"It's hopeless. Let's bury it," a voice muttered softly, but the weight behind it was undeniable.
The storm above seemed to mirror the mood below, with rain and snow falling in an unsettling rhythm, interrupted occasionally by thunder that fractured the sky. Each burst of light from the storm revealed faces, pale and worn, as if the weight of death had drained them of color.
Bastian L. Cornwell, only seventeen, stood among the mourners. He had become no stranger to this grim ritual, his third funeral this month, the twenty-first of the year. The ground around him, waterlogged and cold, was marred by the repetitive sound of a shovel digging into the earth. There was a chill in the air, but it was more than the weather. It clung to him, deep in his bones.
Overhead, crows perched among the trees, their pale, glassy eyes glinting in the faint light. Their presence made Bastian uneasy, but he had grown used to that too. Death attracted these creatures, just as it seemed to now circle his tribe like a vulture, always waiting for the next to fall.
There was no sadness left in Bastian, no grief, not even the numbness that had initially come with the constant death. These funerals were for infants, newborns who had barely lived long enough to take their first breath. How could he mourn someone he had never known, whose name he had never spoken?
"Boom!"
A jagged fork of lightning cut through the sky, illuminating the small body lying in the freshly dug grave. The baby was so young, his cheeks still round and soft, bones barely formed. He should have had a lifetime ahead of him, but those hollow, white eyes told a different story.
No soul.
Another soulless child. Another life that had ended before it had even begun.
The infant had lived only fourteen days, clinging to life as best as its small body could. But everyone knew from the moment of birth that he was doomed. This baby, like so many others, had been born without a soul, a terrible condition known as "Solesia." It was the curse of their time. A child born without a soul had no chance at life, no identity, no future.
"Another soulless one," someone whispered nearby, their voice barely audible over the growing storm.
The mother stood nearby, tall and strong like all of her kind. Her face was an expressionless mask, yet her tears streamed silently down her cheeks. She had already shed all the tears she had during her child's short existence, but no amount of maternal love could stave off the inevitable. She had known, just as the rest of the tribe had known, that this day would come.
"Cover him up," she finally spoke, her voice trembling. "Let Gearald sleep peacefully. May the ancestors guard his soul, guide him home. May he return stronger, wiser, and evade the merciless god of death who took him too soon this time."
The rain grew heavier, drowning out her sobs as the last shovels of earth were thrown into the grave. The sound of soil hitting the tiny body was almost lost beneath the downpour, and the cries of the crows blended into the eerie symphony of the night.
Bastian felt a strange sense of relief as the simple giant burial came to a close. As the towering figures of the tribe began to leave the cemetery, Bastian, though he stood over two meters tall, was still considered a "dwarf" among them. He was always the last to leave these funerals, trailing behind the others, trying to shake off the oppressive weight of death that clung to the air.
Tomorrow, there would be another funeral. And likely another one the week after. It never seemed to stop.
He glanced back at the grave, now completely covered, before trudging away.
Last year, most of the tribe's newborns had been healthy, strong. But this year, more than a third of the babies had been born soulless.
And for each of them, the result was always the same.
"This land is dying. We can't go on like this."
The words hung in the frosty air as if frozen in place, heavy and filled with a truth no one could deny.
Acertra, once called the "maple-rich land" in the giant language, had been the jewel of the North, a place of vast forests and boundless life. Now, it was little more than a desolate highland, bleak and unforgiving.
Nestled at the northernmost tip of the continent, winter in Acertra stretched for half the year, and even when spring came, the cold never fully relented. Rain and snow took turns battering the land during the first half of the year, while the latter half was dominated by relentless blizzards. When the blizzard season arrived, snow could rise over a meter in just one morning, rendering travel impossible for anyone who wasn't extraordinary.
And extraordinary was the very definition of those who lived here.
