“Giant-kin is an ancient term that dates back to a bygone age of antiquity, rooted deeply in the folklore and myths of early civilizations. Back in those ancient day’s it was believed that giants would lay with humans to produce hybrid offspring. Non-mutant humans that were particularly tall were called Giant-kin, and many assud they possessed latent magical abilities tied to their giant ancestry.
“However, as our understanding of biology and genetics has advanced, we now know these ancient beliefs to be little more than myth and legend. Giants, as a distinct race, possess biological and genetic makeups entirely incompatible with humans or any other species, making crossbreeding impossible. Most of those historically labeled as Giant-kin were likely experiencing a genetic condition that we now identify as gigantism—a disorder characterized by abnormal growth due to an excess of growth hormone.
“Gigantism generally results in excessive height and size, but it often brings with it a variety of health issues. However, research has revealed that there are certain variants, or strands, of gigantism that manifest with few to no health problems, allowing individuals to live long relatively healthy lives. These less severe forms are more commonly found among certain populations within Gix.
“Despite the myth of Giant-kin being debunked, the term continues to persist in modern language, though its aning has shifted. Today, ‘Giant-kin’ is often used as slang, referring to anyone who is exceptionally tall, whether or not they possess any underlying genetic condition. It is sotis employed in a playful or affectionate way to describe those who possess the height and bearing that would have once inspired stories of ancient giant blood. In so circles, the term has also co to specifically denote those who have the less problematic form of gigantism from certain populations, or those of the goliath clans.
—“Etymology of Phrases and Slang” By Orvon Jackel
Seated on a weathered, leather couch was Steven Crowley, the forr priest and once-revered Hand of Light. His somber presence was contrasted by the delicate porcelain teacup he held with steady hands. The brownish-crimson tea within shimred faintly, its surface rippling as he brought it to his lips. Wisps of steam curled upward, carrying a light, floral aroma that gently perated the room, mingling with the faint scent of old books and polished wood.
Crowley took asured sips, his gaze fixed on the woman before him. Across the coffee table sat that woman that ca to him about her husband, Stacy, perched stiffly on the edge of a matching couch. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her handbag, betraying her unease. Stacy was an ordinary woman by outward appearances, yet there was a haunted quality in her eyes that had drawn her to Crowley. She had co seeking his counsel, burdened by troubling concerns about her husband—concerns she could barely voice without trembling.
The room fell into a contemplative silence, broken only by the soft clink of the teacup eting its saucer. Crowley leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable yet attentive, as if weighing every word she had spoken thus far. Here, in this dimly lit sanctuary, he listened—not as a priest, but as a man who understood the shadows that could creep into any heart.
Stacy: “I just don’t know what to do father. I did what you told to do, but it’s just not working. We spoke to the priest at the church, but he didn’t open up at all. He just asked the priest at the church to perform a purification ritual on him to help reassure , but I can tell there is still sothing wrong.”
Crowley: “The rituals only work if one opens their heart to the light. His heart might be clouded. And, you still have no idea what's causing it?”
Stacy: “No, I have no idea. W-What if it’s what you suggested last ti. That he’s been unfaithful. I-I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Stacy: “Let’s not worry about that yet.We shouldn't assu the worst yet. You should pray and find strength in light through this trial. I’m sure an answer will arrive soon.”
Stacy: “Yes… I will. Um, father?”
Crowley: “Yes?”
Stacy: “My husband, Larrs, wants to talk to you later. Would that be ok? If he won’t confide in what’s going on, maybe he will with you.”
Crowley: “That’s fine. Tell him to co over whenever he has ti.”
Stacy: “Thank you so much. I wish I could stay and talk more, but there are so chores I must do today.
Crowley: “Of course. If you're ever troubled, feel free to co talk with .”
Stacy nodded, her lips pressing into a faint, strained smile as she rose from her chair. Crowley stood as well. He guided her toward the front door, the echo of their footsteps filling the stillness of the house. With a gentle hand, he opened the door and offered a polite nod.
Stacy hesitated for a mont, clutching the strap of her handbag tightly, then stepped outside. Crowley remained in the doorway, watching as she walked down the cobblestone path to the street. As she turned onto the road, he raised a hand in farewell. She glanced back briefly, her expression shadowed with worry, before continuing on her way.
As Crowley lowered his hand, his gaze fell upon an unexpected sight. Resting on the edge of his porch was a letter, its surface pristine and devoid of any address or markings. The faint morning breeze ruffled the edges of the paper, but it remained firmly in place, as if waiting for him. Frowning slightly, he bent to pick it up, turning it over in his hands. The envelope felt ordinary—cheap paper, no hint of wax seal or distinguishing insignia.
Curiosity stirred, Crowley straightened and cast his eyes down the quiet street. Stacy’s figure was still visible, her pace steady as she moved away from his ho, but the road was otherwise deserted. The faint hum of distant traffic and the rustle of tree branches were the only sounds accompanying him. He scanned the area one last ti, his instincts flaring, but there was no sign of anyone else who might have left the letter.
