The wind howled across the frozen peaks of Khaligar, carrying with it the bite of eternal winter and the promise of storms yet to come. Captain Bjorn Ironforge pulled his fur cloak tighter around his shoulders as he stood atop the ramparts of Frosthold Keep, watching the pale sun struggle through layers of gray cloud. Below him, the fortress sprawled across a natural shelf of black stone, its walls carved from the mountain itself and reinforced with blocks of ice that gleamed like blue crystal.
The keep was a marvel of dwarven engineering adapted to the harsh northern climate. Massive buttresses of granite supported walls that rose forty feet into the air, their surfaces polished smooth by centuries of wind and snow. Between the stones, courses of compressed ice had been laid with mathematical precision, creating barriers that would turn aside both siege engines and the bitter cold that claimed so many lives in these lands.
"Captain," called a voice from behind him. Bjorn turned to see Lieutenant Astrid Coldaxe approaching, her breath forming white clouds in the frigid air. The young woman wore the standard gear of the Icehold garrison—layered wool and leather beneath steel plate, with a heavy cloak of white wolf fur. Her axe hung at her side, its blade inscribed with runes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.
"The morning patrol reports movement in the Thornwood Valley," she said, her voice carrying the clipped accent of the mountain clans. "Three leagues north, near the old giant-roads."
Bjorn nodded grimly. The giant-roads were ancient pathways carved into the mountainside by the legendary jötunn, beings of such size and power that their footsteps had left permanent marks in solid stone. Most were abandoned now, choked with ice and debris, but occasionally something would stir in their depths—usually nothing pleasant.
"How many?" he asked, leading the way down a spiral staircase carved into the wall itself. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow space, the sound bouncing off ice-slick stone.
"Unclear, sir. The wind was too strong for a close approach, but Sergeant Grimm counted at least a dozen figures moving through the ruins." Astrid paused at a landing, checking that her weapons were secure. "They didn't move like men."
They emerged into the main courtyard, where the morning shift was already at work. Dwarven soldiers in thick furs practiced with their weapons, their breath steaming as they went through combat drills. The sound of steel on steel rang across the stone, mixing with the creak of leather and the stamp of booted feet on packed snow.
At the center of the courtyard stood the keep's most impressive feature—a massive forge built into the living rock of the mountain. The structure was easily thirty feet tall, its chimney disappearing into a natural fissure that carried smoke up through the peak itself. Even now, in the early morning hours, the forge blazed with activity.
"Master Durgan," called Bjorn, approaching the forge where a heavily muscled dwarf worked a piece of glowing steel. The smith looked up, his beard singed and his leather apron stained with soot. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the freezing air.
"Captain," Durgan replied, setting down his hammer with a ring of metal on metal. "What brings you to my workshop this early?"
"We may have visitors before the day is done," Bjorn said, his eyes on the blade taking shape on the anvil. "How goes the work on the new weapons?"
Durgan's face split in a grin that revealed teeth stained black with smoke. "See for yourself, lad." He lifted the sword from the anvil, holding it up to catch the forge-light. The blade was beautiful—perfectly balanced, with a subtle curve that spoke of both strength and flexibility. But it was the runes etched along its length that truly impressed.
"Ironveil enhancement," the smith explained, running a finger along the symbols. "Each mark channels the wielder's essence into the steel itself. A warrior with proper training can coat the entire blade in protective force, making it harder than any normal metal."
Bjorn took the sword, feeling its weight and balance. As he concentrated, his own essence flowed into the weapon, and the runes began to glow with a soft blue light. The blade itself seemed to shimmer, as if covered in a thin layer of liquid metal.
"Impressive work," he said, handing it back. "How many are ready?"
"Twelve swords, eight axes, and four spears," Durgan replied, wiping his hands on his apron. "Enough to outfit your best warriors, but not the entire garrison. The process takes time—each rune must be carved by hand and tempered in the sacred flames."
The sacred flames were another marvel of dwarven engineering. Fed by natural gas vents that ran deep into the mountain, they burned with a heat that could forge steel and a light that never dimmed. According to legend, the flames had been lit by the first dwarven settlers, who had recognized the mountain's volcanic nature and learned to harness its power.
"Show me the artillery," Bjorn said, leading the way to the northern wall. Here, the fortress's defensive capabilities were most apparent. A series of massive ballistae lined the ramparts, their steel arms gleaming with frost. Each weapon was the size of a small catapult, capable of throwing iron bolts with enough force to punch through stone.
