It had begun with an ancient ritual, its details long since lost to time. When his guild master first discovered that consuming the heart of a slain immortal giant granted immortality, no one stopped to consider what curses might accompany such a boon.

Looking back, Llawamai had always thought it some elaborate joke.

That “joke” lasted right up until Rook—his guild master and the continent’s premier ritualist—threw open the massive double doors to the greater ritual chamber and declared:

“This shall be my greatest work!”

Beyond the Whispering Hills, Rook was rumored to be a warlock—one who trafficked in unholy rites and bargained with demons. However, Llawamai had always known him instead as a firm, yet jovial, leader, quick to laugh and quicker to forgive. As a result, he had always dismissed the rumors.

Now, staring into the chamber, he began to reconsider.

At its center, resting atop a low stone pedestal, lay a heart of titanic proportions. It was as tall and as wide as his torso, twice as deep and still oozing blood. He should have known this wasn’t another guild prank. The ritual circle alone,meticulously inscribed in giant’s blood,should have made that clear.

Watching the thick, dark fluid spill over the edges of the pedestal—no, altar—Llawamai finally found his voice.

“There’s no way I’m eating that thing without some seasoning.”

Laughter erupted from his companions within the chamber. For a fleeting moment, hope sparked and Llawamai let out a sigh of relief.

Then he saw the rest of his party, lounging along the far wall.

Rhajani the shaman, clad in his usual garb of furs, bones and other pieces of deceased things, sat cross-legged on the floor, absently fiddling with one of his talismans. Goonter leaned against the wall, his bow still strung across his shoulders, always at the ready to protect his comrades. A wry smile crept across Ionas’ bearded face as the massive druid chuckled to himself over some unknown jest, smoke billowing from his overly long pipe. Tez stood stoically to the right, arms crossed, though his furiously tapping foot threatened to betray his façade. Still, the kid had guts. That’s why they had taken him into their party after all.

“By the light!” Llawamai cried. “Are all of us being forced into this?”

“Of course not,” Rook replied. “They volunteered. After all, who wouldn’t leap at the chance of immortality?”

“The chance?” Llawamai echoed. “So it might fail?”

“Certainly,” Rook said with a sly grin. “There is always a chance of failure. In this case, that failure could result in your agonizing death - and perhaps the destruction of your eternal soul - if’n your heart ain’t be pure enough. That’s why you, you wall of a man, will be taking the first bite.”

“If we’re talking purity, I’m not sure any of us would qualify.”

“Would it help if I fed it to you?” Rhajani started, not bothering to get up. The wiry shaman was always eager to tease the warrior despite being a third the size. “Would that make the big, bad heart less scary, Mister Warrior? Even Tez said he’d do it and he’s all but wet himself at this point.”  Tez shot a wide-eyed look at Rhajani while Ionas let out a hearty belly laugh. Finally, Goonter stepped forward clapping his hand onto Llawamai’s shoulder.

“We made a pact to protect our land forever.” The grizzled hunter glanced over at the heart and could not help but sneer in disgust. “Are we going to let one shitty dinner get in the way of that? Afterwards, we’ll get you a nice dark ale to wash it down. Wouldn’t that make you feel better?”

Thoughts buzzed through Llawamai’s mind. They could not protect the Whispering Hills if they exploded or disintegrated, or whatever horrible death Rook had implied happened. Perhaps it would be better to defend their home as mortals, as they had always done, rather than risk it all ending right here and now.

Llawamai opened his mouth to protest, but not before the young Tez cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“We are doing it to keep the Whispering Hills safe, not to elevate ourselves above those we protect. I don’t know much about ‘purity’, but I believe that our intentions are good and I think that might be enough.”

No argument he made could dissuade them, Llawamai realized.

Eventually, negotiations collapsed, and Llawamai accepted his role as vanguard, leading his companions into eternity. All he could do now was prepare himself for whatever may come.

The first bite was… unexpected.

Instead of the metallic tang of blood, his mouth filled with a rich and complex flavor. It was both sweet and savory, even without the seasoning he’d requested. As he continued, a strange fullness grew within him—not in his stomach, but somewhere deeper.

