The wasteland barbarians, hungry dragons, and twisted swamp creatures, they all came. One by one, they fell upon the group, each more dangerous than the last.
But still, they pressed on.
Their journey, now entwined with survival, had only just begun.
In just over a month's time, the children had grown at an astonishing rate. Their innocence was quickly eroded by the harsh realities of their journey. Relying solely on Bastain for protection wasn't enough anymore. The malice they faced seemed boundless, and the danger too relentless.
The Frost Giants, born warriors by nature, were no strangers to battle. These children had witnessed their elders hunt, but now, for the first time, they had to participate in that deadly dance themselves. Bastain, recognizing their vulnerability, did his best to impart what knowledge he could. He taught them basic combat skills and hunting techniques, survival in its most raw form. But Bastain was no Frost Giant, and his teachings had their limits.
One skill in particular stood out: Frost Strike, an ability that allowed a warrior to imbue their weapon with the icy chill of the north. It was the foundational skill in the vast martial tradition of the Frost Giants, a skill that would give them an edge in any battle. But Bastain, being of the red dragon clan with fire in his blood, could not hope to master it, much less teach it.
These cold-based combat techniques were at the very heart of the Frost Giant's strength. Without them, the children were limited, their potential untapped. The weight of this limitation gnawed at Bastain, filling him with anxiety as he led them forward.
"If only Drax were still with us..." Bastain thought with a pang of sadness.
Drax, his old friend, the one who had once stood by his side with a smile that could melt even the harshest winter. Drax, a young Frost Giant full of promise, would have known how to train these children. Bastain wouldn't be shouldering this burden alone if Drax were still alive. The fighting skills of the giants would have been passed down naturally.
But there are no "ifs" in this world. Regret and longing could not change reality. For the sake of preserving the Frost Giant lineage, there was only one path left: they had to make it to Giant's Valley. It was said that all kinds of giants lived there, including the Frost Giants. If they could reach it, perhaps the children could learn what Bastain couldn't teach.
Still, Bastain wasn't completely without skills. He could teach them to hunt, how to fight, and how to set traps. In the first week, the children learned to use basic tools, like the fishing net and the stun club, primitive but effective. Slowly, they were becoming a help rather than a hindrance.
"Stay alert, everyone," Bastain urged them one evening. "Once we reach the Central Plains, things will be safer. More roads, more people. We'll be far from the monsters of the north."
The North was indeed the most desolate region of the continent. Its remoteness meant fewer settlements, fewer allies, and more monsters. Bastain believed, or at least hoped, that reaching the warmer, more populated Central Plains would mean fewer dangers.
But that hope was short-lived.
As they pressed forward into warmer lands, the dangers did not diminish. In fact, they multiplied. Bastain soon realized how naive his thinking had been. What could be more dangerous than the savage beasts and cannibals lurking in the wilderness?
The answer came to him in a word: war.
War was everywhere. It consumed the lands like wildfire. "The war between the elves and all other life!" Bastain muttered bitterly.
Elves fought dwarves. Dwarves fought elves. Elven golems clashed with dragons. Dragons decimated elven tribes. But the most brutal battles were between the elves and the giants. These bloody, relentless skirmishes had torn the continent apart.
Among the four great races, the dragons, once unrivaled, had suffered greatly in recent times. The dwarves, though sturdy, couldn't match the power of the giants. The giants, numerous and individually mighty, had long held a dominant position in the world.
But now, even the giants, whether they were hill giants, forest giants, or otherwise, found themselves under siege from the elves.
Bastain began to question everything. Perhaps his mission to deliver these children was no longer as crucial as he once believed. The world was shifting beneath their feet, and survival, above all else, was paramount.
Perhaps there were countless other "messengers" and refugee teams, just like his, all making their desperate way toward the Valley of the Giants. The thought haunted Bastain as they trudged forward. Was his tribe's destruction just a small thread in the vast tapestry of this century-long war that had engulfed the entire continent?
"Are the elves mad?" Bastain muttered under his breath, his frustration spilling over. "How can they possibly think they'll win? This is nothing but self-destruction."
The sheer arrogance of using the power of one race to challenge the entire world, it was reckless, suicidal even. Common sense screamed that the elves were leading themselves into ruin. And yet, something nagged at him. Bastain knew the elves to be arrogant and selfish, yes, but stupid? Never. There had to be something more.
His thoughts turned dark as he recalled the Black Tower, where shadows and ghosts lurked, hiding secrets untold. A shiver ran down his spine, and his certainty wavered.
As they moved closer to the Central Plains, Bastain began to notice that things weren't adding up. In skirmish after skirmish, the elves, despite their smaller numbers, were often the ones in control, pushing back foes that should have overwhelmed them.
It didn't make sense. Of the four ancient races, the elves had always been physically weaker than the rest. Aside from a few powerful wizards, their individual combat strength was the lowest. But then came the war machines; strange, unholy constructs that tore through battlefields. Golems of immense power, spellcasters capable of bending reality, and hordes of monsters summoned from other realms shattered everything Bastain thought he knew about warfare.
He began to wonder if it was he who had been left behind, stuck in the snow-capped mountains for too long. Had he lost touch with the world beyond? Even his ancient dragon bloodline seemed unable to help him understand what was happening. Was it that his knowledge had become outdated? Or was the world truly changing in ways no one had foreseen?
As their journey pressed on, the dangers increased tenfold. More than once, Bastain found himself caught in the crossfire of battles between the elves and other races, narrowly escaping death by sheer luck or quick thinking. Each encounter felt like a test, pushing the limits of his endurance, while the giant children at his side were not spared either. Several had already been injured, despite his best efforts to avoid the main routes.
But fate has a cruel sense of humor. Just when they thought things couldn't get worse, it happened. The core of their group, their leader, their protector, fell.
Bastain fell ill.
A fever overtook him swiftly, burning through his body like wildfire. Was it the weight of the responsibility finally crushing him? The pressure of the journey? Or perhaps it was his red dragon blood rebelling, reacting to the environment, or maybe some venomous bite from a swamp insect or toxic plant they had unknowingly passed?
Whatever the cause, it didn't matter. The result was the same, Bastain collapsed, too weak to even pass on the personal letter he had prepared for such a moment. The last thing he remembered was the ground rushing up to meet him as his vision went black.
Without Bastain, the team ground to a halt. The children, still so young despite their recent growth, were lost. They couldn't move forward without their leader, the only adult they had left. So they waited, unsure of what to do, huddled around the one person who had always been their shield.
And while Bastain's body lay still, his mind was anything but quiet.