Even for someone like him, who could see souls and walk the line between life and death, the mysteries of the afterlife remained elusive. What truly happened to a soul after death was still a question left unanswered, hidden beyond the veil that only the dead could cross. Everything else was just speculation.
The only thing Bastian could do now, it seemed, was to be kind to those still living, even if it was easier to talk to the dead.
Uncle Charles, who used to be the tribe's best hunter, wouldn't be able to go on any expeditions for quite some time. Bastian knew that the family was struggling, so he made a quiet offer. He bought the dried animal heads hanging beneath Charles' home, odd trophies from past hunts and paid generously with his own food reserves.
"You shouldn't hunt when you're exhausted," Bastian said, handing over the goods. "You're more likely to make mistakes, and we both know what happens when you're careless out there."
Charles accepted the food with a weary nod, too tired to argue. Aunt Martha gave Bastian a tired smile, her grief still raw, but grateful for the small act of kindness.
For Bastian, the loss wasn't much of a burden. One of the trophies, a dried frost troll's head, could be ground into a fine powder and, when mixed with the right ingredients, turned into a potent regeneration potion. Bastian wasn't skilled in potion-making himself, but his "close relatives" were. He calculated the time, checking the crude calendar he kept on the wall. If all went according to plan, they should be arriving soon, just after the winter solstice, in the afternoon of the second day.
Then, as if on cue, excited voices echoed outside.
"The elves are here! They've arrived at the village entrance, and this time, they brought a lot of food!" shouted a villager, their voice filled with joy.
Bastian, however, didn't share in the excitement. His expression soured. Elves. Not the ones who lived in harmony with other races, but the high-born kind, those who looked down on everyone, especially him.
As a half-elf, half-dragon, Bastian had always felt like an outsider. These elves, who proudly referred to themselves the "Descendants of the Holy Tree," were some of the wealthiest and most advanced people in the North. Their technological and magical achievements over the past centuries had been remarkable. In medicine, enchantments, and art, they were leagues ahead of anyone else. Every few years, they seemed to unveil some breakthrough that left the world in awe. Even dragons, known for their pride and immense power, looked upon the elves with a mix of envy and begrudging admiration.
There were whispers that the elves' magic, ancient and formidable had developed to a point where it rivaled the power of dragon magic, the once-undisputed force of nature. Some even said the most skilled of the elves were comparable to the gods in the old creation myths. For someone like Bastian, who had knowledge of both elven and dragon languages, this was fascinating. He longed to learn more about these two powerful magics, to understand their mysteries. But asking the elves? That was impossible.
Every time they saw Bastian's pointed ears and the faint red scales on his cheeks, the elves' expressions grew cold. Their hands would twitch toward their weapons, and their faces would harden with disgust. Half-breed. A disgrace. If they weren't on neutral ground in giant territory, Bastian had no doubt they'd attempt to erase him, to rid their noble lineage of what they saw as a stain.
Bastian had long since accepted the hostility from the elves. He remained silent in their presence, refusing to appease or seek their approval. They might be some of his biggest customers in the North, but that didn't mean he had to like them.
He had developed his own way of dealing with them. As the elven caravan approached the market, Bastian opened his battered old suitcase, spreading out a worn leather rug. One by one, he carefully laid out his goods, each with a neatly written price tag. No haggling, no banter. The elves might ignore him, but if they needed something, they'd come.
And they always did.
They would wait until the market was about to close, then one of them, grim-faced and stiff, would approach and silently purchase everything they needed. No words exchanged, no pleasantries offered. Just business.
Bastian sat cross-legged on the ground, a small tool in his hand as he ground the frost troll's skull into a fine powder. His eyes, though focused on his task, kept drifting to the market in front of him. Elves milled about, their pale skin and elegant clothes stark against the rough, snow-covered backdrop of the village. Even here, in the cold wilderness, they carried themselves with an air of superiority, as if they were gracing the locals with their presence.
