Snowed In With The Troll (Monsters and Mistletoe #12)

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.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Gryla said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re no better. Lazy beast. You used to terrify villages. Now you nap, eat smoked fish, and hiss at delivery drones.”

The cat blinked, unimpressed.

Gryla leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “It’s Gunnar I worry about the most,” she admitted softly. “My quiet one. Always brooding, always carving things instead of speaking to people. A craftsman’s heart, a warrior’s strength. And the social skills of a snowdrift.”

She sighed again. “Handsome, though. If he’d just stop glowering long enough for someone to notice. Well, that and leave his cave once in a while.”

The Yule Cat made a chuffing sound that might have been agreement.

“I’ve tried everything,” Gryla continued, ticking off fingers. “Love charms. Dream visions. Sending him to festivals. He just grunts, buys lumber, and comes home with another chair.” She glared at the cat. “A chair, Ketty. Not a woman. A chair.”

The cat meowed as if she found this hilarious.

“Well,” Gryla said, straightening in her chair, “enough is enough. If my sons won’t find love on their own, I’ll simply have to assist.”

She rose, and the cave seemed to stretch with her, shadows climbing the walls as her magic stirred. Snow fell softly outside, then harder, swirling like a thousand glittering feathers.

“Maybe,” she mused, her eyes twinkling, “he just needs a little motivation. A storm, perhaps. A lost traveler. Someone with a warm heart and a stubborn streak.”

She waved her hand, and the fire dimmed, replaced by a flurry of glowing embers that danced like snowflakes. A vision shimmered in the flames. A human woman, bundled in a red coat, trudged through the Icelandic wilds with determination and truly terrible footwear.

“Ah,” Gryla said, smiling. “Perfect. A mortal artist, no sense of direction, and a penchant for picking up rocks. He’ll never know what hit him.”

The Yule Cat yawned again.

“Oh hush,” Gryla said, swirling her cocoa. “It’s for his own good. I’m tired of brooding silence and woodworking metaphors. My boy needs love. A storm should do it.”

She lifted her mug in a toast to herself and took a long sip.

“Let’s see you carve your way out of this one, my dear Gunnar,” Gryla said with a grin. “Mother knows best.”