Chadwick Rye

The campfire spits amber embers toward a sky where stars hang like frozen tears, too distant to fall. I feed another log to the hungry flames, my hands—twice the size of my companion’s—moving with the careful precision Mother taught me. *Fire respects intention*, she would say. *Feed it with purpose or it will devour more than you offer*.

Across the wavering heat, Callum strums absent melodies on his silverwood lute, his fingers dancing across strings as his eyes dance across my form when he thinks I don’t notice. Always watching—the breadth of my shoulders, the length of my stride, the way firelight catches on the ceremonial copper bands that encircle my biceps. His fascination would be amusing if it weren’t so transparent.

“You’re staring again, little bard,” I say, my voice rolling like distant thunder even when I attempt softness. Mother had the same challenge—a battlefield voice, ill-suited for lullabies yet somehow perfect when she sang me to sleep.

Color floods his cheeks, visible even in firelight. “Forgive me, Eira. I was… composing in my mind. Your silhouette against these ancient pines—it’s like something from the Elder Sagas.”

I snort, a sound that sends a nearby nocturnal creature scurrying into underbrush. “If you’re crafting some ballad about ‘the mighty giantess,’ save your breath. I’ve heard them all.”

“No, no,” he protests, setting his lute aside. “I’m trying to understand the woman beneath the legend. Three weeks we’ve traveled together, and I know only fragments. The daughter of Hilda Ironfist. The last of the Stoneheart Clan. A warrior seeking vengeance against the Crimson Witch.” His voice softens. “But not why this quest consumes you so. Not what drives you to cross five kingdoms with only a wandering bard as company.”

The fire pops, sending a spiral of sparks skyward like tiny, ephemeral constellations. I remain silent, watching them rise and vanish.

“Tell me about her,” Callum ventures after the quiet stretches too long. “Your mother. Not the legend—the woman who raised you.”

My hand moves instinctively to the weathered leather pouch hanging at my neck—containing three objects: a lock of silver-streaked auburn hair, a jagged fragment of my mother’s shattered axe blade, and a single obsidian arrowhead she gave me on my twelfth naming day. My most precious possessions.

“Why?” I ask, suspicion narrowing my gaze. “So you can weave her life into some tavern tale? Reduce her to verses that fit neatly between chorus and refrain?”

His expression shifts from eagerness to something more genuine—something that makes him suddenly appear older than his twenty-five winters.

“Because I would understand what forges someone capable of this journey,” he answers simply. “Because the witch we hunt has claimed hundreds of lives, yet you’re the first I’ve seen with the courage to seek retribution. Because every night you speak her name in your sleep, and it sounds like both prayer and promise.”

The truth of his words disarms me more effectively than any blade could. I stare into the flames, seeing not the burning wood but a different fire—the cooking hearth where Mother would sit after returning from her ranging, her massive frame somehow making our stone cabin feel both smaller and more complete.

“She wasn’t always a warrior,” I begin, surprised by my own willingness to speak. “Before the clan wars, before she earned the name Ironfist, she was a healer.”

Callum blinks, surprise evident. Good. Let him feel the jolt of assumptions corrected.

“Hard to imagine,” he admits.

“Mother’s hands could crush a man’s skull or splint a sparrow’s broken wing with equal skill,” I continue, memory warming my voice despite the night’s growing chill. “She knew every medicinal plant that grew in the Cragtop Mountains, could set bones that seasoned healers deemed beyond repair, and sang incantations that eased childbirth pain even in the most difficult deliveries.”

I extend my hands toward the fire, studying the calluses and scars that map my own history across my palms. Hands like hers—oversized by human standards, yet somehow never too large for delicate work.

“The summer of my fourth year, plague swept through the lowland villages. The human settlements that normally shunned our kind suddenly sent desperate messengers begging for Stoneheart healers. Most elders advised against involvement—why risk our people for humans who called us monsters in whispered conversations?”

The memory crystallizes: Mother standing in the clan council, her voice carrying above the arguments, her spine straight as mountain pine. *They are people in pain. Their size does not diminish their suffering. I will go.*

“Mother took me with her,” I tell Callum, whose expression has transformed to genuine interest rather than romantic fascination. “Said I needed to learn that strength serves no purpose if not used to protect. For three months, we lived among humans who first regarded us with terror, then cautious gratitude, and finally—for some—with something approaching respect.”

Callum shifts closer, abandoning pretense of casual interest. “Is that when you learned their language? Your common speech lacks the typical giantess accent.”

“Mother insisted I learn. Said bridges between peoples begin with shared words.” I poke the fire, watching sparks swirl. “She taught me to read human texts while nursing their sick. History, poetry, philosophy—she believed knowledge transcended physical differences.”

The night deepens around us, forest sounds creating rhythmic counterpoint to memory’s flow. Somewhere distant, an owl calls, its question echoing unanswered through ancient trees.