But Bastian didn't care. He had learned long ago that it was easier to let them think what they wanted. After all, their gold was as good as anyone else's.
The ground trembled faintly beneath Bastian as he lay under his blanket, the rhythmic quaking gently disturbing his rest. The source of the disturbance was clear, giant children were bounding across the village square, their heavy footsteps making the earth shake beneath them.
This was the most joyous day of the month for them. The elves had arrived, bringing with them not only supplies but new toys and delicious treats. The allure of these treasures was irresistible to the young giants, who leapt with uncontainable excitement.
Meanwhile, their parents, much larger and usually far more stoic; hovered nearby, watching the exchange with an awkward sense of urgency. The adults, uncomfortable as they were, haggled shyly with the elves, trying to secure the basic goods they needed: spices, cloth, and simple necessities for the coming winter. The wealthier families might, if they were lucky, manage to afford a single toy, which the village children would share in groups of three or five, passing it around like a cherished relic.
As times grew harder, however, the joy was becoming more fleeting. The land was changing. Crops were failing, and the once-bountiful harvests the giants depended on had begun to shrink. Trade goods were becoming scarcer, and the only commodities the giants had left to offer were the materials harvested from the monsters that roamed the frozen wilderness, tough hides, enchanted bones, and elemental-infused claws.
These materials, laden with magical properties, were invaluable in the southern lands, where alchemists and wizards coveted them for powerful potions and arcane creations. But here in the northern polar regions, they were as common as firewood. Monsters were abundant and fierce, and often, what could have been sold for high prices was simply tossed onto a grill or boiled into a stew.
In truth, the only one in the village with the knowledge to craft magical items from these materials was the elf standing in the square right now.
Thankfully, the northern elves had always been fair in their dealings. Unlike the cutthroat merchants from other lands, they didn't take advantage of the giants' dwindling resources. They offered reasonable prices for the monster materials, and they never tried to pull off wicked schemes, such as trading a village's entire wealth for a single weapon.
Moreover, these elves, though still proud and aloof like all their kin, were willing to barter and even extend credit. This reputation had earned them respect in the resource-starved North, and the giants relied heavily on the kindness of these traders to survive the harsh winters.
But today, something was different.
"No credit? Why not? We've always been able to buy on credit before," An Brodyg, the village chief, stammered in his broken Elvish, his massive frame towering over the slender elf leader. His face was etched with concern, his deep voice trembling slightly as he spoke.
Without credit, many giant families wouldn't be able to afford new clothes for the winter, and worse, the children's hopes for toys and treats would be dashed. Even more dire, some in the village might not make it through the season without enough food.
The elf leader, a tall figure with silver hair and piercing green eyes, sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, big guy, but we're in trouble, too. Our caravan was attacked by monsters. Many of our goods were lost, and now we're short on supplies ourselves."
The crowd murmured in surprise, and Bastian, who had been quietly observing from the sidelines, felt a knot form in his stomach. The elves were known for their efficiency and strength, especially in these parts. For them to lose a shipment to monsters was not only unusual, but deeply unsettling.
The elf leader continued, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. "The northern elves, as you know, are a branch of the southern tribes. Our production is limited, and many of our goods come from caravans that travel up from the south. Just five days ago, one of those caravans was ambushed by a group of strange creatures along the trade route. Several of our people were killed, and all the goods were lost."
A hushed silence fell over the gathering. The mention of elves losing lives was almost unheard of. In this land, dragons, dwarves, giants, and elves were the four most powerful races. Each had its strengths, and while conflicts were rare between them, their power was undeniable. The elves, in particular, had seen a rise in recent years. Under the leadership of their legendary Great Sage, they had made leaps in magical advancements, some even whispering that they now rivaled the gods of old.
But the idea that a caravan, laden with goods and guarded by elves, could be overrun was startling. And even more strange was the nature of the attack.