Prologue
THE QUEEN OF THE MOUNTAINS
They say the mountains of Iceland whisper when the snow falls just right. That the wind carries voices older than time — the sighs of trolls, the laughter of elves, and the low, rumbling hum of something that remembers when the world was still dark and wild.
Once upon a time — back when storms had teeth and hearts were measured in meals — there lived a troll queen named Gryla. She was fearsome. She was legendary.
And she was absolutely over it.
Centuries ago, Gryla had been the terror of Icelandic children. They said she came down from her cave every Yule, sniffing out the naughty and the lazy, tossing them into her great cauldron to make stew. (In fairness, that was only once and it was a mistake.)
Her name alone once froze the bravest hearts.
But as centuries passed, the humans modernized, and suddenly “the devourer of the wicked” was just a punchline in a tourist pamphlet.
They wrote songs about her.
They turned her sons — her once-mighty Yule Lads — into “quirky Christmas mascots” who handed out candy and licked spoons on keychains.
Someone even knitted her into a sweater.
And Gryla, the Great and Terrible, had officially lost her edge.
Now, she lived in semi-retirement in her mountain hall, surrounded by her grown troll-sons — all thirteen of them — who still hadn’t moved out. (“Where are we supposed to go, Mother?”)
The cauldron was full of cocoa instead of sinners, and the Yule Cat had grown too fat to menace anyone smaller than a reindeer.
Still, every Yule, Gryla watched the world below. She saw the humans celebrating love, warmth, and family — all the things trolls were supposedly too monstrous to deserve. And something inside her ancient heart stirred.
If humans could have dating apps and Hallmark movies, why couldn’t trolls have a little happily-ever-after?
So, Gryla made a decision. She would stop being the villain. She would stop eating the ungrateful (not that she ever did that.). And she would start matchmaking.
After all, someone had to get her boys out of the cave — preferably before the next century.
Now, all she needed was a little snowstorm, a human or two who hadn’t learned their lesson about hiking in winter, and maybe just a touch of Yule magic.
Because really — what could possibly go wrong?
Somewhere deep in the mountains, present day…
The cave crackled with warmth and complaint.
Gryla sat in her enormous carved chair by the fire, the glow of runes flickering over the walls like lazy fireflies. A steaming mug of cocoa balanced precariously on her knee — her latest vice, since eating naughty children had apparently gone out of fashion.
At her feet, the Yule Cat, Ketty, snored loudly, its black fur rippling like midnight oil. Every few breaths, it muttered in its sleep, twitching a paw. Gryla swatted its tail away before it knocked over her cocoa again.
“Honestly,” she muttered, “a thousand years of terrorizing humanity and I can’t even keep my own household in order.”
From the shadows of the great hall came a thump, followed by a suspicious crash. Another one of her sons—probably Torfi, her prankster—raiding the pantry again.
“Try not to eat all the provisions before Yule!” she bellowed. “And for the love of frost, leave the mistletoe alone this year!”
No response. Just muffled giggles and the distant sound of something breaking.
Gryla sighed, long and dramatic, like a wind through an empty fjord. “Thirteen sons,” she muttered. “Thirteen grown, immortal men, and only one married. I raised legends, and what do I get? A house full of eternal bachelors who think Skyr counts as a food group.”
The Yule Cat yawned, flashing fangs the size of daggers.
