"Sir, how many men are you taking to the West Wall?"

  "Fourteen hundred."

  "That leaves barely a hundred to guard the camp."

  "If the kingdom falls," he replied tersely, "what use have I for these wretched tents?"

  The Shadowgreen Knights moved with practiced efficiency; the intermittent roars from the distance making them increasingly uneasy. "What in all the realms is making that sound?" Lannord whispered to Stellan as they prepared their mounts. "Are you certain it's merely stone striking the walls and not... something alive?"

  "Can't say for sure," Stellan answered, swinging his saddle onto his steed with practiced ease. "We'll see plain enough when we get there. Whatever it is, I'll make it wish it had never been spawned."

  "I must disagree with your assessment," Lannord said, placing a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder. "We would be better served following Kelly to Wyrm Ember rather than charging blindly toward the wall."

  "The wall is where we'll find the Godmans—those southern bastards intent on Cynthia's destruction. What possible value lies in Wyrm Ember? Perhaps some minor enemies lurk there, but they're insignificant targets. Let Kelly handle such trivialities. I seek worthier prey—the kind whose heads command substantial bounties."

  "...My only wish right now is to see us both walk away from this alive."

  "Oh?" Stellan's lip curled into a contemptuous sneer. "What has made you so timid, little wolf cub?"

  "Risk," Lannord answered flatly. "Any risk that provokes your temper is one we cannot afford to take."

  "Don't attribute your cowardice to concern for me, Lannord. I'm no fledgling hiding behind your wing—I can fly, and soar higher than you imagine. Anything foolish enough to provoke my anger will be obliterated where it stands."

  "...That is precisely what terrifies me most."

  "Hey." Lothar jogged up between his two subordinates, glancing appraisingly at each. "Listen carefully," he said, slightly winded. "You hear those sounds?" He gestured toward the distant West Wall. "I'm growing increasingly convinced the Godmans aren't relying solely on trebuchets—there must be some element of... witchcraft at work. That's precisely why I require your assistance." He paused, studying their reactions before continuing, "I recognize our past interactions haven't always been harmonious. I freely admit I've never particularly appreciated—or rather, never grown accustomed to—working alongside you both. Your... unusual perceptions are distinctly unsettling. However," he emphasized firmly, "circumstances have changed. I've familiarized myself with your histories—especially yours." Lothar gripped Lannord's shoulder with surprising intensity. "I understand your past burdens you greatly; any man would be profoundly shaken upon discovering his betrothed was nothing more than a rabid hound... Such tragedies have gifted you with canine-like... er, olfactory abilities—no, I mean heightened perception. While I sympathize with your suffering, your unique talents have become invaluable to us. I want you both accompanying me to the wall to counter whatever sorcery the Godmans have deployed. I place my trust in you, young lords." He gave Lannord's shoulder a final clap and strode off.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "There you have it, partner. Direct orders," Stellan remarked, barely suppressing his amusement.

  "...Fine. The wall it is, then." Lannord mounted his horse. "Though," he added, brow furrowed as he slanted a look at Stellan, "what load of old bollocks did you feed him about me and some dog?!"

  The moment Stone collided with the wall, true consciousness flooded back into his mind. Pain thundered from the base of his skull throughout his massive body—even his rocky hide couldn't fully absorb such impact. Rock trolls are notoriously ill-tempered upon waking, and for Stone, who found himself embedded halfway into a wall he'd just created a crater in, this was especially true. Worse still, half his considerable bulk remained trapped within the stonework, limiting his movement to futile struggles.

  From his earliest days, Stone had been indistinguishable from other trollkin. He possessed the same malleable flesh, the same—perhaps even more grotesque—facial features, an identical volatile temperament, and that universal troll devotion to fermented beverages. His mother, a Forest Troll with diminutive shrubs sprouting across her shoulders, bestowed upon him the name Stone. He understood its significance: courage, might, fearlessness. Only upon reaching maturity and encountering other Rock Trolls similarly named did he begin questioning his childhood recollections.

  His formative years passed between exclusion and reverence. The former stemmed from his name—the majority of his peers bore the name Wood, their bodies festooned with various foliage and desiccated branches, mirroring his mother's appearance. The latter began on a cloudless night when he was merely fifteen months old, as his mother embedded shards of transparent quartz and assorted minerals into his sleeping form's pliable back, causing him to unleash a soul-rending howl toward the heavens. Thereafter, all Forest Trolls in his vicinity regarded his stone symbiosis with profound awe—though none knew of the peculiar raw stone hidden within him, scorched by the Red Dragon Anlenκordir near Wyrm Ember. Only in his adulthood did his mother casually mention that fateful night had determined his destiny: he might well have perished agonizingly during the symbiotic adaptation phase. Rather than harboring resentment, he felt genuine gratitude. For a Forest Troll to transform into a Rock Troll represented nothing short of miraculous, and he had embodied that very miracle. While other Forest Trolls his age crept about at night, stealing ale from tavern cellars or roadside carts, Stone found honorable work. He was made guardian and keeper -- indeed, the very builder -- of the East Bridge over the Doby Stream. Stone never forgot the looks of awe as folk watched him hefting tons of rock for the bridge, nor the farmers' sour faces as they grudgingly paid their two Finnlits toll. He'd gone from swilling ale from a barrel in the mud outside the tavern to sipping from a proper mug at a table the innkeeper kept just for him. It set him apart from common trolls. His was the life of a troll of standing, the sort of life only trolls of talent, living in a thriving land, could ever know.

  But times change. Swiftly, and often cruelly.

  Stone witnessed, helpless, as the bridge he had painstakingly constructed was methodically demolished, while he wept before the leveled spears of forty-four Cynthian infantry. Even now, their mocking laughter echoed in his memory—their jeers that trolls were ultimately insignificant creatures. He found himself astonished that his characteristic rage and fiery temper had somehow retreated behind his stony exterior, replaced entirely by overwhelming grief. Only then did he truly comprehend how deeply he had cherished that bridge he'd tended for over seven years, along with the farmers who traversed it daily and each greeting they bestowed upon him. It was in that moment he gained profound insight into the pitiable nature of trollkind—regardless of what materials might be embedded within their flesh, they remained fundamentally soft and vulnerable, both physically and emotionally.

  He released a pained groan, attempting to free his immobilized hands.

  Stone resolved to find strength, to reclaim his misplaced fury and indignation. Yet despite his most determined efforts, he found himself perpetually seated at his former post amid the devastation, weeping unceasingly. He related his misfortune to every passerby—the brutality of the Cynthian Army, the depth of Stone's suffering. He cared not whether anyone listened—only that he could voice his sorrow. Even when the Godman forces arrived, he continued his fragmented narrative between sobs and sniffles, sharing his poignant tale in broken, halting phrases that no one bothered to comprehend.