The raid had gone perfectly so far. The elves, arrogant and overconfident, had fallen into their trap, underestimating their giant foes at every turn. But now, in this crucial moment, when Charles was supposed to bring down the most dangerous wizard, something had gone horribly wrong.
Charles heard his wife's call. He glanced toward the slope, his eyes meeting hers for the briefest moment. She looked terrified, her normally strong demeanor cracking under the weight of what was happening. But Charles, he knew. He knew what would come next, what the cost of hesitation or retreat would be.
He wouldn't retreat. He couldn't.
With a sudden burst of energy, Charles made his move. Leaping high into the air, he threw down his weapons and wrapped his powerful arms around the waist of the elven wizard, encasing him in a crushing embrace even as the shield still shimmered around them both.
The elf's expression finally changed. His eyes widened in shock and, for the first time, a flicker of unease crossed his face. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't planned for this.
Charles, now face to face with the wizard, turned his head toward the snowy slope where Martha stood. His lips curled into a smile, a smile that was more of a grimace, a twisted expression of both defiance and resignation. It was a smile uglier than crying.
"For Masha," Charles muttered, his voice rough but steady. "And for Gearlard."
With those final words, he held the elf tighter, his body bracing for whatever came next. For his family. For his people.
The Frost Giant didn't hesitate. With two powerful strides, he launched himself toward the edge of the cliff.
"Nool!!"
The cry pierced the air, sharp and heart-wrenching. Martha's voice, filled with grief, cut through the chaos like a blade. She had lost everything, her child, her husband and now, as Charles leaped toward certain doom, the battlefield froze for just a heartbeat.
But war doesn't pause for long. Almost as soon as the echo of her wail faded, the clash of steel and the roar of battle resumed. There was no time for mourning. The Frost Giants knew they were losing ground, but with the death of the elven mage, if Charles had succeeded, they might still stand a chance. If they could take down the remaining high-level threats, there was hope for victory.
"Boom!"
Just as the first flicker of hope bloomed in their hearts, it was extinguished by a sight so devastating that even the most hardened warriors faltered.
The elven mage, the one who had unleashed the rain of fire that scorched the battlefield, rose slowly from the edge of the cliff. His expression remained indifferent, his cabbage-blue shield shimmering around him, untouched. The golden gem pendant at his chest glowed faintly, as if basking in the sunlight of some distant, peaceful world, far removed from the carnage below.
Not a scratch. Not even a tear in his robes.
Spears and axes flew toward him in desperation, and the icy breath of winter wolves howled across the battlefield, but none of it mattered. Every attack glanced harmlessly off his magical shield, as though it were nothing more than a slight breeze passing by.
The battlefield churned with chaos, giants and elves locked in a deadly dance of survival. But the moment that mage floated back, effortlessly casting his spells, it was clear to all who witnessed it: the battle was over.
The mage, along with two other high-ranking wizards clad in similar unbreakable shields, began their systematic slaughter. One by one, the giants fell. Their magic was relentless, pouring out high-level spells with what seemed like infinite power. Fire, ice, and lightning crackled through the air, and the frost giants, so mighty in their strength, crumbled under the assault.
The shield that had defied every attack, their endless spellcasting, it was as though these elves weren't even bound by the rules of battle. This wasn't a fight anymore. It was a massacre, a foregone conclusion from the start.
And when the last giant finally fell, not a single one had turned their back to flee. They fought until the end, proud and unyielding. Only then, when the battlefield was littered with the bodies of fallen giants, did the elven spellcasters allow themselves to relax. The soft golden glow from their tower-shaped pendants finally dimmed, the strange magical shields fading into nothingness.
The battlefield grew quiet, but there was something else now, an unsettling realization creeping through the elven ranks.
"Where are the children?" one of the rangers asked, his voice breaking the eerie silence. "There should've been children. They're easier to tame as slaves. And that half-blood bastard isn't here either. Ha! Half-bloods are trash, he must have abandoned the fools who raised him."
The dark green-haired elf mage, who had been adjusting his pendant, smiled faintly and tucked it carefully into his robes. His eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze southward, a dark intent gleaming in them.
"Don't worry," he said, his voice cold. "They can't escape. I've made sure of that."
***
Far from the battlefield, those very children; those "stupid" giant children, were now walking along a treacherous mountain road. Behind them was Bastian, leading the group, his heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. The older children were trembling, their faces pale with fear.
And blocking their path stood an all-too-familiar figure: the elven ranger captain. His eyes sparkled with twisted delight as he looked at Bastian, as if savoring the inevitability of what was to come.
"So," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "do we have to kill them all?"
"I am part of this tribe. But I could just as easily walk away from it. Still, I must fight for the tribe!"
That night, under a sky heavy with stars and the weight of impending war, Bastian returned to the Frost Giant's village. The old shaman was waiting for him, his aged, weathered face hidden beneath layers of furs, his eyes burning with a knowledge deeper than time. He pulled him aside, his voice low and urgent.
"You must leave," he said softly, his words like a blade against the stillness of the night.
Bastian's reaction was immediate, his anger sharp. "Leave?" His voice trembled with frustration. "I'm one of them. How could I just abandon them now?"
He knew the situation all too well. The elves, their numbers swelling with each passing year, had been preparing for a conflict for longer than he could remember. The Frost Giants, on the other hand, were in decline, starving, their numbers shrinking with every harsh winter. Their chances against the elves, no matter how fierce, were slim to none. Bastian understood this deeply, yet his loyalty ran deeper. He had already resigned himself to the idea of dying for the tribe that had taken him in so many years ago.
"If it weren't for the giants, I would have frozen to death as a child," he thought, bitterly remembering those early years. "No one else would have taken in a foreigner, an orphan, especially with the threat of the elves looming. They saved me."
The shaman's voice cut through his thoughts. "The earth whispers, child. It tells me this is not your true home."
Bastian opened his mouth to protest, but the old shaman held up a hand, silencing him before the words escaped.
"Leaving now is not cowardice, Bastian," he continued, his tone softening. "Take the children, our tribe's future, and lead them to safety. The others are older, yes, but they lack your wisdom, your strength. They are still too innocent. They have yet to taste the sweetness of life, to understand the depth of love. They do not yet grasp what they would be leaving behind."
The shaman's yellowed eyes, though dim with age, glimmered with a knowing far beyond the present. As he gazed at him, Bastian saw something unexpected in his expression, pleading. This wasn't just a command from a leader; it was the desperate request of an elder who had seen too much death and wished, above all, to protect what little remained of his people.
"Bastian," he whispered, stepping closer, "you must take them south, to the Giant's Canyon. Find Bram the Great. Tell him what's happened here. He will bring justice, make the elves pay in blood for their arrogance."
Bastian hesitated. "But what about, "
"Tell me, who else can lead them? Who else can carry our children through the dangers of the south? Drax? He's never left the village, and he barely speaks anything but Giant. The others are even less prepared, they've lived sheltered lives, never encountering a foreigner, never facing the harshness of the world beyond this snow."
His words stung because they were true. The thought of those children wandering, lost or worse, enslaved, stirred something deep within Bastian. In this world, teeming with powerful beasts and treacherous lands, it took more than brute strength to survive. Wisdom, experience, cunning, these were the true weapons.
The shaman's voice dropped to a murmur, his final words sealing the fate Bastian already knew he must accept. "The children are the future of our tribe. If they die here, then so do we."