Year 476 - Alderhall Crown City, Pyra
There is a kind of weight that only history can give to a life—the burden of knowing that what you do will outlast you, shaping the lives of those who follow. It was the kind of immortality that evaded the many fools who scoured the tomes of litches in search of permanence. A truer kind, the kind forced upon those who stood where no one else dared. History—no, Legacy was not about glory. Not really; it was about the tales others carried forward into eternity when their voices were gone, faded to rest among the dead and dying. It was about immortal actions.
The Giant King understood this as he walked to the edge of the end, where the line between defiance and surrender blurred beneath the shadow of the Tide.
The King stood atop the mountainous battlements of Alderhall, his colossal frame framed against the bruised sky. Clouds churned as though the heavens themselves recoiled from the horrors below. His grip on the great hammer, Forgefall, relaxed, the iron haft etched with runes long faded by centuries of war. It had been his father’s hammer, and many fathers before him. Ahead of him, the land stretched wide, scarred and smouldering—a patchwork of ruin and decay.
The Endless Tide had come.
Their forms spilled across the horizon. Crawling. Skittering. Towering shapes moved among the swarm, the earth quaking beneath their weight. The smaller creatures surged like water, a flood of limbs and jagged appendages. Their bodies reflected no light—black carapaces broken only by red fissures that surged with a faint, internal glow, some visible at this distance.
The king raised his hand. A wall of silence spread through the defenders behind him, knights and soldiers bristling with steel and grim determination. Their armor glinted dully beneath the oppressive gloom, some stained with the ichor of earlier clashes. He could feel their fear, thick and unspoken, weighing heavy in the charged air in a curtain of foreboding.
They will not hold, the thought came, unbidden. The Giant King’s jaw clenched, the bones of his face pronounced beneath his weathered skin. His gaze swept across the battlefield again, his mind mapping each crevasse, each choke point. A tide of black surged forward, pouring into the valley below. The creatures didn’t march—they swarmed, limbs tearing at the ground with manic purpose.
Power is a fragile thing, this thought came to him as he felt his soldiers waver. It tempted those who wielded it to believe in permanence, in the weight of their own authority against the shifting tides of the world. Yet it bent and shattered beneath forces greater than itself, like the wood thrown into a furnace or stone crumbling before time. What would replaced power, then, when it met something it could not crush or shape? Would it be strength, legacy, or something else?
Perhaps it would be sacrifice.
Beside him, the Council of Twelve stood in stony silence. Their robes were threadbare, their faces wan. None of them had spoken in hours, their spells spent, their prayers unanswered. One elder swayed slightly, the glow of the crystals on her staff dimming, the life force it siphoned leaving her more gaunt with each passing moment. This would be their final battle, that much was certain.
But at least the children would survive.
The king descended the battlements. For him, there was no pride, no fear or hubris to guide his steps, only the certainty that his actions, no matter how futile, would carve a path through the dark for those left behind. His heavy boots the size of houses thudding against stone, the vibrations traveling up through the fortress. Soldiers parted as he passed, their eyes fixed downward, their hands shaking over sword hilts and spear shafts. He paused near the iron gates, glancing at the warriors assembled there.
"You are Alderhall’s last sons," he said, his voice carrying like the groan of mountains. “Hold your ground, even as it crumbles beneath you.”
The gates groaned as they opened, revealing the teeming darkness beyond. The Tide surged forward, a screamless wave of destruction. The first rank of defenders braced, shields locked and spears leveled. The king stepped past them, his massive frame a monolith of defiance against the encroaching chaos.
The first creature reached him—a towering abomination with limbs jagged as scythes. The kind spawned specifically to face them, he suspected. It lunged, its weight cracking the vast stone beneath its feet in wide fissures. The Giant King met it head-on, swinging Forgefall in a damning descent. The hammer connected with the creature’s torso, shattering its carapace with a deafening crunch, thunder bellowed as the hammers enchantment ignited. The force of the blow sent its mangled remains hurtling backward, carving a furrow through the creatures behind it and spraying geysers of earth.
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The king slammed his hammer into the ground, releasing a shockwave that rippled outward, the runes on Forgefall blazing to life. The earth rose to consume the next creature, swallowing its lower half before closing again, severing its legs in an explosion of ichor.
Behind him, the defenders surged forward, emboldened by their king’s display. Spears thrust into the mass of writhing limbs, blades severed claws and mandibles. For every creature felled, two more emerged, their bodies piling into the breach with relentless force.
He pressed forward, his hammer a blur of destruction. He moved with grim efficiency, his blows calculated, his strikes following the forms, each designed to maximize devastation. Yet, even he felt the strain. His muscles burned, his breath came harder than the last, and the creatures showed no sign of thinning.
