Not far from the outpost, a contingent of Frost Giants advanced swiftly across the tundra. Although their frames were humanoid, their icy-blue skin shimmered with a crystalline frost, as though sculpted from solid ice.
They rode massive, snow-white ice bears, their mounts clad in thick plate armor etched with Jotun runes. The beasts roared as they charged, their breath forming dense vapor clouds in the frigid air.
"Ready arrows!" came the command.
The archers stationed along the outpost walls responded immediately, notching their arrows and unleashing a volley that darkened the sky. The projectiles soared through the cold air, streaking toward the Frost Giant formation.
The giants raised their reinforced frost-shields in practiced unison. Most arrows were deflected, clattering uselessly against the enchanted hide of the shields. Yet a few found their mark—piercing weak points with precision, or slipping through unguarded angles—felling several of the riders.
Moments later, steel clashed with enchanted frost-blades as the Frost Giants collided with the Asgardian defenders. The battlefield echoed with the cacophony of steel on steel and the roars of beasts and warriors alike.
Against the Skrinthians, the Asgardians had swept through like a divine tempest. Their losses were minimal, the enemy's piled bodies a testament to their might.
But the Frost Giants were a different kind of adversary entirely.
Unlike the Skrinthians, the Frost Giants fought on nearly equal footing with the Asgardian warriors. Their sheer durability, immense strength, and icy aura presented a terrifying threat. The frost exuding from their bodies was so intense that even light contact with unshielded flesh could result in severe frostbite—even for Asgardians. It could take days of magical treatment to recover from such exposure.
Thankfully, Asgard was not without its own defenses. They had brought with them the Mirror of Sol—a powerful relic that radiated the divine warmth of the sun. When activated, it cast beams of solar energy upon the battlefield. The Frost Giants visibly weakened under its gaze, their icy skin beginning to steam and melt, their composure fraying into aggression.
Ice bears, formidable enough to rival even elite Asgardian warriors, fared poorly beneath the light of the Mirror. Against a duo of well-equipped Asgardians, an ice bear cavalry unit would falter.
It soon became evident that this assault was a tactical feint, meant to test the outpost's defenses. After a brief but violent skirmish, the Frost Giants withdrew, disappearing into the snowy haze. The Asgardian warriors immediately began to regroup and tend to the wounded.
"Medics! Prepare the cold-relieving salves immediately!" shouted the chief healer.
Responding without delay, the medical team began preparing the specialized paste, infused with herbs and enchanted minerals. Designed to counteract the deep frostbite inflicted by the Frost Giants' touch, the paste was most effective when freshly prepared.
While some of the salves had been pre-mixed, a fresh batch was always required for optimal potency. Fortunately, the preparation was swift—only ten minutes to completion.
Rowe entered the infirmary tent, a mortar of cold-relieving paste in hand. He approached a wounded soldier seated on a cot, whose forearm had turned a deep icy blue, trembling violently from the cold-induced trauma.
Using a sliver of enchanted wood, Rowe scooped the salve and gently applied it to the wound. The soldier hissed in pain as the paste made contact, but the shivering began to subside.
Once the paste was evenly spread, Rowe wrapped the arm in a thick, rune-stitched bandage. "It's done," he said gently.
The soldier didn't respond immediately. His gaze had drifted beyond the tent, toward the field where the slain were laid to rest—more than a dozen fallen warriors.
"Is someone you knew out there?" Rowe asked.
"No," the soldier replied, voice low. "It's my brother."
Rowe fell silent for a moment, then said solemnly, "He shall rise in Valhalla, among the honored."
"Thank you." The soldier slowly donned his helmet and rose. Despite his injured arm, he picked up his sword and left in silence.
Later, Rowe sought out Ander, who stood near the perimeter of the outpost.
"When do you get assigned to the battlefield?" Rowe asked.
"The new troops have a ten-day adaptation period. This is only day one," Ander said, glancing nervously toward the field. "That was just a harassing force, and still we lost lives. The Frost Giants… they're no myth."
"And you?" Ander asked. "Are you ready to fight?"
Rowe shook his head. "I thought I was. But now—until I can stand as a true warrior—I intend to avoid direct combat with the Frost Giants. Especially melee."
"You could stand behind me and cast spells. That's what mages do," Ander offered.
"But I'm no mage," Rowe said, with a faint smile. "Nor will I ever be."
Ander blinked. "...Right."
The mood throughout the camp remained subdued. Many of the newer recruits were deeply shaken by their first real encounter with Jotunkind. Despite this, most knew that after such an assault, a few days of quiet were expected—enough time to recover.
But today defied expectations.
Barely three hours after the first attack, while the outpost's guards were at their most relaxed, the Frost Giants struck again.
"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"
The drums of war reverberated through the ice-laden ground, but too late. The Frost Giants had nearly reached the gate before the first warning sounded.
Rowe rushed to the edge of the barricade. What he saw made his blood run cold.
Charging alongside the Frost Giants were massive creatures—towering beasts cloaked in icy armor, the stuff of Asgardian legends. Polar Ice Beasts.
Their immense bodies, each the size of a fortress tower, bounded forward in massive strides, clearing dozens of meters with each leap.
"The Frost Giants… they've tamed the Polar Ice Beasts!" someone shouted in disbelief.
"Four of them?! By Odin's beard, we're doomed…"
"The Frost Giants launched a double strike—cowards!"
The new attack force was enormous—ten times the size of the previous one. Their presence, combined with the four towering Polar Ice Beasts, sent tremors of fear through the outpost. The creatures' deep, guttural roars shattered any semblance of composure.
At that moment, a commanding presence emerged—Hela, Commander of the Outpost, clad in obsidian armor and wielding her long blade. Her eyes blazed with unyielding determination.
"Those who fall in battle shall ascend to Valhalla! For Asgard!" she cried.
"For Asgard!" came the resounding echo from every warrior.
Rowe, heart pounding, nearly shouted, "In honor of the fallen…" but stopped himself.
"Rowe, down here!" Ander's voice called from below the tower.
Rowe spotted him, weapon at the ready. "This could be the end," Ander said gravely. "Join my unit. We might survive together."
"ROAR—ROOAR!!"
The Polar Ice Beasts breached the outer fence, crashing into the camp like a natural disaster. With a swipe of their colossal claws, they sent armored warriors flying like ragdolls. Asgardian defenders rallied to surround the beasts, but the creatures were relentless.
Rowe understood the gravity of the situation. He didn't hesitate. He slung his staff over his back, vaulted from the window, and joined Ander below.
Winter had come to Jotunheim—and with it, death.