The first giant raider charged down the slope, his massive battle axe swinging wildly. The elves, caught off guard, were no match for his onslaught. His axe cleaved through them like an adult tearing through a child's toys. Two elves were sent flying with a single brutal kick.
But it wasn't long before the elven wizards responded. With a flick of their fingers, a blast of fire engulfed the giant, taking him down in a flash of blinding light.
The giants were frost giants, their skin hardened against the cold, but this also made them vulnerable to heat. Fire was their weakness, and the elves knew it well. That was why they had chosen to begin their assault with a storm of fire, intending to cripple the giants before they could fight back.
Yet, the giants were not so easily broken. They may have been caught off guard by the elves' declaration of war, but their instincts kicked in quickly. As Aunt Martha, one of the elder giant women, took command from a vantage point on the hill, she led her people into a counterattack. The ground rumbled as she and her kin unleashed a barrage of boulders, rolling logs, and anything they could find to hurl down upon the attacking elves.
Each boulder created shockwaves, toppling trees and shaking the earth beneath the elves' feet. For every rock that struck the ground, more elves were buried or crushed. Logs tumbled down like unstoppable forces of nature, carving deep scars into the earth and leaving trails of destruction.
The elves, for all their arrogance and magical prowess, had underestimated their opponents. And in the early stages of the war, they were paying the price dearly. The giants, even with the flames licking at their village, were not just surviving. They were hunting.
This was only the beginning.
There weren't many places around the giant village where you could see everything from above. But those that did exist were perfect spots, for the elves, they offered ideal vantage points for launching their spells, and for the giants, they were traps, carefully prepared ambush zones waiting for the right moment.
The giants had been patient, biding their time. They knew the elves would strike first with their magic, and when the time came, they would be ready. The moment the elves unleashed their first wave of fiery spells, the giants sprang into action.
Even the most powerful wizard needs a moment to recover after casting a spell. That's when the giants struck, waiting until the elven wizards had exhausted their power for the first round. Flames still danced across the remains of the village, but the real battle was just beginning.
From the snowy ridges, where they had lain in wait, the strongest warriors of the village emerged. These were no ordinary giants, these were the best fighters, hardened by the harsh cold and the limited food supply. They had waited, conserving their strength until this moment of desperation.
And now, they attacked.
Caught off guard, the elves faltered. The giants had timed their ambush perfectly, striking just as the elven forces were at their most vulnerable. Their formation, once neat and orderly, dissolved into chaos.
Elves weren't built for close combat. The rangers, skilled as they were at long-range hunting and sniping, found themselves disoriented and scrambling. The wizards, their minds focused on spellcraft, suddenly found themselves in the thick of a battle they hadn't expected.
From the nearby snowy forests, a chorus of wild howls filled the air. The wolves had come. But these weren't just any wolves; they were larger, more ferocious beasts from the northern reaches were among them. The giant hunters, anticipating this battle for days, had driven the beasts southward, hoping to add even more confusion to the already unraveling battlefield. The wolves would tear through the elves' ranks, reducing their numerical advantage and limiting their ability to cast spells effectively.
For all their supposed wisdom, the elves had underestimated their opponents. The giants, often seen as simple and slow-witted, were playing a far more strategic game than the elves had anticipated. The giants, seemingly dull, had crafted an ingenious battle plan, while the "wise elves" had been the reckless ones all along.
The elves were now beginning to realize their mistake. These weren't the passive, peaceful giants they'd encountered in times of peace. These were warriors, defending their home and their people with a ferocity the elves hadn't expected.
Chaos spread like wildfire. The northern elves, more accustomed to precise, ranged combat, struggled to fend off the giants, who fought like berserkers. And no one embodied that raw power and rage more than Mad Lion.
Mad Lion was the fastest, the fiercest of the frost giants. Bastian's words, the bitter truth he had delivered, had ignited something within him, something primal. He had nearly rushed the elf tribe the moment he heard it, his fury too great to contain.
