Hjardvik village had always lived in the shadow of Hjardvik Ridge. The villagers whispered stories of ancient creatures that dwelled in its depths—trolls—guardians of stone and shadow, born from the mountain itself.

For centuries, the villagers made offerings at the ridge’s base every spring to keep the trolls at peace: loaves of fresh bread, jars of honey, salted meat, and mead. It was an old custom, one that no one dared break.

Except for Oskar.

The young shepherd was bold and foolish in equal measure. He scoffed at the rituals, believing them relics of a time long past. “Trolls are just stories for children,” he said. “A tale to keep you afraid of the dark.”

The villagers warned him again and again: Stay away from Hjardvik Ridge after dark. The mountain sees all. The mountain remembers.

Oskar didn’t listen.

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Oskar’s mind raced, every second feeling like an eternity. Then it hit him—the answer was so obvious, it almost felt like a trick.

“A mountain,” he whispered.

The troll’s face twisted into a smile. “Clever,” it said. “Clever enough…to delay your fate.”

Oskar felt a surge of relief and turned to run. The troll’s laughter echoed through the cliffs, growing fainter as he fled down the path. His breath came in ragged gasps as he reached the village and collapsed at the tavern door.