Tall wooden huts, simple but strong, dotted the landscape. These homes were fortified with the heads and furs of formidable creatures; trophies from battles fought against some of the fiercest monsters known to the North. Here, the pelts of high-level beasts were not luxuries but necessities, their furs used to ward off the bitter cold that even the strongest could feel creeping into their bones.
Above doorways, mounted animal heads stared blankly into the cold, wind-beaten air, some of them from creatures that had once wrestled with dragons. Two winter wolves, their fur stiff and lifeless, hung from the anti-wolf fence that surrounded the village. These beasts, known as the nightmares of the North for their frost-breath and deadly nature, were now nothing more than warnings to whatever dared come next.
Why had this land become so hostile? Why did it feel like the very earth beneath their feet was turning against them?
The answer lay in the massive sheds, towering four to five meters high, and in the enormous one-handed giant axes leaning casually against doorposts. Even the farm tools here were monstrous; three to four meters long, built for hands far larger than any human's. In the center of the village, the massive, white dragon carcass hung from a totem pillar, its scales gleaming faintly under the weak sun. Thirty years ago, it had been called "The God of Death of Extreme Cold," a terror to all who had ventured into its icy domain. Now, it was just another trophy.
This was the home of the Frost Giants, the most fearsome and largest of all giant subspecies. Known for their brutal strength and warlike nature, they had earned their reputation as dragon hunters and storm eaters. Legends from the southern lands spoke of Frost Giants who drank dragon blood and battled blizzards for sport, never feeling alive unless they were in the thick of a fight.
But to Bastian, who had spent his entire life among them, they were just a rowdy bunch of overgrown warriors; good-hearted, if not a bit too straightforward for their own good. The legends were always more romantic than reality, he thought with a smirk.
After all, if those tales were true, how could a dragon descendant like him have lived peacefully in their midst for twenty years?
"I've had enough! I can't live like this anymore!" Bastian's voice echoed in the empty bar, his frustration spilling out in a rare moment of vulnerability.
It was deep winter now, and the snow had risen past their chests, which for the giants meant nothing more than taking larger steps through the drifts. But for Bastian, who barely cleared two meters, it was like living in a never-ending snow pit. More than once, he had wandered into a deep pocket of snow and nearly disappeared entirely.
The long winter had officially begun, and with it came the heavy, wet snow that never seemed to stop falling. Being stuck indoors wasn't even the worst part. No, it was the lack of income that came with this endless season that gnawed at him. With no work, no trade, how could anyone survive?
"Business not going well?" came a voice from behind the bar. Drax, the barkeep and an old friend of Bastian's, gave a knowing glance as he handed over a large bottle of milk wine.
"Not going well? More like nonexistent," Bastian replied, rubbing his forehead. "With all this snow, who's going to trade? Who's going to buy anything? It's like the whole world's frozen solid."
Drax chuckled softly, though there was a weariness in his eyes. "In this damn weather, drinks like this aren't just for pleasure anymore. They're for survival." He slid the bottle across the counter with a nod. "Warm your bones, lad. It's going to be a long one."
Bastian sighed, taking the bottle gratefully. Outside, the wind howled and the snow continued to pile up, higher and higher. The weight of it all; the cold, the endless funerals, the dying land, it pressed on him like a physical thing. How much longer could they endure this?
"This land is dying," he muttered again, more to himself than anyone else. "We can't go on like this."
And deep down, he feared he was right.
Bastian burst into the tavern, snow tumbling off his shoulders in thick clumps as he stomped his boots on the floor, trying to rid himself of the icy clinging cold. Without hesitation, he grabbed the kumis that had been set on the bar, raised the bottle to his lips, and downed it in one long gulp. The warm, sour taste hit his throat, and he burped loudly, slamming the empty bottle onto the table with a grunt of satisfaction.
"Ahh, that's better," he sighed, finally feeling the warmth of the drink spreading through his chest. But his brief moment of relief quickly faded. "It's not just hard to describe... there's no money coming in. None at all!"
