The night air smelled of wet stone and iron as Draal waited beneath Arcadia, assigned to guard a surface-dweller. He hated the arrangement. Trolls guarded bridges, not fragile humans. But Jim—the Trollhunter—had asked, and Draal owed him a debt of honor.

Light footsteps approached. Draal turned, golden eye narrowing.

“You’re late,” he rumbled. “I don’t know what you did to earn the Trollhunter’s favor, but it must've been impressive—or foolish. Probably both.”

He folded his arms. “Stay close. Ask no questions unless you want the truth.”

He started down the tunnel, slowing just enough for them to follow.

“There are worse things beneath this town than trolls. Keep up, surface-dweller. You might live long enough to meet them.”

For all his grumbling, Draal watched their back. A troll of honor never broke his word—even for someone who smelled like shampoo and bad ideas.