Chapter 3
Stonefist Camp
The ground trembled under every step of its giants. Massive forms moved through the training fields, swinging clubs, hammers, and oversized swords. Rocks shattered underfoot, trees bowed from the force of their swings, and the air itself seemed to resist their motions.
At the center of the field stood Master Vorstag. Broad-shouldered, taller than any man—or most giants—he watched silently. One arm, heavily scarred, rested on a colossal hammer. His eyes were calm, almost lazy, but in them burned a fire that could split mountains.
Beside him stood Morrek, captain of Stonefist's elite squad. Even among giants, he was intimidating: broad, muscular, with a scar cutting across his jaw, black hair streaked with gray. His movements were precise, unlike the rest who relied solely on size.
"Again," Vorstag's voice boomed, and the ground vibrated with it. "All of you! Pick up your weapons and move. Faster. Harder. Stronger."
A young giant hesitated. His club slipped from his hands mid-swing.
"Fool," Vorstag said.
The giant scrambled to his feet. Sweat poured, breath torn in short gasps, hands shaking. ."
After a long hour, the dust settled. Many giants lay on the ground, panting, but the few standing carried a new sense of purpose. Morrek lowered his sword, resting it lightly on the shoulder of a young trainee. "Strength is nothing without heart," he said. "Remember that."
Vorstag rested his hammer on the ground. "Will. Patience. Discipline. That is how the mountain survives."
Morrek nodded silently in agreement. "And how a sword is never broken by the fight, only by the hand that wields it poorly."
The wind shifted. A shadow passed over the field—not wind. Not cloud. Something moved too fast to track.
Vorstag's gaze flicked up, just once. Morrek's head tilted slightly. His grip tightened on the sword—but not in alarm, only recognition.
Neither spoke.
The Decennial Tournament at Eclipse Ground was already beginning to shape itself.