Long before humans walked the earth, before elves sang their first songs or dwarves delved their first mines, the world belonged to giants.

But they were not alone.

Whispered tales passed down through generations spoke of massive beasts that roamed ancient forests and plains. Creatures so large they could crush trees underfoot, with necks that reached into the clouds and tails that carved valleys with a single sweep. The Ancients called them the Great Wanderers, the First Children, or simply the Titans of Earth.

Most scholars dismissed these accounts as exaggerations or folklore. After all, no fossil record existed of creatures that size. The few ancient cave paintings depicting massive long-necked beasts were attributed to primitive imaginations or symbolic representations of natural forces.

Yet here they were, exactly as described in the oldest texts—creatures from a time when the world itself was young, preserved somehow in this pocket of dense mana where time itself seemed to flow differently.

Adom stood transfixed, watching the long-necked giant lower its head toward him with surprising grace for something so enormous. Its mind touched his again, curiosity flowing between them like a gentle current.

"Stone-Singers," Adom repeated, letting his excitement filter through their mental connection. "You know them? The giants?"

The creature's consciousness rippled with what felt like hesitation, then confirmation.

"They made... this place," came the response, the mental voice slow and deliberate. "Long ago. Before my mothers' mothers. They sang to the stones, and the stones... moved."

"That's incredible," Adom breathed. "I'm looking for their ruins. Their buildings. Do you know where I could find them?"

The creature's head swayed slightly, its enormous eyes blinking.

"Why does small one seek the tall walkers?"

"I'm searching for knowledge," Adom explained. "About magic. About where humans like me came from. The giants might have left records, writings that could help me understand."

"Hmm." The sound resonated directly in Adom's mind. "Curious small one. What is your... name sound?"

"Adom," he replied, then realized he was speaking aloud unnecessarily. He shifted to purely mental communication. "I'm Adom. What should I call you?"

The creature didn't respond with anything Adom recognized as a name. Instead, he received an impression—a complex mental signature that conveyed identity through sensations rather than sounds. It felt like sunlight filtering through high branches, the satisfaction of reaching a particularly succulent leaf, the comfort of walking beside one's herd. If he had to translate it into something pronounceable, the closest approximation might be...

"Skyreacher?" Adom ventured.

The creature's consciousness brightened with something like amusement. "Close enough for your... small mind-sounds."

Skyreacher's neck curved in a more comfortable position, bringing her head lower. Adom could now see the fine details of her skin—the subtle patterns of scaling, the way her nostrils flared slightly with each breath, the intelligence in her deep brown eyes.

"The Stone-Singers' big nests lie beyond the three peaks," she projected, sending along an image of three distinctly shaped mountains rising from the far side of the valley. "Many days' walking for small legs."

"I could fly there," Adom suggested.

"Sky is... dangerous," Skyreacher warned. "Great wind-hunters patrol high places."

The mental image that accompanied this warning showed massive winged creatures with leathery wings and elongated heads, soaring between the peaks.

"Could you guide me there?" Adom asked. "Show me a safe path?"

Skyreacher's mind went quiet for a moment. The other massive creatures continued their grazing in the background, seemingly unconcerned by their herd member's conversation with the strange small being.

"No," she finally responded.

"Why not?" Adom asked, genuinely curious rather than offended.

Skyreacher's mental voice carried a simple certainty. "Because I do not want to."

"Hmm. That's... fair," Adom said.

A pause.