead out.

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But here’s the truth: not all temples are for worship. Some are prisons. And the bones aren’t just there to honor the dead — they’re there to hold something in.

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Something that still remembers its name.