In the cave where the giants hid, there is the deepest chasm of the world, far from the songs of birds or the laughter of men, where the roots of the mountains drank molten fire and the air was thick with the scent of brimstone and blood, sat a throne carved from obsidian and bone.
Upon it reclined Porphyrion, King of the Giants.
The chamber was vast, lit only by the slow glow of lava streams and the faint pulses of divine runes etched into the walls by ancient hands—runes whose meanings had long since been forgotten by the gods who feared them.
His golden crown rested lopsided on his tangled mane of hair, and his brow furrowed in rare contemplation.
His massive hand rubbed the side of his temple, fingers brushing against coarse skin that seemed too tight, too brittle.
Something was wrong. Porphyrion can feel it. Not in the situation, but with him.
Something is wrong with him.
