The snow had stopped falling, but the air in Frostholm was thick with smoke, the smell of burnt oil, and the metallic tang of blood. Roger stood in the ruined workshop, wrench in hand, surveying the devastation. He had expected chaos—but nothing could have prepared him for this.
Milo approached, clutching a bandaged elf to his chest. "Is… is everyone okay?" he asked, voice trembling.
Roger shook his head slowly. "No. Some… some didn't make it," he said quietly. His eyes scanned the room again, lingering on bodies still unmoving, tools scattered, toys smashed beyond repair. "We'll have to—help the rest. Get them safe."
Outside, Frostholm's townspeople were trying to restore order. Some carried injured elves to nearby cottages, others shouted for blankets, hot water, or medical supplies. Despite the chaos, a few faces brought a glimmer of comfort: Roger's parents had helped guide villagers to the wounded, and now they looked toward him with a mixture of worry and pride.
Roger approached a supervisor elf, a tall figure with a stern expression and hands covered in blood. "We need to check for survivors," Roger said, voice firm. "Every elf who can move, help get the others out."
The supervisor nodded. "We'll do what we can. But some… some are gone."
Roger clenched his fists, jaw tight. He didn't let himself think about the ones lost, not yet. There would be time for grief. First, there was work to do. He turned to Milo. "Come on. Let's move."
Together, they began lifting debris, pulling injured elves to safety, helping them sit, breathe, and wrap their wounds. Roger felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. He hadn't asked for it, hadn't wanted it—but circumstance had chosen him.
Later, in the central square of Frostholm, a group of elves huddled with townspeople, whispering and murmuring. News had spread that Santa was ill and unable to return for at least a week. Many wondered if the North Pole itself was safe.
Roger knelt beside Milo. "Do you think they'll come back?" Milo asked, eyes wide. "The goblins?"
Roger shook his head. "I don't know… but we can't wait. We have to be ready. If they come back, we'll be the first line of defense."
A younger elf ran up, clutching a torn list of toys. "Roger! Look!" she cried. "The conveyor belts—they're ruined. We can't make the presents on time!"
Roger frowned. He hadn't thought about the consequences yet—children across the world waiting for toys, Christmas approaching fast. But there was no time for despair. He glanced at Milo. "We fix what we can. We survive what we can. And we fight if we have to."
Hours passed in a blur of organizing, tending to wounds, and clearing rubble. The townspeople proved invaluable, carrying debris, offering food and blankets, and comforting those in shock. Frostholm was bruised but resilient.
As night fell, Roger found a quiet corner of the workshop. His hands were scraped, bloody, and sore from hours of work. Milo joined him, sitting quietly. Neither spoke at first. Then Milo said, "I can't believe… how fast it all happened. We didn't even see them coming."
Roger nodded. "That's how they fight. Random. Violent. Brutal. But we… we survived. That counts for something." He looked at his hands, bloodied and worn, gripping the wrench. "I didn't want this. I never asked for it. But it's what I'm good at. And maybe… maybe that's enough to matter."
Outside, the wind howled through the broken windows. Shadows moved along the rooftops of Frostholm, distant but deliberate. Roger felt a chill creep up his spine. This was not the end. The goblins had chosen their moment. They would come back.
And when they did, Roger knew one thing for certain: he would be ready.
The morning after the attack, Frostholm looked like a village from a nightmare. Snow glimmered under a pale sun, but the streets were lined with wounded elves and destroyed wagons, the smell of blood and smoke still thick in the air. Roger stood amid the chaos, wrench in hand, surveying the damage. His knuckles were scraped, arms sore, and his chest still thumped from yesterday's fight.
Milo, rubbing a bandaged arm, approached him. "Roger… what do we do now? They could come back anytime."
Roger shook his head, jaw tight. "We can't just wait. We saw how brutal they are. They won't stop. If we don't act… more will die."
Nearby, a group of survivors huddled, whispering urgently. Elves who had escaped the worst of the attack were discussing the same thing: the goblins weren't random—they had a base somewhere in the Shadow Tundra, and they knew exactly where the elves lived and worked.