Bastian shook his head in frustration. In the grand hierarchy of the frost giants, he was seen as something of an outsider; more of a misfit than a hero. While the giants were ancient, mighty warriors capable of tearing dragons apart with their bare hands, Bastian was a dragonborn, and not even a particularly remarkable one at that. He lacked the brute strength and had never been able to master the magical gifts that were supposed to flow through his bloodline.
Dragonborn like Bastian inherited memories and skills from their ancestors through their blood, combat techniques, spells, arcane secrets, the kind of knowledge that could elevate someone to greatness. Yet for Bastian, those mighty abilities hadn't come with his birth. What had been passed down to him instead? Leatherworking. Not exactly the most glorious inheritance, but it was practical, and it had become his livelihood.
Before he had started his little business, the process of handling monster hides in the village was pretty crude. The giants would tan the hides, stitch them together, and wear them without much fuss. They had little need for fancy techniques when they could simply rely on their natural toughness. But Bastian had something more to offer, he could treat the furs with antiseptic and insect-proofing treatments, and more importantly, he could use his blood-given knowledge to weave simple enchantments into the hides.
A small boost to strength, a reduction in fatigue, resistance to the elements, these were enchantments that sold for a fortune in the southern markets. To the right buyer, an enchanted piece of armor could mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield. Bastian had thought he was sitting on a gold mine. But here?
Here, in the cold heart of the North, among these giants who tore dragons apart for fun, his work had been met with... indifference.
At first, he had been puzzled. His enchantments were practical, useful, even life-saving, but the giants who came to his shop only gave mild, polite responses. "Not bad," they would say, or "Looks nice." Bastian could tell they were humoring him, trying not to hurt his feelings.
It wasn't until he joined the giants on a hunting expedition that he realized how wrong he had been.
"These giants," he muttered to himself with a wry grin, "they tear dragons apart with their bare hands, take dragon fire to the face, and crush them with a single punch. They don't need any combat enhancement... they want to look good while doing it."
It hit him like a bolt of lightning, these mighty frost giants didn't care about enchantments that would make them stronger or faster. What they wanted was something far more superficial. Appearance. Style. They wanted to look as fierce as they felt.
So, Bastian shifted his entire business model. He started crafting armor that wasn't just practical, it was beautiful, even majestic. He delved into the blood memories of his ancestors, pulling out designs of epic heroism and battle glory. The men's armor became bold and domineering, featuring intricate carvings and shining metalwork, while the women's armor, though just as imposing, carried the frost giant's unique sense of majesty. And suddenly, business boomed.
The young male giants, eager to impress their potential mates, flocked to his shop for the most elaborate, impressive pieces he could craft. His creations became the talk of the tribe, and for the first time, Bastian felt like he had found his place among them.
But there was one more discovery that truly solidified his success, the enchantment for warmth. Even these hulking frost giants, who could withstand the bitterest of colds, didn't actually like the cold. Warmth, he realized, was what they craved the most.
Enchanting armor with the ability to retain heat was no easy feat, especially in a land where fire-elemental monsters were rare. But Bastian had a secret weapon: his own bloodline. A tribe that shared his lineage, distant relatives who had migrated further north more than thirty years ago, held the key. Their knowledge of fire and warmth enchantments, passed down through generations, had been buried deep in his blood memories.
Smiling to himself, Bastian shook his head. He may have been a dragonborn living among giants, an outsider in every sense of the word, but he had found his niche. And despite the cold, the harsh winters, and the struggles, he preferred the company of these straightforward giants to that of his so-called kin.
They were good people. Even if they didn't care much for fancy magic, they were his people.
"If only those caravans came more often," Bastian grumbled, staring into his empty glass. "Once a year isn't cutting it. If they'd made the trip three or four times, I wouldn't have to deal with my nosy relatives bartering their cheap fire magic for the precious dragon materials I need."
His frustration was palpable. He slapped the table lightly, shaking his head. "This winter's been colder than usual, but business is worse. Nobody's buying my flame-leather jackets. Damn it, don't they want new clothes? Do people just stop needing warmth?