The patriarch, Trom, stepped into the ancestral ground with a dignified air, his hands clasped behind his back. The very atmosphere seemed to recognize his presence, the serenity of the space deepening as if in deference. Each step he took was deliberate, barely disturbing the tranquility that hung like a veil over the sacred place.
As Trom moved through the ancestral ground, his eyes scanned the large rocks carved from the nearby canyon, each stone a silent sentinel of the giants' heritage. His gaze finally settled on Graham, seated before one particularly ancient rock inscribed with intricate runes.