Three increasingly sluggish heartbeats after the final swallow, that fullness spiked into unbearable pressure. It felt as though his soul had been pinned beneath the foot of the giant itself.

For a single moment—one that Rook later claimed actually lasted ten minutes—his heart stopped completely.

Before his eyes, Llawamai’s life unfolded before him. Every cruelty, every quiet act of grace, every selfish failing - each moment passed in less than a second, the pressure not once relenting. As his soul neared dissolution, the weight intensified one final time before vanishing, as though the giant had stepped away.

And then, the world went dark.

Llawamai was almost grateful as the shriek of metal scraping across his helmet brought him back to the present. The world rushed back in fragments—steel, blood, motion. A soldier stood before him, clad in studded leather and raising a round shield. For a brief, disjointed moment, Llawamai didn’t understand why. Then, his own sword entered his vision as it swung in a downward arc.

The blow landed.

The man’s arm buckled instantly. His shield crumpled inward, crushing both helmet and skull, his body snapping beneath the force. Llawamai’s blade continued its descent until its dulled tip buried itself in the earth, halted only by the ruined shield and the body beneath it.

He watched it happen with complete detachment.

Only then did he remember the spear that had struck him from behind.

He pivoted, swinging wide at waist height. The motion, meant only to create space, sent two men hurtling through the air like broken dolls. A third was cut clean through the midsection—

—and did not fall.

“You know,” the specter of his friend said casually, his ethereal body reforming itself after the cleaving strike, “you shouldn’t sleepwalk through a battlefield, big man. You might get stabbed.”

“Just because I cannot sleep,” Llawamai rumbled, “does not mean my mind does not need rest. Besides Rhajani, none of the Onyx King’s generals are within a hundred miles. There is no one here to challenge us.”

Since the destruction of their mortal bodies, one by one, his companions had joined him in spirit form. And as they joined him, so too did his strength grow. They had retained their brotherhood even after death. The pact they’d made to serve The Whispering Hills bound them, protecting their land forever, only if in spirit form.

“Never assume the threat has vanished, Llaw.” Another, grizzled voice began. “If you let your guard down, you’ll end up like the rest of us sooner rather than later” Goonter was always very straightforward, a practical old veteran who knew that survival was just as important as victory.

“Tell that to this guy,” Ionas laughed as he stood to his full height, kicking over a soldier whose body had fallen in his path. Meanwhile Tez’s ghostly form seemed to freeze as though he had heard something. He opened his mouth to speak, but a new voice intruded.

“My, my,” the newcomer began. Their voice was calm, measured and unfamiliar. “The Bastion of the Whispering Hills has quite the internal dialogue. I wonder: what consequences follow one who denies so many souls their rebirth?”

Llawamai acted on instinct. He drew his sword and shield in a single fluid motion, scanning for the speaker. He was surrounded by dead bodies, scattered trees, and boulders. There was no one in sight, but he was certain he had heard a voice. The disappearance of his companions’ ghosts led him to assume he was right. Someone here was still alive.

“And who are you, then?” Llawamai called out, scanning the battlefield for movement. “I’m not looking to take on any new passengers.”

Two figures stepped out from behind a nearby cluster of trees, just on the outskirts of the field. The first, a tall woman in full plate, wore a short, angled hairstyle that accented her angular features perfectly. Despite having only one companion, she gave off the energy of a commander. Her head held high, Llawamai could see a dark, jagged crown resting on her shoulders and around her neck. Was that the Onyx Crown?

The other was a shrouded figure wrapped head to toe in script-bound cloth, faint light bleeding through the seams. They were more lithe than the warrior, looking as though a slight breeze might blow them over, and  carried only a simple shepherd’s crook, from which hung a lantern. Still, Llawamai could feel the energy of The Cradle radiating from him, despite the lack of any magic use.

Llawamai didn’t need to be told which one had spoken.