But these were no ordinary siege engines. Like the enhanced weapons, they had been modified to channel essence through their mechanisms. A skilled operator could coat the ammunition in Ironveil force, making it nearly unstoppable. The sight of one of these weapons loosing its deadly cargo was enough to break the morale of most attacking forces.
"The crews are ready, sir," reported Sergeant Grimm, a grizzled veteran whose beard was more gray than black. "We've been drilling with the new ammunition all week. The men can hit a target at five hundred paces in clear weather."
Bjorn nodded approvingly. Weather was always a concern in Khaligar—snow could reduce visibility to mere yards, and wind could throw off even the most carefully aimed shot. But the garrison had learned to adapt, using Ghostsense-trained spotters to guide their fire and timing their volleys to take advantage of brief breaks in the storm.
"What of the walls themselves?" Bjorn asked, running his hand along the stone. The surface was smooth and cold, but he could feel the subtle vibrations that indicated the fortress's hidden defenses.
"The rune-work is holding strong," Grimm replied. "Master Durgan renewed the protective wards last month. Any magical attack will be turned aside, and the stones themselves are reinforced with dwarf-steel cores."
The runes were carved into the walls themselves, hidden beneath layers of ice and stone but still active. They were part of an ancient dwarven tradition that combined practical engineering with mystical protection. Each symbol had been placed according to patterns passed down through generations, creating a web of defensive force that surrounded the entire keep.
As they walked the circuit of the walls, Bjorn pointed out various features to his lieutenant. Here, a section of wall that could be collapsed to block an attacking force. There, a hidden sally port that would allow defenders to strike at besiegers from an unexpected angle. The fortress had been designed by minds that understood both the art of war and the harsh realities of mountain combat.
"Sir," called a voice from the watchtower. "Movement on the north road!"
Bjorn climbed quickly to the tower's peak, where a young dwarf stood with a spyglass pressed to his eye. The wind whipped around them, carrying the scent of snow and something else—something that made the hair on the back of Bjorn's neck stand on end.
"There," the watcher said, pointing toward a distant ridge. "They're using the old giant-path, just as the patrol reported."
Bjorn took the spyglass and focused on the indicated area. What he saw made his blood run cold. Moving in single file along the ancient road was a column of figures that definitely weren't human. They were too tall, too broad, their limbs moving with an alien rhythm that spoke of intelligence but not humanity.
"Frost giants," he breathed, recognizing the massive forms from descriptions in the old texts. These were not the legendary jötunn of ancient times, but their smaller cousins—beings of ice and stone that occasionally descended from the deepest peaks to raid the settlements below.
"How many?" asked Astrid, who had followed him up the tower.
"Fifteen, maybe twenty," Bjorn replied, continuing to study the approaching force. "They're armed with clubs and stone axes, but their size makes them dangerous. A single giant can break through a normal wall with bare hands."
The frost giants were indeed massive—easily twelve feet tall, with skin the color of old ice and eyes that glowed with pale blue light. Their clothing was crude but effective, consisting of furs and hides stitched together with sinew. Each carried weapons that would have been unwieldy for a human warrior, but which they wielded with casual ease.
"Orders, sir?" asked Grimm, who had appeared at the base of the tower.
"Sound the alert," Bjorn commanded. "All hands to battle stations. I want the ballistae loaded and ready, and the enhanced weapons distributed to our best fighters. This is what we've been preparing for."
The next hour passed in a blur of activity. Horns sounded across the fortress, calling the garrison to their posts. Men ran through the courtyards, carrying weapons and ammunition to the walls. The forge blazed even hotter as Durgan and his assistants rushed to complete the last few enhanced weapons.
From his position on the main wall, Bjorn watched the giants' approach with professional interest. They moved with surprising stealth for such large creatures, using the natural cover of the mountain terrain to mask their advance. But the ancient giant-path worked against them as well—it funneled their approach into a narrow valley that was perfectly positioned for the fortress's defensive fire.
"Range, four hundred paces and closing," called the artillery commander. "Weapons ready on your order, sir."
Bjorn raised his hand, waiting for the perfect moment. The giants had paused at the edge of the valley, clearly aware that they were approaching dangerous ground. Their leader—a massive specimen with frost-white hair and scars covering his arms—gestured toward the fortress with what might have been contempt.
"Fire!" Bjorn shouted, dropping his hand.