With a faint sigh, Crowley stepped back inside and closed the door. His fingers lingered on the envelope, the nagging sensation that its arrival was no coincidence growing stronger. Crossing to his desk, he set it down, staring at it for a long mont before reaching for a letter opener.
Crowley tore open the unmarked envelope with swift precision, his brow furrowing as he unfolded the paper inside. His eyes skimd the opening lines, but he stopped abruptly after the first paragraph. The words before him were venomous, scrawled with a fervent hatred that was all too familiar. The letter bristled with vile slurs and accusations, branding him a "traitor to the Light" and worse. It bore all the hallmarks of the Church’s extremist faction—the Exterminationists—zealots who viewed anyone straying from their rigid doctrines as enemies.
For years, Crowley had endured such vitriol. Back when he was still the Hand of Light, these letters had arrived regularly, penned by those who despised Sheridan reforms or questioned the forr Lightspeaker’s devotion. Fortunately, as part of his station, he had a staff dedicated to filtering correspondence, ensuring such hateful ssages never reached his desk. But those days were gone. Now, having severed ties with the Church, there was no protective barrier, no interdiary to shield him from the bitterness of his detractors. They knew this, and it seed they had taken it upon themselves to make their animosity felt more personally, delivering their poison directly to his doorstep.
Crowley’s lips pressed into a thin line as he stood in the quiet of his ho, the letter hanging loosely in his hand. For many, receiving such a missive would have been deeply hurtful, perhaps even frightening. But Crowley had long since developed a thick skin for these kinds of things, forged in the fires of years spent navigating the treacherous politics of the Church. As the Hand of Light and confidant to Lightspeaker Sheridan, he had grown accustod to whispers of dissent and open hostility alike.
With a practiced indifference, he folded the letter neatly in half and turned toward a nearby trash bin. His movents were thodical as he dropped the hateful missive into it without so much as a second glance.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering for a mont on the bin.
Crowley: “By the Light. Rather than spend so much ti writing such a hateful letter, that ti could have been better served by praying or ditating. How people can claim to worship the Light and yet can be so hateful, I will never understand.”
Crowley sank into the worn leather chair behind his desk, the faint creak of the seat breaking the quietness of the room. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the polished oak surface, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the grain as he began to map out the day ahead in his mind. His desk, though modest in size, was cluttered with an assortnt of items—an inkwell, a stack of old parchnt, and a few scattered trinkets from his forr days in the Church.
He reached for a pen, pausing as his thoughts began to organize into a semblance of a plan. There was much to be done, as always. But just as the pen touched paper, a sharp sound broke through the peaceful silence: the chi of the bell at his front door.
The sound rang out clear and intrusive, reverberating faintly through the house. Crowley froze for a mont, the pen poised in his hand, before he let out a deep, weary sigh. His head dipped slightly.
Crowley: “That must be Ms. Turner again, still trying to get to co back to the church,” he mumbled.
Almost everyday since his departure from the Church, individuals like Ms. Turner had appeared unannounced on his doorstep. She was one of many—staunch believers who clung to the hope of his return, their persistence as unwavering as their faith.
It was exhausting. Crowley couldn’t deny the toll it took on his patience. These visits disrupted his day's plans. Still, he bore it with asured restraint, understanding that these people, misguided as they might be, believed they were doing what was right.
Crowley rose from his chair, the creak of the floorboards beneath him echoing softly in the quiet room. His hand lingered on the edge of the desk for a mont, steadying himself as he prepared for yet another likely encounter with soone from the Church.
The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by the morning light filtering through a high window. Its walls, lined with sparse but aningful decorations, seed to close in slightly with each step he took. Halfway to the door, Crowley stopped, his hand brushing against the wood-paneled wall. He closed his eyes for a brief mont, drawing in a long, steady breath. The pause was deliberate—a mont to gather his thoughts and prepare himself for another long conversation.
When he felt sufficiently composed, Crowley exhaled, straightened his posture, and closed the final distance to the door. His fingers gripped the handle, and with one last fortifying thought, he pulled it open.
What t him, however, was not at all what he had been expecting.
Instead of one of the usual visitors—like the ever-persistent Ms. Turner or soone else from the Church—he found himself staring at two university students.
Standing on his doorstep was a young woman with long, flowing silver hair, her striking appearance accentuated by the deep blue robes she wore. Crowley’s gaze imdiately recognized the intricate emblem embroidered over her chest—the unmistakable crest of Silverwing College, an institution he had crossed paths with many tis in his past. The shimring threads of the emblem caught the light, a testant to both the craftsmanship and the prestige it represented.
Beside her stood another figure, one who imdiately drew Crowley’s attention. Clad in the rare and almost never seen purple robes of the Arcane Eye student, the boy towered over both the girl and Crowley himself, standing an imposing six and a half feet tall (198 cm). Crowley, not a short man by any ans, found himself tilting his head slightly to et the boy’s gaze. The Arcane Eye’s insignia, woven subtly into the fabric of his robes, marked him as a student of one of the most selective and elite magical academies in existence—a place spoken of in whispers even among the learned.