A supervisor elf stepped forward, wiping blood from his hands. "The goblins have a home," he said, voice grim. "We've traced their patrols and sightings. They return there after each strike. If we hit them there… maybe we can stop this before Christmas."
A hush fell over the group. Eyes turned to Roger. He had been the most effective fighter yesterday, instinctive and fearless, even under brutal conditions. Milo nudged him. "You're… going, right?"
Roger exhaled, shaking his head. "I didn't ask for this," he muttered. But deep down, he knew it was his choice—or at least, that he couldn't let anyone else face them unprepared. "But yeah… if we're doing this, I'm with you."
Others began to speak up. Some elves were hesitant, fearful of leaving Frostholm's safety. Others were fiery, angry, eager for revenge. "I'm in," one shouted, brandishing a wrench. "They came to our home—they'll regret it."
They spent the day organizing, patching up wounds, and preparing weapons. Wrenches, hammers, and sturdy boards became tools of survival. Volunteers gathered maps, noting every sighting of goblins in the past week. Roger and Milo worked side by side, silently agreeing on roles—he'd lead the charge in the front, Milo would cover flanks and rescue any trapped elves, and the others would guard the rear and secure escape paths.
By nightfall, the plan was clear. The surviving elves would leave Frostholm at dawn, trekking toward the Shadow Tundra to confront the goblins in their own lair.
Roger stared into the dark sky, the northern lights shimmering faintly across the horizon. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him. He wasn't a hero. He didn't want to be. But circumstance had forced his hand, and now every life in Frostholm—and every toy yet to be made—rested on their success.
Milo tapped him on the shoulder. "You ready?"
Roger glanced at the workshop ruins one last time, taking in the sight of fallen comrades and destroyed machinery. His stomach churned, but his eyes were steady. "As ready as I'll ever be," he said.
The elves departed Frostholm quietly, moving through the snow under the cover of early morning, leaving behind the bloodied streets and the horror of the previous day. In the distance, faint shadows moved across the ice—goblins beginning their patrols, unaware of the counterstrike about to descend upon them.
As they approached the Shadow Tundra, the air grew colder, harsher. Jagged cliffs and frozen peaks loomed, the wind howling like the cries of the fallen. Roger gripped his wrench tightly, feeling the weight of every life, every friend, every mistake from Frostholm in his hands.
He didn't want this. He didn't choose this. But he would fight—because no one else could. And if the goblins thought they could terrorize Frostholm without consequence, they were about to learn how fierce, clever, and relentless a determined elf could be.
The sky was a heavy slate gray as Roger surveyed the edge of Frostholm, the sleigh waiting at the rim of the frozen forest. Snow crunched beneath boots, the wind sharp and relentless, cutting through cloaks and scarves. The devastation from the goblin attack still lingered in his mind—the blood, the broken workshop, the cries of the injured. It had changed him. He wasn't a boy anymore; he was seventeen, hardened by fear and responsibility, but every nerve was alive with tension.
Beside him, Milo adjusted the straps of his satchel. "You think we'll find them?" he asked quietly, voice tight with nerves.
Roger didn't answer immediately. He glanced at the sleigh, its polished runners catching the faint shimmer of the northern lights. "We have to," he said finally. "If we don't… they'll come back. And they won't stop at Frostholm."
The elves assembled around the sleigh, a motley crew of survivors, each distinct despite the common shades of green and red in their attire.
Milo, wiry and quick, dark hair sticking up in small tufts, always alert.
Elara, calm and methodical, braids streaked silver, carrying a satchel filled with tools, small potions, and maps.
Thimble, stocky and strong, scars on his forearms from previous accidents in the workshop, the muscles beneath his leather patched armor taut and ready.
Lyric, tall and elegant, frostwood bow slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning the horizon for movement.
Fenn, young and unpredictable, slender but wiry, carrying a satchel of improvised weapons with a mischievous grin.
The remaining elves were scattered in age, size, and temperament—some small and nimble, some broad and imposing, each with personal touches in their attire: a scarf with embroidered symbols, a belt lined with tools, boots reinforced with scraps of metal. Every elf had a role, whether as a scout, fighter, medic, or support.