A shadow loomed above him. He turned, raising his hammer just in time to deflect a massive claw that came crashing down. The impact forced him to one knee, the stone beneath him cracking under the pressure. He glanced up at the towering monstrosity—a creature of impossible size, its elongated limbs ending in barbed hooks. Its head twisted unnaturally, yet familiar.
A mockery of life.
The king roared, a sound that shook the air, and drove Forgefall upward into the beast’s skull. The hammer struck true, splitting its head in two. The creature collapsed, its body crushing dozens of its own as it fell.
But there was no time to rest. Another wave pressed forward, and he would rise to meet it.
His hammer shattered limbs, crushed torsos, and splintered spines, but his movements began to slow. He felt it then—a pull, faint but undeniable. A force beyond comprehension, emanating from the Tide itself. The creatures were not mindless; they moved with unified purpose, their actions driven by a will he could not see but could feel. It bore down on him, suffocating in its enormity.
Sacrifice was a strange kind of strength, he thought, his giant weapon raised with a breath, its shadow racing across the landscape. For some, it could be a burden too heavy to bear; for others, it was the only thing worth carrying.
For him it was the fuel for a fire that would burn the creatures before him to cinder.
A scream tore through the defenders behind him. Larger creatures breached the wall, their scythe-like limbs cleaving through stone and flesh alike. Soldiers scattered, their formation breaking under the assault.
The king leapt, bringing Forgefall down on the creature’s back. The force of the blow sent a shockwave rippling outward, collapsing the wall further and crushing several smaller creatures beneath the rubble.
One claw slashed upward, then another, then several more, catching the king across the torso. His armor held, but the force of the strikes sent him sprawling and wild swings of his weapon sent earth and Ichor spraying. He hit the ground hard, his hammer slipping from his grasp.
Pain flared through his body, but he forced himself to stand. His vision blurred for a moment, the edges darkening. He reached for Forgefall, gripping the haft with both hands as the creature loomed over him.
Above him, the clouds churned faster, their edges glowing with an unnatural light. The ground trembled, and a deep, resonant hum filled the air—a sound that seemed to come from the earth itself. He looked around and saw the tide pressing in on all sides. The defenders were falling, their lines breaking under the relentless onslaught.
The king turned his gaze to the horizon. Beyond the swarm, and he saw it: a figure, massive and indistinct, its form wreathed in shadows that reflected no light. It did not move, yet its presence was overwhelming, a weight that pressed down on his very soul.
The source, he realized. The Tide’s will made flesh.
The Giant King tightened his grip on Forgefall, his resolve hardening. He knew he would not survive this battle. He had known it the moment the Endless Tide appeared on Alderhall’s borders. But he would not fall in vain.
He raised his hammer high, the runes along its length flaring with blinding light. The earth beneath him groaned in protest as he channeled his remaining strength into a single, desperate act.
The Tide hesitated, its relentless advance momentarily stilled.
He turned his gaze to the figure on the horizon, his voice a low growl. “Come, then. Let me see the face of my end.”
The figure did not move, but the Tide surged forward once more, its countless forms blotting out the ruined landscape. The Giant King raised his hammer one last time, the runes flickering weakly as his strength gave out.
And then they were upon him.
***
The Fall of Alderhall: A Historical Account of the XXIV Giant King’s Final Stand
The fall of Alderhall marked what some argue to be the true beginning of the Endless Tide’s conquest across the known lands. History records him as the final bastion, standing against a tide of creatures so vast they swallowed entire cities within days. The Giant King’s hammer, Forgefall, broke hundreds of the beasts—creatures with limbs sharp enough to cleave stone, bodies bristling with unnatural weapons. Yet, despite his immense strength, the Tide overwhelmed them as it did all others during that dark period.
“You do not choose legacy—legacy is shaped in the moments when choice no longer exists. It clings to what remains when the dust has settled and the world moves on, indifferent to the cost. For kings, legacy is carved from the remains of desperation and the wreckage of a good death. In our King’s final stand, his glory was without question, as was the certainty that the tale of his hammer’s fall would last far longer than the sound it made.” - unnamed spearman and survivor
“To see the cost of your life measured against something larger, something that may endure beyond your last breath. That was what he fought for. ” - unnamed archer and survivor
Witnesses described his contribution to the last stand to have been exceptionally significant. Though the Giant King perished, his defiance stalled the Tide long enough for scattered survivors to flee to safer lands. His death was arguably not in vain, but it marked the beginning of an era defined by the Endless Tide’s progressive advance.