Huff…!
Huff…!
Each breath tore through his lungs like shattered ice.
Frost spilled from his mouth in thick white plumes as the giant ran, his massive frame crashing through the open snowfields carved between two towering northern mountains.
Every step sent tremors through the frozen ground, deep footprints cracking the ice beneath him.
Blood streaked across the snow behind him.
His right arm—gone.
Not severed cleanly, but ripped away in a violent blur he could barely remember.
The stump burned with constant agony, nerves screaming, flesh numb and raw.
Frost clung to the wound, sealing it just enough to keep him alive.
Painful.
But merciful.
"I… must reach the chieftain…" he growled, voice ragged, barely holding together.
His name was Kaltan—a warrior of the frost giants, a veteran of countless battles, one who had faced dragons and rival tribes without ever once knowing fear.
Until now.
Groaagh!
Huaaaghh!!
Monstrous roars thundered behind him.
