[You have earned the title: King of the Ice Giants]
[Title Passive Effect: Ice Giants obey your commands instinctively]
[Language Unlocked: Ancient Dialect of the Nine Realms (comprehension and speech)]
[Buff Acquired: Authority of Jotunheim (+50% heat resistance, +30% intimidation against creatures of the Nine Realms)]
[Your dominion over cold has increased]
Eskandor fell to his knees before Uriel, his wide eyes reflecting an almost religious fervor. The falling snowflakes seemed to avoid the space around the dragon, as if the very weather of Jotunheim recognized its new master.
"Majesty… oh, Majesty!" Eskandor exclaimed, striking his closed fist against his chest with reverence. "The one who tore Skjoldrim's head off with a single blow! The true King of Jotunheim! Supreme ruler of the Frozen Lands! I swear eternal loyalty to you, my lord, heir to the frozen throne! Protector of Our People! Lord of the cutting winds and the icy peaks!"
Uriel remained silent for a moment, staring at Eskandor with his single gleaming eye. A flicker of irritation crossed his draconic face—almost imperceptible.
"Enough flattery," he said, his voice now resonating in a guttural and crystalline tone — the true language of the Nine Realms. It sounded like ice shards cracking in slow motion, deep, echoing... ancient.
Eskandor choked, his eyes widening even further, almost popping out of their sockets. "You… you spoke! You spoke the ancient tongue! The language of kings! The tongue only the royal blood knew!" He bowed even lower, pressing his forehead against the cold snow, his voice thick with emotion. "So you always knew, Majesty? Always had the blood of the ancients? The wisdom of the primordials? I should've known! Only a true monarch could understand the hidden secrets of the language of the gods!"
Uriel didn't reply.
His eyes were fixed on the wide-open gates of the fortress. Without a word, he walked past Eskandor with heavy, majestic steps. The prints left by his claws were covered by snow almost instantly, as if the world itself wanted to preserve the mystery of his march.
The surrounding giants, who had previously watched in silence, instinctively stepped aside. None dared make a sound. None dared breathe loudly.
Uriel crossed the gates like an ancient god returning to his domain, indifferent to the shadows shifting in the towers. He had no need to rush. That fortress now belonged to him. And with it, all of Jotunheim.
Within the walls of blue ice, ancient echoes began to whisper. The forgotten runes lit up on their own, glowing softly as they recognized the new king.
While Eskandor remained kneeling in the snow, muttering words of praise in a near trance, one of the ice giants approached with heavy steps. He was tall, even for his kind — broad-shouldered, bluish skin marked by scars, and eyes pale as snow under moonlight. He stopped in front of Eskandor with his arms crossed, his face expressionless, but his gaze… judging, like that of an elder watching a youth make foolish choices.
"Aren't you ashamed, Eskandor?" the giant asked, his voice echoing like muffled thunder. "Saying all that nonsense on your knees, like a dog wagging its tail. That's no behavior for a son of Jotunheim."
Eskandor raised his head, his lips curled into a half-mocking smile.
"Ashamed? Why? You gonna tell me pride is gonna keep you alive?" He stood, brushing snow off his knees. "I do what I have to do to keep breathing. Survive. That's what matters. Kneeling or fighting — as long as I see the next sunrise, I don't care."
He stepped closer to the giant and gave him a light pat on the arm, speaking in a nearly brotherly tone: "If I were you, I'd do the same. That lizard isn't just a dragon… He's king now. The throne is his. And kings don't usually like dissenting voices."
The ice giant remained silent. Not a muscle in his face moved, no reply given. His gaze, however, stayed firm, as if measuring Eskandor... or perhaps reevaluating the entire world around him.
The other giants watching the scene also said nothing. They exchanged brief glances, but no one spoke. It was as if a veil of fear hung over them all. None wanted to be the first to contradict the new king. None wanted to become the next snack for a winged dragon who spoke the language of the Nine Realms.
Eskandor cast one last look at the fortress gate, where Uriel had vanished, and walked toward it. He stopped at the entrance, letting his eyes sweep over the glowing runes on the inner walls, and called out with reverent tone:
"Majesty… what would you have me do now?"
Inside, Uriel's figure disappeared into the fortress's deep darkness, giving no immediate sign of response.
And silence… remained the only ruler among the sons of ice.
Several minutes passed in silence. The snowstorm outside lessened, as if even the wind feared to invade Uriel's domain. The giants stood tensely before the fortress, unsure whether to move or remain as still as statues.
Then, from within the fortress, a voice echoed — deep, reverberating through the stone and running through the air like a whisper from the gods themselves.
"Eskandor… bring… snow… inside."
The voice was firm, but there was hesitation in the words, syllables oddly placed, intonations slightly twisted. It was the ancient tongue of the Nine Realms, but shaped by the mouth of someone who had just learned it, as if each word were a blade carving a new identity into the language.
There was a pause, then the rest of the order followed:
"Make… arrange… other place… for… ice females. This fortress… only… mine. Understood?"
Eskandor tilted his head, as if listening to a divine symphony. A wide smile spread across his face. He needed nothing more. Even with the linguistic stumbles, he understood perfectly.
"Yes, yes! Your Majesty is as clear as the purest crystal of Niflheim!" he said, turning to the giants with theatrical flair. "Bring the snow inside, NOW! And someone start preparing shelters outside — Their Excellencies the females will not be left homeless, of course, but this hall belongs to the King of Jotunheim!"
He glanced once more at the dark entrance of the fortress and murmured with reverence:
"What a voice… even tripping over words, he sounds more majestic than any of us."
The other giants still hesitated, but upon seeing Eskandor already running to organize the orders, they began to move, one by one, in silence.
In the darkness of the fortress, Uriel continued advancing, paying no mind to the echoes of flattery behind him. He didn't need to reply. He was king.
And a king doesn't need to repeat an order.
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