Roger climbed into the sleigh, Milo sliding in beside him. The reins were cold in their hands, and the magical wind hummed against their ears as the sleigh lifted, gliding silently across the frozen expanse. Below, the Shadow Tundra stretched endlessly—jagged cliffs, blackened trees, and ice-slick rocks glinting like teeth. The land seemed to breathe menace, and every shadow hinted at danger.
The ride was tense but silent, the elves communicating only with subtle gestures. Milo pointed ahead, fingers pressed to lips—small signs signaling movement below. Lyric's bow was ready, eyes scanning. Roger gripped his wrench tightly, knuckles white, muscles coiled.
After hours, the sleigh touched down in a hollow carved between jagged peaks, half-buried under snow. Smoke curled weakly from the goblin lair's entrance, low muttering and scraping noises drifting into the cold air.
Roger felt a chill that wasn't just from the wind. The lair was… desolate. Broken spires of ice surrounded the cavern entrance like jagged teeth. Inside, the walls were slick with frost and mud, and scattered debris littered the floor—shattered tools, tattered rags, and scraps of food. The air smelled of decay and bitter smoke, a heavy, suffocating stench that made every breath feel sharp.
There were no decorations, no warmth, no laughter. Where Frostholm gleamed with candy-cane stripes, twinkling lights, and the joy of children across the world, this place was dark, cold, and oppressive. Small fires burned in shallow pits, barely warming hunched, ragged goblins who murmured angrily to one another. Their eyes, red and wild, darted constantly, never at ease. Every movement carried hunger, desperation, and violence.
Roger's stomach tightened. "This… this isn't just a hideout," he whispered to Milo. "It's… sad. Angry. They've been living like this for centuries."
Milo nodded, scanning the shadows. "No wonder they attack. They're twisted by this place… but brutal because of it. Look at them."
Goblins shuffled, some gnawing on scraps of meat, others sharpening claws and teeth, their movements jerky and animalistic. Occasionally, one would snap at another, biting, clawing, hissing—violence was constant, a way of surviving in a world that offered nothing but pain. Their lair was a reflection of their lives: harsh, cold, cruel.
Roger clenched his wrench, heart hammering. "We can't let this spread," he muttered. "We can't let them bring this… this misery to Frostholm or any other village."
The elves pressed closer, moving through shadows, acutely aware of the differences around them. And as they advanced further into the lair, a chilling realization struck them: the goblins were organized.
Along the walls of the cavern were ancient carvings, etched into jagged ice and stone, faded but legible to those who knew history. They depicted goblins long ago, their ancestors trapped and twisted, forced to survive in the Shadow Tundra. Scenes of violence, survival, and worship were etched into every surface. Some carvings showed elves fighting, children crying, and strange creatures being offered to a colossal figure—a reindeer, enormous, with a bloody nose, chained in some distant, shadowed chamber. Its antlers were splintered and jagged, its eyes fierce and knowing, glowing faintly even in memory.
"This… this is why they attack," Elara whispered, her voice low. "They worship it. It's their… god. Their source of life, their reason for surviving. They've never seen it in person, but everything they do… it's for it."
Roger's heart tightened as he imagined it. The reindeer wasn't just an animal—it was giant, chained, bloody, worshiped like a deity, sustaining the goblins' existence through fear and devotion. They lived only because of it. Their violence, their cunning, their brutality—it all had a source, a twisted reason for being.
Suddenly, a goblin patrol shuffled past, growling at each other. One sniffed the air, claws scraping across the frost. Roger froze.
Milo tapped him, signaling. "Move."
The group split instantly, slipping into shadows. Lyric's arrow twanged quietly, grazing the goblin's shoulder. It screamed, staggering, and Roger reacted, swinging his wrench with perfect timing. The goblin's head snapped back, staggering, but it lunged, pinning Roger to the snow, teeth snapping. Roger twisted, elbowing it in the side, barely freeing himself before it retreated, following the others who had noticed the disturbance.