“There was a human child in Elmbrook village—Sera, barely six winters old. Black hair, eyes like polished amber. The plague struck her family hard; both parents already lost when we arrived. She feared me at first—this gangly giantess child nearly twice her height—but Mother showed her that my size made me perfect for carrying water jugs that would have exhausted her.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly. I haven’t spoken of Sera in years.

“The plague took terrible toll… even with Mother’s remedies, many died. When Sera fell ill, the village healers gave her up for lost, moved her to the dying house at settlement’s edge. But Mother refused to accept it. For seven days and nights, she remained at Sera’s bedside, using techniques even other Stoneheart healers considered dangerous—drawing fever into her own massive body, then dispersing it through ancient rituals that left her trembling with exhaustion.”

The firelight flickers across my face, hiding the moisture gathering in my eyes.

“On the eighth dawn, Sera opened her eyes. By midday, she asked for water. By nightfall, she sat up unassisted. The villagers called it miracle. Mother called it proper application of healing craft.”

Callum leans forward, flames reflecting in his eyes. “She survived?”

I nod slowly. “More than survived. When the plague finally receded, no family remained to claim her. The village elders debated her fate—which household should be burdened with another mouth to feed. Mother listened to their deliberations in silence, then simply lifted Sera onto her shoulders and announced she would raise the child alongside me.”

His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “A human child in a giantess clan? Surely the elders objected?”

My laugh surprises both of us—brief but genuine. “Vigorously and at length. Mother heard their concerns, acknowledged their wisdom, then informed them her decision was made. Few argued with Hilda once her mind was set.”

The fire needs tending; I arrange wood with practiced hands while continuing. “Sera became my sister in all ways that matter. Mother redesigned our home to accommodate her smaller stature—special steps, lowered shelves, furniture built to grow with her. She never treated Sera’s size as disadvantage—merely difference requiring adaptation.”

I fall silent, watching flames consume bark and heartwood alike.

“What happened to her?” Callum asks softly. “To Sera?”

The question draws me back to harsher memories—ones I’ve carried alone since Mother’s death. “She studies at the Celestial Academy in Astralon. Became a scholar of comparative healing traditions. Her letters arrive sporadically—the last mentioned research into plague-resistant bloodlines.” My voice grows quieter. “She doesn’t know about Mother yet. My journey will take me to her after… after the witch.”

“Your mother raised a human daughter alongside you, while serving as clan healer,” Callum summarizes, wonder evident in his tone. “When did she become the legendary warrior?”

The night air grows suddenly colder, or perhaps it’s just memory’s chill seeping into present moment. I pull my bearskin cloak tighter around massive shoulders.

“Necessity, not choice, forged her warrior’s path,” I explain. “Twelve summers after Sera joined our family, marauders attacked Elmbrook—slavers looking for easy targets. The village had shown kindness to our clan, traded fairly, welcomed giant and human children to play together during seasonal gatherings. Mother considered them under her protection.”

The words come easier now, like water finding familiar channels carved through stone. “With two other Stoneheart healers, she rode to defend humans who once feared her. They expected bandits; they found organized forces with battle magic and poisoned weapons. One healer fell immediately. The other retreated for reinforcements.”

My fingers find the axe fragment hanging at my neck.

“Mother stood alone between raiders and village, armed with nothing but a woodcutting axe and healer’s knowledge of where bodies are most vulnerable. Witnesses say she fought like storm incarnate—each swing calculated, each movement precise. She knew exactly how much force would incapacitate without killing, could strike with perfect control despite her size and strength.”

Pride straightens my spine as I continue. “Seventeen raiders she defeated single-handed before reinforcements arrived. The village suffered no casualties, no children taken. When our warriors finally reached Elmbrook, they found Mother tending wounded raiders with the same care she showed clanfolk, binding wounds she herself had inflicted.”

Callum’s expression shows the struggle between bard’s appreciation for dramatic narrative and human empathy. “That’s when they began calling her Ironfist?”

I nod. “Word spread. Other villages requested protection. Chieftain Korgan recognized her unique position—respected by humans and giants alike—and named her clan protector. For nearly a decade, she maintained peace in territories where conflict had been tradition for generations.”

The fire burns lower now, shadows deepening around our small camp. The forest seems to lean closer, listening.

“But the witch,” Callum prompts gently when I fall silent. “How did a healer-turned-protector encounter the Crimson Witch?”

My jaw tightens, muscles flexing visibly beneath skin. “Three winters ago, children began disappearing from villages under our protection. Human settlements blamed woodland creatures or rival clans. Investigation revealed darker truth—a witch gathering ‘ingredients’ for forbidden magic. Life-extension rituals requiring young heart-blood.”

Callum swallows hard. As a lore-keeper, he understands such magic’s implications.