Now, his rage was unchained.
With a roar, Mad Lion tore into the elven ranks, a whirlwind of violence. In his left hand, he wielded Frost Cry, a silver-inlaid magic axe that gleamed in the winter sun. In his right, he gripped Wolf Cry, a massive dark steel club that sent tremors through the ground with each swing. He was a force of nature, an unstoppable storm of death.
An elf ranger, bow drawn and double swords ready, charged at him. Mad Lion sneered. To him, the ranger's weapons were like toothpicks. With a single blow, he crushed the elf's skull, sending the body sprawling into the snow.
Mad Lion didn't stop. His momentum carried him through the elven line, breaking their defenses with terrifying speed.
"Boom!"
An explosion ripped through the air, and a wall of fire erupted around Mad Lion. The elves had responded. The quickest of their spellcasters had recovered and targeted the frost giant, hoping to bring him down before he could do any more damage. The flames engulfed him, their heat scorching the air.
But Mad Lion kept going.
Through the blaze, wrapped in his winter wolfskin cloak, he charged forward. The fire singed his skin, but it didn't slow him. He had only one target now, the elven spellcaster, standing at the heart of the formation, his hands still trembling from the magic he had unleashed.
The elf was vulnerable, having just completed his spell. He had no time to escape, no more tricks up his sleeve. Mad Lion was closing in, his weapons glinting in the light of the dying flames.
"Die, parasite of the earth!" Mad Lion roared, his voice like thunder.
With a final swing of his axe, he brought it crashing down, aiming to end the elf once and for all.
The furious giant sprang into the air, his blood-red battle axe slicing through the cold wind as he aimed it directly at the calm, unmoving elven wizard below.
Could the elf really be this calm in the face of death? Did this high-ranking wizard not realize that his magic shield was no more than paper before the sheer brute force of a giant? Charles had already cleaved through lesser spellcasters with a single swing, and this elf would be no different, so he thought.
"Bang!"
The axe crashed against the light blue shimmer of the wizard's shield, but instead of shattering like glass, the shield held firm. The sound that erupted wasn't the splintering of magic but the cold, hard clang of iron meeting stone. The elf behind the shield didn't even flinch, his face an indifferent mask of focus.
The sight stunned not only the giants but also the elf rangers nearby, who stood wide-eyed, as confused as the giants themselves. They knew enough about magic to understand that this was wrong. The magic shield spell was basic, transforming magical energy into a flimsy layer of physical protection. It was fine for blocking arrows or deflecting weak attacks, but it drained magic rapidly and wasn't designed for withstanding the raw strength of a giant.
Yet here stood the wizard, untouched, his shield defying everything they knew. Charles, one of the strongest giants, was being stopped by what should've been a weak, low-level spell.
"Impossible!" Charles roared, his voice filled with disbelief.
He swung again, harder this time. His massive sledgehammer followed the magic axe in a relentless barrage, striking the shield over and over, each hit ringing out in a series of sharp clang clang clang sounds. But it was no use.
Charles wasn't just a physical fighter, he was one of the frost giants' elite berserkers, a warrior with mastery over winter's magic. His bloodline granted him the ability to summon ice and snow, and his weapons, enchanted with the power of frost, were capable of unleashing devastating cold. He was known for his Winter Slash, a strike so powerful that it could freeze a white dragon to death in an instant. The ice storms he conjured could wipe out entire villages in minutes.
But none of that mattered now. His relentless blows, thunderous as they were, failed to even crack the shimmering shield. Each strike sent ripples across the surface of the barrier, like water splashing against stone, but there wasn't a single fracture.
And still, the elven wizard didn't acknowledge him. Inside the protective shield, the wizard calmly continued his work, his fingers tracing intricate patterns in the air as he prepared for the third spell. His face remained serene, as if Charles were nothing more than a passing nuisance, not the raging giant hammering down on him.
"Charles!" A cry rang out from the hillside. It was Martha, his wife, her voice thick with fear and urgency.