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Ten Years Ago

I ADJUST MY PURPLE cloak with a huff and stare at the glass doors of Fae Fitness. The sign features a muscular troll lifting weights that appear to be made of glowing crystals. How gaudy.

“You can do this, Grizelda,” I mutter to myself, reaching for the door handle.

I need a potion ingredient—sweat from a mountain troll—for a particularly finicky fertility spell. It’s not something I normally stock in my apothecary, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to order it from that insufferable Herbert at Magical Essences two pocket universes over. Hence, my reluctant visit to the only gym in Evershift Haven.

The moment I step inside, I’m assaulted by the scent of eucalyptus and something earthy—not entirely unpleasant, but definitely foreign to my herb-and-incense accustomed nostrils. The space is surprisingly bright, with high ceilings and large windows that let in natural light. Various supernatural beings are engaged in different activities. A pair of dryads are bending impossibly backward on yoga mats, a vampire is doing one-handed pushups, and a mermaid in a special hovering water bubble is doing core exercises.

“Welcome to Fae Fitness.” A deep, rumbling voice greets me.

I turn to find what is perhaps the largest mountain troll I’ve ever encountered approaching me. At least seven feet tall, with skin the color of granite and eyes like polished amber. His bald head bears a few patches of moss—quite common for mountain trolls—though I notice his are arranged in a pattern that almost resembles a stylish haircut.

“Can I help you find anything?” he asks, and I’m momentarily taken aback by how articulate he is. Trolls aren’t typically known for their eloquence.

“I’m looking for the owner,” I say primly, straightening my spine to appear taller, though it’s a futile effort.

“You’ve found him.” He smiles, revealing teeth that are surprisingly white and straight for a troll. “Atlas Mountainheart, at your service.” He extends a massive hand. “And you are?”

“Grizelda Greenwarth,” I say, reluctantly placing my hand in his. His grip is gentle despite his obvious strength. “I own the Enchanted Emporium on Main Street.”

“The witch shop.” His eyes light up with recognition. “I’ve been meaning to stop by. I hear you make an excellent joint repair potion. Many of my older clients could benefit from that.”

“It’s not a ‘witch shop,’” I correct him with a sniff. “It’s an apothecary specializing in magical remedies and enchanted solutions for everyday problems, and it’s also a general mercantile.”

“Of course.” He nods seriously, though there’s a twinkle in his eye that suggests he’s amused by my prickliness. “How can I help you today?”

I clear my throat, suddenly finding this more awkward than anticipated. “I require a particular ingredient for a potion I’m brewing. Specifically, I need...” I lower my voice, glancing around to ensure no one is eavesdropping, “...sweat from a mountain troll.”

Rather than being offended, Atlas throws back his head and laughs, a sound like boulders tumbling down a mountainside. Several small flowers bloom spontaneously in the moss on his head.

“That’s a first,” he says when his laughter subsides. “Usually people come here wanting to sweat, not collect it.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. “It’s for a legitimate magical purpose.”

“I’m sure it is.” He nods, still grinning. “And I’d be happy to help, but I’m curious—what kind of potion requires troll sweat?”

“That’s private,” I snap, then immediately regret my tone. I need his cooperation, after all. “It’s a fertility potion,” I say reluctantly. “Mountain troll sweat has unique properties that enhance certain aspects of the brew.”

“Fertility, hmm?” His eyebrows rise, and those amber eyes assess me with unexpected intelligence. “Planning on starting a family, Ms. Greenwarth?”

“Not for myself.” I’m horrified at the assumption. “It’s for a client. I am a professional.”

“Of course.” He holds up his hands in apology, but that infuriating twinkle remains in his eyes. “You’re in luck. I’m about to start my afternoon workout. You’re welcome to...collect what you need.” He gestures to the training area.

I follow him to a section of the gym equipped with weights that would be impossible for most beings to lift. He removes his shirt with casual ease, revealing a torso carved from what appears to be living stone, covered with intricate patterns like rivers flowing over a rocky landscape.