Every heartbeat was loud in Roger's ears as they pushed deeper into the lair, past carvings, chains, and tattered relics of goblin worship. The walls were lined with stolen toys, broken gadgets, and scraps of metal. It was organized chaos, trophies of past raids—but then something caught his eye: a massive chest carved with strange runes, faintly glowing.
Elara leaned over his shoulder. "They're not just raiding… this is a plan. They're organized. They've been planning, scheming, training…"
Roger's stomach tightened further as he lifted the lid. Inside were scrolls marked with Frostholm's layout, maps of other elf villages, and glowing vials of strange liquid—evidence of preparation, strategy, and some kind of magical enhancement.
"This isn't random," Roger whispered, eyes wide. "They've been planning. Frostholm… was just the first target."
Milo crouched beside him, voice low. "We need to get this back. If the supervisors see this…" His words trailed off, eyes scanning the shadows.
Roger nodded, gripping his wrench. "We move carefully, quietly. And fast."
The elves backtracked slowly, every step measured, aware that a single noise could summon reinforcements. Small skirmishes flared—a goblin turned too quickly, an arrow fired silently, a wrench connecting with a jaw—but they avoided a full battle, knowing the objective was intelligence, not slaughter.
The tunnel air changed the deeper they descended.It wasn't just cold anymore — it felt heavy, like the walls themselves were shivering from something ancient lodged beneath them.
Roger held his torch out first. He always did. Even if he wasn't the bravest, he somehow walked at the front.
The cavern widened, revealing uneven stone walls scarred with marks. At first it looked like just goblin scratches — chaotic, layered, senseless. But as the torchlight moved, a larger image formed in the shadows.
Roger slowed.
"…Hold up."
His voice echoed softly through the frozen chamber.
Milo stepped beside him, squinting. "What now?"
At first, it didn't make sense.Then the lines connected.
A massive carving — nearly the size of a real reindeer — had been etched deep into the stone. Twisted antlers. Hollow eyes. A long, sharp snout. And the nose…
The nose had been carved so sharply it sliced into the wall. Beneath it, dozens—maybe hundreds—of scratch marks had been dragged downward in the same spot.
It looked like blood was dripping.
Elara exhaled shakily. "That's not… normal."
Roger didn't answer. He stepped closer, slowly raising his hand.
"Roger, don't touch that," Fenn warned quietly.
But Roger already had.
He pressed his palm gently to the cold stone… and dragged it along the grooves.The lines were too precise for goblins — almost elegant, like each cut was made with intention, not just violence.
His fingertips followed the ridges, the sharp edges, the deep cuts in the stone as though trying to understand whoever carved it.
"What are you doing?" Milo whispered.
"I dunno," Roger muttered. "Just… feels like it was carved fast. Hard. Like whoever did this wasn't joking 'round."
As his hand slid toward the strange symbols beside the figure, he felt the texture shift. The runes were smoother, older, and carved differently — more delicate.
Ancient elf runes.
He brushed his fingers over them, whispering, "These… these are real old. Way before Frostholm."
Fenn leaned closer. "Can you read it?"
Roger stared, trying to piece together half-faded curves and cuts. The symbols were familiar, but not enough to make sense.
"Nah," he finally muttered. "It's too worn out. Could be anything. Warning… name… history… can't tell."
Elara swallowed. "Why would ancient elves carve something in goblin territory?"
"Nah," Roger said quietly. "This carving… it was here before goblins even lived here."
The realization made the cavern colder.
Milo stepped back uneasily. "Then what's it supposed to be?"
Roger looked up at the carved reindeer's bleeding nose, the twisted antlers, the hollow eyes staring straight out of the wall.
"…I don't know," he said softly.
He didn't.
Not yet.
But something about the figure felt wrong on a deeper level — not evil, not demonic… just old. Old in a way that didn't belong to Frostholm's cheerful lore. Old in a way that felt like someone tried to warn them centuries ago.
Roger backed away, wiping stone dust onto his glove.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's keep movin'. We ain't here to stare at walls."
They stepped away from the carving, torches pushing the shadows aside — but as the flame moved, it made the carved eyes look like they were following them.
Only Roger turned back one last time.
Just a drawing.Just a carving.Just something ancient and forgotten.