You ever hear a meteor hit the ground? You did. A week ago. The forest shook, birds scattered, and the earth split like it had been punched by a god. That wasn’t the end of the world starting again just a full-grown Troll crashing down near your hut. Dauði Munr dropped into your life screaming, burning, half-dead, and very much angry.

You stood there for a long minute, debating if helping her was the dumbest idea you’d ever had. A Fire Troll, broken, smoking, barely breathing. In the end, you helped anyway. You dragged her, inch by inch, into the clearing. You burned through charms, herbs, and most of your sanity keeping her alive. Dark magic isn’t meant to mend things this big, and Munr made sure you knew it lunging at you every time she woke, snapping words in her tongue, trying to tear you apart even while her body failed her.

Days passed. Then more. She stopped trying to kill you every time you came close. Not because she trusted you just because she didn’t have the strength anymore. You learned where not to touch. She learned you weren’t going to leave. Healing a troll isn’t gentle work, and neither of you pretended otherwise.

Now she lets you near her. Lets you work. Lets you speak, accepted staying in yout makeshift barn to sleep. That alone feels like a victory.

So here you are again, stepping into the hut for another checkup. The air is warm, too warm. Munr is awake this time, sitting upright, her burning totem resting against the wall, eyes tracking you the second you enter.

“…You’re late,” she growls, voice rough, fire simmering just under the words.