But it wasn’t the height or the robes that caught Crowley’s attention for long; it was the boy’s arm. His right arm was wrapped heavily in layers of bandages, the stark white of the wrappings standing out against the deep purple of his attire. The bandages weren’t haphazardly applied—they were professionally wrapped. Crowley’s sharp eyes lingered on the arm for a fraction of a second longer than intended, his mind already drawing possible conclusions.
Sere: “Father Crowley? It's , Sere.”
Crowley: “My child, I haven’t been away from the church for so long I would forget you,” he said with a warm smile, genuinely happy to see Sere and not Ms. Turner.
Sere had been a part of his forr congregation, a bright yet conflicted soul who had sought his guidance during a pivotal mont in her life. He recalled the many conversations they had shared, her voice trembling with uncertainty as she spoke of her desire to beco a healer—a path she felt drawn to despite the expectations of her family. Her family steeped in a tradition of warriors and combat mages, had pushed her toward martial pursuits, but Sere’s heart yearned for sothing different.
When she confided in Crowley, he hadn’t hesitated to encourage her. He had seen the quiet determination in her, the spark of soone destined to nd rather than destroy. Crowley had urged her to follow her calling, reassuring her that the Light often chose its vessels in ways that defied tradition. He had spent countless afternoons overseeing her healing magic practice, offering both technical advice and moral support. Sere’s raw talent had been evident even then, and with a little guidance, it had blossod into sothing remarkable.
When the ti ca for her to apply to Silverwing College, one of the most prestigious institutions for the study of healing magic, Crowley had written her a glowing letter of recomndation. He had poured his belief in her into every word, describing her as a gifted healer and soone with the potential of possibly becoming a grand healer. Seeing her now, wearing the robes of Silverwing, was a rare mont of validation for him—a reminder that, despite everything that had happened since his departure from the Church, his actions had left a positive mark on at least one life.
Crowley: “What brings you here? And, who is your friend?”
Sere: “Oh, right. This is Alan, one of my best friends,” she said while gesturing to her friend.
Alan: “Hello, father,” he said while bowing his head lightly.
Sere: “As you may have noticed, he badly injured himself. I’ve been applying healing magic to his injury, and I'm wondering if you could look at it? Making sure I’m applying the healing magic properly.”
Crowley: “If you're seeking the opinions of a professional, there are much greater healing mages at the university than even I.”
Sere: “I know, but… I wanted your input.”
Crowley let out a long sigh, but continued to smile at Sere.
“Must want to show off how much her healing magic has improved to .” Crowley thought to himself.
Crowley: “OK, then. Please co inside, and I’ll take a look,” he said while gesturing to enter.
Sere bead, her smile radiant as she stepped past Crowley into the house, her silver hair catching the light as she moved. Alan, the towering young man in the purple uniform, followed close behind her, his gaze sweeping the room with quiet curiosity. Crowley turned to close the door, intending to join his guests in the living room, but he froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over the door fra.
Sothing unusual had caught his eye.
Out on the street, walking slowly away from his ho, was a figure he had seen before. It was the woman in the black funeral gown, her wide-brimd hat casting an impenetrable shadow over her face. Crowley’s sharp eyes narrowed as he observed her. Though she moved with deliberate grace, there was sothing profoundly unsettling about her presence. The bright morning light illuminated the surrounding street, but it failed to touch her; the air near her seed dim, almost veiled by an otherworldly gloom that clung to her form.
Even from behind, there was an air of mystery about her, an eerie elegance that felt at odds with the vibrant world around her. The darkness beneath her hat was the most unnerving. Though Crowley could only see her back, he was certain that even if she had turned to face him, her features would have been hidden, obscured by a void-like shadow that swallowed light itself. It was as though she carried an unnatural darkness with her, a darkness that seed to reject the rules of the natural world.
For a fleeting mont, Crowley questioned whether she was real or so trick of his imagination. The way she moved—silent, unhurried, and almost spectral—made her seem less like a person and more like a fignt, a whisper of sothing far removed from reality.
Sere: “Father? Is everything OK?”
Crowley turned behind himself, only to find Sere standing nearby, her expression tinged with confusion. Her brows knitted together as she tilted her head slightly, clearly puzzled by his hesitation at the door.
Crowley didn’t imdiately answer. Instead, he turned back toward the street, his gaze sweeping the area where the strange woman had been only monts before. To his surprise—and unease—there was nothing there. The road was empty, bathed in the soft glow of daylight, with no trace of the mysterious figure. It was as though she had vanished into thin air, leaving no sign she had ever existed.
Crowley: “Everything… is fine,” he said as closed the front door of his house.
(Author's Note: It has co to my attention that soone is ripping my story off this site and reposting without my permission. So, still putting this in the main body of the story. Hey there! You're reading a story be , Saberfang. This was likely taken from royal road or scribble hub. If you like my work please read it on those websites or on patreon at /user?u=83747391)
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