The Troll King—massive, towering, its white fur glowing faintly with the echoes of ancient runes—leaned down toward Lady Seraphine. With surprising gentleness for something that could squash a fortress, it plucked her from its nose and placed her onto a boulder beside a colossal frost tree.
She stood there—tiny, furious, glowing with spirit fire—her hands on her hips.
And the trolls… waited.
The Troll King began speaking to her in that old tongue—so ancient I felt the syllables scrape against the inside of my skull even though I didn't understand a single word. It was like hearing the earth chant, like the mountain whisper, like forgotten gods breathe through stone.
Even with my heightened senses, the meaning escaped me—but the weight of the language pressed against my ears like an ancient command.