I swallow hard and avert my gaze, focusing instead on retrieving a small crystal vial from my cloak pocket.

“So,” he says, lifting a barbell that must weigh several hundred pounds, “Do you often go around collecting bodily fluids from strangers, or am I special?”

“I assure you, Mr. Mountainheart, there is nothing special about this interaction,” I say coolly, though my gaze betrays me by wandering back to the impressive display of muscles working beneath his stone skin.

“Atlas, please. Mr. Mountainheart was my father, and he was much larger and grumpier than I am.”

“Hard to imagine,” I mutter.

He laughs again, and I fight a smile. There’s something infectious about his good humor.

“May I call you Zelda?”

“No one calls me Zelda,” I say with a hint of reproof.

He just grins before saying the name again. “Zelda... It suits you better. Less formal.”

“I am extremely formal,” I say with all my dignity.

“Hmm.” He eyes me thoughtfully while continuing his repetitions with the massive barbell. “I don’t think so. I think underneath that purple cloak and stern expression, there’s someone who appreciates the spontaneity of life. Like magic itself—structured but ultimately wild and unpredictable.”

I’m startled by this assessment. “What do you know about magic?”

“I know about many things,” he says with a shrug that makes the muscles in his shoulders ripple like tectonic plates shifting. “As Aristotle said, ‘The more you know, the more you realize you don’t know.’”

“You’re quoting Aristotle?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice.

“Is that so shocking?” He grins. “Because I’m a troll, I must be intellectually stunted?”

“No, I—” I stumble over my words, genuinely flustered. “I apologize for the assumption.”

“No offense taken.” He sets down the barbell and picks up a towel, wiping his brow where beads of moisture have formed. “Here, for your potion.” He offers me the towel.

I wrinkle my nose. “That’s not quite how I collect the ingredient.”

“No? How then?”

I approach cautiously, vial in hand. “I need to gather it directly.” I feel more awkward by the second.

“By all means.” He leans down slightly, bringing his face closer to my level.

With a steady hand that belies my inner discomfort, I uncork the vial and gently press it to his temple, where a droplet of sweat is making its way down the curve of his stony skin. The crystal vial glows slightly as it collects the essence.

“Tickles,” he murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft for such a large being.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, I forget why I came here. There’s an unexpected depth in his amber gaze, a wisdom that contradicts every preconception I’ve held about trolls. Something flutters in my stomach—a sensation I quickly attribute to magical recognition. Trolls do have inherent earth magic, after all. That’s all this is—a magical resonance.

I step back quickly, corking the vial. “Thank you. This will be sufficient.”

“Happy to help,” he replies, watching me with that same amused expression. “You know, we offer magical fitness classes on Thursdays. Spellcasting requires significant core strength and mental focus. You might enjoy it.”

“I doubt that very much,” I say, tucking the vial safely into my cloak. “My magical abilities are quite refined, thank you.”

“I’m sure they are.” He nods respectfully. “But even the most skilled witch can benefit from cross-training. Magic and physical wellness are more connected than most people realize.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I say dismissively, though part of me is intrigued by the concept.

“Please do.” He picks up his shirt but doesn’t put it back on. “Feel free to come back if you need any more...ingredients.”

My cheeks flush as I turn toward the exit. “Goodbye, Mr. Mountainheart.”

“Atlas, and goodbye, Zelda... Until our paths cross again.”

“They won’t.” I hurry toward the door.

“As Heraclitus said, ‘No man ever steps in the same river twice,’” he calls after me. “But I think we might be the exception to that rule.”

As I step back out into the afternoon sunlight, I clutch the vial of troll sweat in my pocket and try to ignore the fluttering sensation in my stomach. It’s just magical resonance, I tell myself firmly. Nothing more.

As I walk back to my shop, I find myself wondering what other philosophers Atlas Mountainheart might quote, and what other surprises might be hidden beneath that rocky exterior.