The elves' power had grown too large to conceal. As their population soared; thanks to improved living conditions, their need for resources and land increased. Meanwhile, the other tribes of the North were in decline. Plagued by Solesia, their numbers dwindled, both among the intelligent races and the wild creatures that roamed the forests. Plants withered, animals perished, and the total food supply in the North shrank.
The elves had thrived while everyone else had suffered. The once-great tribes had slowly been strangled, their resources depleted, their strength fading. And now, the elves were tightening the noose.
Most of the tribes hadn't even realized how dire things had become. They felt the slow creep of hardship, but never imagined that the situation had grown this catastrophic. Bastian had been one of the few to see the reins slipping around their necks, and now the elves were tugging them ever tighter.
Bastian's hands balled into fists under the table as he met the chieftain's cold gaze. This was more than a negotiation. This was the beginning of a war for survival.
The elves, with their deceptive charm, had for years offered "kind-hearted" loans to the northern tribes, loans that were unsecured, interest-free, and seemingly unlimited. At first, it had seemed like a lifeline to many struggling clans. The giants, among others, had grown accustomed to living in debt, relying on the elves' generosity to get by, unaware that each loan was tightening a noose around their necks.
Now, as the giants found themselves teetering on the edge of survival, it was clear they had been lulled into complacency, like frogs being slowly boiled. The water was nearly at a boil, and the realization was hitting too late.
In the tense negotiation hall, the elves laid out a new contract in front of Bastian and Drax. It was labeled "employment," but as Bastian scanned the document, the truth became all too clear. This wasn't employment, it was servitude. The giants, once proud and free, were being reduced to mere "servants in exchange for food."
Drax's blood boiled. He wasn't the most complex thinker, but he wasn't stupid either. His large hand curled into a fist, trembling with barely-contained rage. He could hardly believe the audacity of the elves. To offer such a contract, essentially demanding the giants become their slaves, was beyond insulting.
The giants had come to the elves in good faith. They had hoped to report the findings of their investigation, to uncover the mystery behind the recent attacks on the elven caravans. They also sought more intelligence on the dangerous monsters lurking in the wilderness, and even dared to ask the elves for another loan to help them survive the brutal northern winter.
But the elves had other plans. They weren't interested in helping the giants through another season. No, the elves had already decided to tighten their grip.
Negotiations quickly soured. The elves didn't just propose their devious "slave contract," they also demanded immediate repayment of all past debts.
Drax and Bastian stared in disbelief as the elves casually brought out piles of old papers; IOUs, debt contracts, and interest calculations, stacked high like a mountain of guilt. The sheer number of zeros on the total debt was staggering. The giants had unknowingly dug themselves into a hole so deep, they'd never be able to climb out.
The first debt? It dated back generations, to Drax's own grandfather, in fact. The old giant had borrowed two pieces of bacon and fish and, in the bustle of life, had forgotten to repay them. Though the interest had been low, the compounded amount over time was so great that they could now buy an entire fishery.
But the old giant was long gone, and the debt? Well, it lived on. The contract was airtight, binding his descendants to repayment. In the eyes of the elves, Drax and his entire village now bore the responsibility.
Bastian's mind raced. The elves had always played the long game. With their centuries-long lifespans, they had been planning this from the beginning. Slowly, quietly, they had set the stage for this very moment.
"We… we need to return and discuss this with our leaders," Bastian said, forcing himself to remain calm as he held Drax back from a fight that would surely end in bloodshed.
Bastian knew this wasn't the time to let tempers flare. If war was coming, and it surely was, they needed time to prepare, time to warn the rest of the tribe. As Bastian studied the smug face of the elven elder, he realized just how thoroughly they had been played.
The giants had sent nearly all their capable warriors on the elves' earlier "commission", a mission to investigate the attacks and hunt the beasts in the wild mountains. Now it was clear that the elves had used that mission as a ruse. They had watched the giants, assessed their strength, and likely decided they were no longer a threat. Now, with their warriors scattered and weary, the elves were revealing their true intentions.
"Decide quickly," the elf elder said with a sneer. "Two of the best lands at the base of our mountains have already been granted to the Shining Tribe and the Snowball Tribe. If you delay much longer, there won't even be scraps left for you."
The arrogance in the elf's voice was palpable. And the worst part? The Shining Tribe, a clan of sub-dragons, and the Snowball Tribe, a smaller tribe of frost giants, had already surrendered. They had accepted the elves' offer, trading their independence for survival.
Bastian forced a tight smile, nodding slowly. "I understand. I'll speak with the village chief and the others."
But inside, his heart sank. The path ahead was clear, and it was dark. War was inevitable, and the giants, once proud and strong, were now cornered. They had no choice but to fight, but how could they win against an enemy that had manipulated them so perfectly?
As they left the hall, Bastian couldn't help but recall a funeral he had attended not long ago. A grieving mother had wept bitterly, cursing the god of death for taking her child too soon. She had begged for answers, for justice.
Now, Bastian understood the bitter irony. "Death isn't the one to blame," he thought. "It's the living who wield death like a weapon. The elves… they've always known."
And now, the noose was tightening.
The snow was burning.
It wasn't a metaphor or a figure of speech, Bastian could see it with her own eyes. The white, frozen landscape, usually so serene, was now alive with flames, crackling like an inferno in the heart of winter.
The war had begun.
It all started when the so-called "kind elf" sent a messenger on the very last day of the agreed-upon truce. The elves' request was audacious, something so outrageous that even the giants would never have considered it.
"You are unable to repay your debt," the messenger announced coldly. "Therefore, your village and all you own now belong to us. You have two hours to vacate our property."
The words weren't delivered as a warning, nor as an attempt to negotiate. This was a declaration of war, a trap carefully laid long before this moment. There would be no mercy. The giants had only two choices: surrender or perish. The elves, patient in their cruelty, had waited for this day for longer than anyone knew, cloaking their aggression in the pretense of legal justification.
The giants, however, responded in their own way.
Without hesitation, a blood-red battle axe was hurled from the gates of the tribal stronghold, slicing through the air like a comet. It landed with a thud, immediately followed by the severed head of the elf messenger rolling across the snowy ground.
The only reply from the giants came in a single, growled word: "Leave."
The elves had anticipated defiance, and their answer was swift. Meteor showers streaked across the sky, igniting the heavens and turning the snow into a blistering, seething ocean of flames. The firestorm rained down on the giant village, a brutal assault meant to crush their spirits before the battle had even truly begun. Flames consumed the village with a terrifying speed, leaving much of it in ashes.
But this was only the opening salvo.
Though the conflict took place in the far north, within what was ostensibly a small village, the battle had global implications. The war involved four of the most powerful clans in existence, meaning that from the very start, this was never just a minor skirmish. It was a clash of titans.
As the village burned, most of the giants did not retreat inside to seek shelter. They knew better. They did not wait to be cornered like prey. When the first fiery rain hit, melting the snow into boiling slush, the giants emerged from their hiding places. Camouflaged in the snow for hours, they had waited for the perfect moment.
Massive figures rose from the ground, like beasts awakening from a long hibernation. They hurled stones from the hillsides and unleashed packs of wolves from the dense forests. Despite their immense size and physical strength, the giants were far from simple brutes. Many who underestimated them; taking their honesty and brawn for signs of stupidity, soon learned otherwise. They were hunters by nature, patient and cunning. And today, they would fight not just with strength, but with the wisdom of their ancestors.