“That inari must be real ugly if he has to cover himself up like that,” Rhajani muttered within Llawamai’s head. The others snickered from within his head as well. From where they stood, the woman’s companion crossed his arms and tapped his crook onto the ground.

“That’s rather rude,” the figure replied telepathically.

“I told you that I don’t need any more people in my head,” Llawamai said flatly. He maintained his fighting stance, unsure of these newcomers or their purpose. “If you want to fight, then let’s fight and be done with it.” He chuckled to himself. “This is by far the worst ambush I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because it isn’t one,” the woman answered. As she and the inari approached, Llawamai found himself lowering his weapon. They were still likely a threat, which the voices of his companions reminded him, but everything in his exhausted body told him that he didn’t need to fight anymore.

“Even worse,” he sighed. “If you’re not here to kill me, then you must want my help.”

“Actually,” she said, “we’re offering ours. I’m Sarah and this is Ias.”

The inari, Ias, cocked his head as he looked up at him. It almost felt like he was reaching gently into Llawamai’s mind. He seemed hesitant to comment or act until Sarah turned to him. They looked at each other in silence for several seconds before he turned back to face Llawamai’s massive form.

“I can feel it,” Ias said, his voice brushing against Llawamai’s thoughts. “The fatigue. The exhaustion,” he paused. “You are quite old, which means something coming from me. How long has it been since you’ve truly rested?”

“…Two and a half centuries,” Llawamai replied. It was almost equally exhausting to say aloud.

“Would you like to?” Such a simple question, and coming from a complete stranger. Llawamai thought about it for a brief moment as he eyed the inari, looking him up and down incredulously.

“Oh yeah, sure!” he said dryly. “Right after I tear down the Onyx King’s castle with my bare hands.”

Llawamai wasn’t certain that inari could roll their eyes, but this one certainly had. Sarah was watching with quiet satisfaction, clearly anticipating that he might do the impossible. Ias raised a hand and a warm light radiated from it. The light intensified, almost fiercely so, and Llawamai braced himself for total annihilation.

Instead, he felt heat. Not an external heat, but one from within him. Warm at first, it blazed furiously, searing and burning as beads of sweat formed on his brow. For a brief and terrifying instant, Llawamai thought that he was being boiled alive. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. His mind told him that he was in pain, that this was the end. His body said otherwise.

The colossal, armored warrior fell to one knee, his eyelids growing heavy, and collapsed. And again, the world went dark.

After what seemed like an eternity, a spark of flame reignited within the Bastion of the Whispering Hills. No, not a spark - an inferno. But this roaring blaze did not burn Llawamai. It lifted him. The constant, aching pain that had consumed and defined him over the years had simply dissipated, burned away by this inner flame. In its place, something unfamiliar and long-forgotten took hold. Life. Vigor. Vitality. Despite being relieved of the suffering that had long sustained him, Llawamai remained face down in the blood-soaked dirt.

“I… apologize,” Ias said gently. “Too much at once might have broken you. We will proceed... gradually.”

“I forgive you,” Llawamai murmured into the ground, drawing in a full breath for what felt like the first time in centuries. “This time.”

The world smelled… alive.

He pushed himself upright. A broad smile formed on the woman’s face as she clapped a hand against Ias’s shoulder. Clearly, she hadn’t doubted him. As Llawamai glanced down at the crown around Sarah’s neck, her sharp eyes caught his line of sight.
“That crown. That’s-” he began.

“Yes,” Sarah interjected. “The Onyx Crown. Stolen from The Onyx King himself. He’s taken everything from Igris… and I think it’s time that we take it back.” She paused for a moment, gazing out to the horizon before turning back to him. “You know, I’ve been hoping our paths would cross, Llawamai.”

Sarah stood before him, hand extended.

“How would you like,” she asked, “to finally crush The Onyx Legion?” Llawamai stared at her for a moment, then at Ias behind her, and then at the group of ghosts now assembled behind the inari. His comrades. His friends. His brothers. One by one, the shades of his past nodded before fading away again. Beneath his horned helmet, the giant man smiled before taking the outstretched hand.

“Let’s get to it, your majesty.”