“Mother tracked her alone, following signs others couldn’t read. Found her lair in Blackmire Caverns where boundary between worlds grows thin. The witch had taken seven children by then.” My voice drops to whisper. “She arrived too late to save them.”

The crackling fire provides momentary reprieve from painful recollection.

“What she did save was evidence—the witch’s grimoire detailing rituals and future targets. Mother brought it to human authorities and giant clan leaders both, forging unprecedented alliance against common threat. Twelve warriors from mixed communities volunteered for hunting party. Mother led them back to Blackmire.”

I rise suddenly, needing movement as memory threatens to overwhelm. Pacing the campsite perimeter, my footfalls heavy enough to vibrate earth beneath us.

“Only Mother returned,” I continue, words emerging between controlled breaths. “Wounded beyond conventional healing, corrupted by witch’s defensive spells. She lived long enough to reach home, to warn us the witch had fled northeast toward Elder Kingdoms. To extract my promise.”

“To hunt her,” Callum supplies quietly.

“Not immediately,” I correct, stopping my restless movement to face him fully. “Mother’s final wisdom wasn’t bloodthirsty vengeance. She made me swear to first complete healer’s training, to master protective magic, to understand exactly what we faced. ‘Strength without knowledge is just another form of weakness,’ she told me. Her last words.”

Moonlight breaks through gathering clouds, illuminating our campsite with silver-blue clarity. In this light, I know my giantess heritage shows more prominently—seven and a half feet of muscle and sinew, features too angular by human standards, copper-red hair falling in warrior braids to my waist.

“For two years I honored that promise,” I tell him, returning to my place by the fire. “Studied with every healer who would teach me. Mastered protective wardcraft from human mages who barely reached my elbow. Learned witch-hunting lore from three different traditions.”

Callum nods slowly, understanding dawning in his expression. “That’s why you move differently than other giantesses I’ve encountered. Why you can read ancient texts and speak four languages. Why you dress wounds with healer’s precision while wielding a battleaxe that most men couldn’t lift.”

“Mother taught me integration, not separation,” I explain, something like pride warming my voice. “Healing and harming are knowledge branches from the same tree. Understanding both makes me better at each.”

The fire has nearly died, orange coals pulsing like a fading heartbeat beneath ash. Neither of us moves to revive it.

“Two months ago, reports reached me of a crimson-robed woman seen near Shadowfen Village. Children gone missing again. I knew it was time.” I meet his gaze directly. “The rest you know. I began tracking. You attached yourself to my journey despite multiple suggestions that bards are poor companions for witch-hunts.”

His smile flickers in moonlight. “Not suggestions—threats. Very creative ones involving my lute and physically improbable positions.”

Despite everything, laughter rumbles in my chest. “Yet here you remain.”

“Here I remain,” he agrees softly.

Silence settles between us, comfortable as old fur. The dying fire pops once, sending a final ember spiraling upward.

“Thank you,” Callum says eventually, sincerity replacing his usual performative charm. “For sharing her with me. She sounds… remarkable.”

“She was.” The simple truth feels both inadequate and complete.

“Will you tell me something else?” he asks, hesitation evident. “Something I’ve wondered since joining your quest?”

I tense slightly, expecting another question about giantess physiology or strength. “What?”

“Why did you allow me to accompany you? Truth now—not just that I wore down your resistance.”

The question surprises me with its insight. I consider deflection, then discard it in favor of honesty Mother would have approved.

“Because she would have,” I answer simply. “Mother believed in unlikely alliances, in bridges between different peoples. When a human bard appeared spouting poetry about my ‘magnificent stature’ and ‘eyes like forest pools’—” I can’t help smiling at his embarrassed expression, “—insisting on documenting my quest despite obvious danger, I heard her voice. *Sometimes strength means allowing help, even from unexpected sources.*”

Callum absorbs this, nodding slowly. “And now? After weeks of travel? Do you regret your decision?”

I study him properly in the moonlight—this fragile-seeming human whose stamina has surprised me, whose knowledge of local customs has smoothed our passage through three territories, whose music soothes nightmares he pretends not to notice.

“Not yet,” I answer, allowing the ghost of a smile. “Though there’s still time.”

The coals fade to darkness. Morning will come too soon, bringing us closer to Thornwood Forest where rumors place the witch. I should sleep, conserve strength for challenges ahead. Instead, I find myself adding:

“Mother would have liked you, I think. Once she finished threatening you for composing romantic verses about her daughter.”

His laughter joins mine, the sound rising toward star-scattered sky—brief lightness before tomorrow’s continued hunt. As we settle into respective bedrolls, I touch the leather pouch at my neck, feeling the comforting weight of its contents.

*Watch over us, Mother*, I think toward distant stars. *Lend me your wisdom as we face what took you from us.*

And though it may be imagination, the night breeze carries scent of mountain pine and healing herbs—her scent—whispering across our camp like gentle benediction.