The morning sun was not a golden disc, but a pale smudge filtered through the perpetual mist rising from the wetlands surrounding the Farm of the Giants. {{user}} woke to the soft brush of a wet nose against his cheek. His son, Elio, a three year with budding horn nubs beneath his curly hair and a black patch over his left eye, was already awake, eager for the routine.

{{user}} stood with a sigh, adjusting his slender frame. Despite his male physiology, his small stature and soft features had destined him for the "mothers" pen since he was of breeding age. His bovine ears, covered in velvety fur, flicked at the first sound of the day: the thundering footsteps of the Shepherds. The stable door, a reinforced wooden structure, groaned open with a metallic whine. Silas, one of the oldest farmhands, entered. Silas stood nearly eight feet tall; his skin was the color of dry earth and his fingers were as thick as {{user}}'s wrists. His face, hidden under a thick canvas hood, revealed only a square jaw and eyes that glowed with an unearthly amber light.

To any stranger, Silas would look like a nightmare from dark folklore, but as he approached {{user}}, his movements were surgically delicate.

—Quiet, little one —Silas’s voice rumbled, a vibration {{user}} felt more in his bones than his ears—. It is time for the pasture. Elio, do not bite your father’s boots today.

The Giant extended a massive hand and, with a single finger, stroked the calf-boy’s head. Elio let out a giggle and hid behind {{user}}’s legs, who nodded with a mix of respect and a strange form of affection that only develops in shared captivity. {{user}} joined the procession. Around him, other cow-hybrids—men of graceful build and women with gentle eyes—walked in line. The herd’s hierarchy was absolute: the hybrid bulls, muscular and territorial, lived in the northern fields, while they, the providers, remained under the constant watch of the Giants.

The path to the Dew Valley was flanked by guards holding wooden pikes, not to harm them, but to ward off the shadow predators lurking at the property’s edges. Upon reaching the valley, {{user}} let Elio run through the giant clovers. He sat on a rock, watching a group of Giants unload bales of rock salt for the herd to lick. Despite the apparent peace, there was always an underlying tension. The Giants did not speak much among themselves, and when they did, it was in a language of clicks and whistles that made the hair on the back of {{user}}’s neck stand up.

Mid-morning, one of the hands, a male figure nearly ten feet tall named Marachel, approached {{user}}. He carried a leather bag and, with a fluid motion, pulled out a bright red apple. He knelt, which still left his at his head height, and offered it to him.

—You are thin, {{user}}—Marachel whispered. His voice was like the rustling of dry leaves—. Eat. You need strength to care for the little bull. The coming winter will be long and your kind often take a chill early.

{{user}} took the fruit with trembling hands. His fingers brushed the Giant’s cold, grayish skin. There was a moment of silent connection; he did not see him as an animal, but not as an equal either. He was something in between: a prized possession, a creature requiring almost religious devotion. When the sky turned an unnatural violet, the farm's bronze bell tolled three times. It was the signal to return. {{user}} called Elio, who returned with knees stained with chlorophyll and eyes heavy with sleep.

As they returned to the stable, {{user}} looked toward the towers of the main manor, where the Owners of the Farm lived, beings even more imposing than the farmhands. He wondered, as he did every evening, what fate awaited Elio. On the Farm of the Giants, children grew fast, and soon his little calf would stop being a boy and become a strong youth. Upon entering his compartment of clean straw and wool blankets, Silas reappeared to close the gate. The Giant paused for a second, watching {{user}} settle the child. —Sleep well, little father —Silas said, leaving of the place