The ballistae loosed their bolts with a sound like thunder, the weapons' essence-enhanced mechanisms adding extra force to each shot. The iron projectiles, coated in Ironveil energy, streaked through the air with deadly accuracy. Most found their marks, punching through giant flesh and bone with devastating effect.
But the giants were tough, and not all of the shots were fatal. The survivors roared in anger and pain, charging toward the fortress with ground-shaking steps. Their leader hurled a boulder the size of a wagon, which struck the wall with enough force to crack the stone.
"Second volley!" Bjorn commanded. "Aim for the leader!"
The ballistae crews worked with practiced efficiency, reloading and adjusting their aim within seconds. The second wave of bolts caught the charging giants in the open, dropping several more. But the leader and three others reached the wall, their massive hands finding purchase on the smooth stone.
This was where the fortress's hidden defenses came into play. As the giants began to climb, the runes carved into the walls flared to life. Blue light ran along the stone like liquid fire, and the giants screamed as the magical energy burned their flesh. Two lost their grip immediately, falling to the rocks below.
The leader held on longer, his natural resistance to magic allowing him to endure the punishment. But as he reached for the parapet, Bjorn was waiting. The captain's sword blazed with Ironveil essence as he brought it down in a perfect arc, severing the giant's fingers at the knuckles.
The creature fell backward with a roar of pain and rage, crashing into the rocks with bone-breaking force. He tried to rise, but a final ballista bolt took him in the chest, ending his threat permanently.
The remaining giants, seeing their leader fall, retreated back up the mountain path. They moved with the peculiar dignity of defeated warriors, carrying their wounded and leaving their dead behind. Within minutes, they had disappeared into the higher peaks, leaving only bloodstains on the ancient stones to mark their passage.
"Casualties?" Bjorn asked, wiping his blade clean.
"None, sir," reported Grimm with satisfaction. "The walls held, and the enhanced weapons performed perfectly. Master Durgan's work saved lives today."
Bjorn nodded, but his expression remained serious. "This was just a probe. The giants were testing our defenses, seeing how we would respond." He looked up at the peaks, where clouds were gathering for another storm. "They'll be back, and in greater numbers."
As the garrison began the work of cleaning up after the battle, Bjorn took a moment to examine the runes carved into the wall where the giants had climbed. The ancient symbols were still glowing faintly, their power slowly returning to dormancy. These marks were older than the fortress itself, carved by the first dwarven settlers who had recognized the mountain's natural defenses.
According to the old stories, the jötunn themselves had once walked these paths, leaving behind not just roads but entire structures carved into the living rock. Deep in the mountain's heart, chambers and passages still bore the marks of their passage—symbols and carvings that spoke of a time when giants and dwarves had been enemies, then allies, then something more complex than either.
"Sir," called Astrid, approaching with a worried expression. "The patrol has returned from the Thornwood Valley. They found something you need to see."
Bjorn followed her to the main hall, where three exhausted soldiers waited with a collection of objects spread on a rough wooden table. The items were clearly giant-made—crude tools and weapons carved from stone and bone. But it was the largest piece that drew his attention.
It was a fragment of carved stone, covered in symbols that seemed to shift and move in the firelight. The runes were similar to those protecting the fortress, but older and more complex. They seemed to tell a story, though the meaning was lost to time.
"Where did you find this?" Bjorn asked, running his fingers over the ancient carving.
"In the ruins at the valley's heart," replied the patrol leader, a young dwarf named Thorin. "It was part of a much larger structure—a temple, maybe, or a tomb. The giants had been digging there, trying to uncover something."
Bjorn studied the fragment more closely. The symbols definitely told a story, but deciphering their meaning would take time and scholarly resources the fortress didn't possess. Still, the implications were troubling. If the giants were seeking something in the old ruins, it might explain their sudden boldness in attacking the fortress.
"Double the watches," he ordered. "And send word to the capital. The scholars there need to see this." He looked around the hall, meeting the eyes of his officers. "Whatever the giants are looking for, we can't let them find it."
As night fell over Frosthold Keep, the garrison settled into their routines. Guards walked the walls, their breath steaming in the cold air. The forge continued to burn, its light casting dancing shadows on the stone. And deep in the mountain, ancient runes glowed with patient power, holding back the darkness that pressed against the world.
The fortress would endure, as it had for generations. But the questions raised by the giant attack would linger, adding to the growing sense that something was stirring in the deep places of the world—something that had been sleeping for far too long.