Bastian's chest tightened. The shaman was right, he could see that now. This wasn't about abandoning the fight; it was about ensuring there was something left to fight for. As much as it pained him to admit, there was no honor in a battle doomed to fail. The elves, arrogant as they were, had powers Bastian could only guess at. He thought back to the elven village he had once seen, where the sun shone endlessly, defying the bitter winters that gripped the land around it. There was magic at work there; magic that far surpassed his own meager understanding as a fledgling spellcaster.
With a sigh, Bastian turned back to the shaman, his voice quieter now, but resolved. "I'll take them."
The old shaman's eyes softened with gratitude, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. "Thank you, Bastian. The tribe owes you more than you know."
The kind of power that can bend the laws of nature is terrifying, no doubt. But such power isn't some miracle you can summon just by drawing a magic circle. No, a force that great demands a price, one just as overwhelming.
Bastian understood that no single person, no matter how skilled, could wield enough power to control nature. Not even an elven wizard could truly stand against the natural order. The sheer magnitude of magic required was far beyond anything any individual could muster. The more he thought about it, the more uneasy he became. He remembered a line he'd read once in an old book on magic, a page torn in half but still clear enough to disturb him.
"What a shame, all that energy just... evaporated."
The words echoed in his mind, sending a cold shiver down his spine. If his suspicions were correct, then the giants were doomed. No, worse, every tribe in the North was doomed. None of them stood a chance.
Bastian didn't keep his worries to himself. He sought out the village chief and the old shaman, laying out his theory in full detail. But all they offered in return was a silent, bitter smile and a reluctant shake of the head.
Do they not see it? he thought. Do they really not understand how hopeless this is?
Of course, they did. These giants weren't fools. They knew just as well as Bastian that their chances of victory were nearly nonexistent. It was why, for the first time in ages, they were seriously discussing strategies like ambushes and sneak attacks; methods they'd once considered beneath them. Giants were warriors who fought head-on, with honor, but now even they had to admit that a direct confrontation would be suicide.
Still, there was something Bastian couldn't understand.
"Why stay here?" he shouted one evening, his voice raw with frustration. "Living people are more important than a few broken houses!"
The elders looked at him with sad, knowing smiles, the kind that only deepened his sense of helplessness.
"It's too late for that," one of the old men replied softly. "The elves won't let us leave. You, though… take the children and go, while we're still here to buy you time."
It was the first time Bastian had ever seen the once-optimistic giants so defeated, so burdened by despair. He realized then that the elves, those who had spent years preparing for this, had no intention of showing mercy. They didn't want the tribe to surrender. They didn't even want them to flee. If the whole tribe tried to escape south, the elves would strike them down before they even left the mountains. However, if only a few children left, it would seem like an acceptable loss, just some frightened little ones being spared the horrors of war.
Better to let a few escape than see the entire village burned to the ground.
Bastian's chest tightened with dread. If his theory was correct, the elves wouldn't even allow a single survivor to reach the south. His journey, he realized, was going to be far more dangerous than he had anticipated.
Yet, even knowing that, he couldn't have predicted just how ruthless, how heartless the elves would be.
"Do they really need to kill every last one of us?" Bastian whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief and sorrow.
There, on a narrow mountain road, the answer stared back at him; cold and merciless. A group of elven rangers blocked his path, their longbows drawn, arrows aimed directly at his chest. At the front of the group, standing confidently behind a crude barricade, was the elven captain Bastian had before. The captain's smile was unnervingly calm, almost pleased.
Six elves. No, eight; two were hidden, lurking in the shadows. But Bastian's spiritual vision revealed them, their stealth useless against his heightened senses. They were all warriors, five rangers and a junior priest, and they'd been following him for some time now. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that they had tracked him all the way back to the village. They had been watching his every move, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Were they so confident in their victory that they could afford to divide their forces, even before the war had officially begun? Were they so heartless that they would kill every last giant, even the children?
Bastian didn't know why the elves were so cruel, why they were determined to wipe them out completely. But standing there, on that cold mountain pass, with death staring him in the face, he knew exactly what he had to do next.
Taking a deep breath, Bastian tightened his grip on the forged steel sword. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he turned back to take one last look at the children huddled behind him. Their wide, frightened eyes mirrored the reality he couldn't avoid. Beside him stood Drax, the only other warrior left, young, but strong and determined. Bastian nodded at him, a silent exchange passing between them.
"For the right to live," Bastian whispered, and with a final exhale, he surged forward into the chaos.
It was a battle born of desperation, savage and merciless.
They charged up the narrow, twisting mountain road, where the elves lay in wait with their bows drawn. Above, boiling oil and blazing fire rained down from the cliffs. The heat was unbearable, the smell of burning wood and tar suffocating. The elves fired relentlessly, their arrows flying through the thick smoke, cutting the air with deadly precision. But there was no turning back. If they didn't break through here, they would all be slaughtered.
Bastian gritted his teeth, steeling himself to take the lead. This was their only chance.
But before he could push forward, Drax moved ahead of him.
The towering figure of Drax blocked Bastian's view, his massive body like a shield. With a roar that echoed through the mountains, Drax barreled forward, arrows bouncing off his skin like raindrops. "Shameless elf bastards!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderous battle cry.
Not even the flaming arrows could stop Drax. The Frost Giant youth charged fearlessly, unstoppable, like a force of nature. His massive legs powered up the mountain with the strength of a locomotive, each step shaking the ground beneath him. Bastian followed close behind, watching in awe as Drax advanced, closer and closer to the elven roadblock. Through the smoke, Bastian could see the elf captain's face twist in disbelief. They hadn't expected this.
For a fleeting moment, hope surged in Bastian's chest. Maybe, just maybe, they could break through, and escape this nightmare.
And then the blood came.
It splattered across Bastian's face, hot and vivid in the pale moonlight. He watched in horror as the light from the moon revealed the truth, Drax's body was riddled with arrows. His skin, once so strong, was now torn and pierced by enchanted, armor-piercing arrows. The elves had come prepared with poisoned tips and deadly accuracy, and even Drax's thick hide was no match.
But Drax didn't stop. Not once did he falter, even as blood streamed down his back and arms. His body, now a walking mass of wounds, continued its march, each step heavier than the last. He didn't look back, not even for a second. Drax knew what was at stake. He knew that Bastian was right behind him, and that the children they had sworn to protect were counting on them.
"Elven scum!" Drax roared again, his voice thick with rage. And then, in one final, defiant burst of strength, he surged forward.
But it was too late. With a final groan, Drax fell. His chest, head, and limbs were filled with arrows, his body collapsing onto the ground like a felled tree. Bastian saw it all in slow motion; the giant's eyes dimming as the life left him. Yet, despite the wounds, despite the devastation, Drax's back remained untouched. He had fallen forward, protecting those behind him with his last breath.
He was just one of the many to fall in this war, another nameless casualty on a battlefield that would soon be forgotten by history. But for Bastian, for the children watching from the shadows, it was a moment they would never forget. Their eyes, wide and filled with horror, recorded the fall of a hero.
And in that moment, something inside Bastian snapped.
The blood of the Red Dragon burned within him, a fire he had long resisted, a power he had denied for far too long. His rage erupted like the flames around him, consuming every thought, every hesitation. He had rejected his true power for too long, clinging to the remnants of his humanity, afraid of what he might become. But now, all that fear was gone.
"Why did I deny my bloodline?" he growled through clenched teeth. "Why didn't I accept my power sooner?"