Roger didn't even realize his hand was shaking until he felt the cold, chipped surface under his fingertips. The ancient carving stretched across the stone wall—rough lines, deep cuts, and faded pigments that hinted at red once smeared like blood. He dragged his hand slowly along the grooves, almost hypnotized.
The drawing wasn't complicated, but something about it felt… heavy. A massive reindeer, towering, antlers branching like twisted trees. Its nose—carved deeper than anything else—was a dark, circular pit. Roger swallowed.
"Guys…" he whispered. His voice came out thin. "This thing looks—alive."
Milo stepped closer, squinting. "Or angry," he muttered. "Why's the nose carved so deep? Looks like someone kept stabbing at it."
"That's comforting," Tilly said under her breath.
Roger leaned in, brushing more dust away, revealing faint symbols surrounding the creature. Old elf runes—older than Frostholm's history books. He didn't understand all of it, but certain shapes… certain roots of words… they felt familiar. Something about "sealed" and "blood" and "return."
Before Roger could piece anything together, a sound cracked through the silence.
A clatter.A hiss.Then footsteps—wet, uneven, scraping.
Tilly spun around. "Uh… please tell me that was one of you."
It wasn't.
From the stairwell leading up to the goblins' living tunnels, shadows began to shift. Small eyes glimmered. Snarls echoed. The smell hit first—rot mixed with damp moss and something sour.
Goblins.
A lot of them.
"Back up," Roger whispered, already reaching for the candy-cane blade strapped to his belt. "Back up—now."
Three goblins crawled into view, their claws clicking against the stone floor. A fourth dropped from the ceiling pipes with a screech, landing in front of them. Its jaw hung crooked, teeth exposed like broken glass.
Milo muttered, "Oh that's just great—whole welcoming party."
The largest goblin sniffed the air and pointed at them with a long, cracked nail."Elf smell," it growled. "Trespassers."
More poured in. The stairwell trembled.
Roger stepped forward, tightening his grip. "Okay. We're leaving," he said quietly, "but not as dinner."
The goblins lunged.
Tilly moved first, swinging her ribbon-blade, the enchanted fabric stiffening into a sharp, glowing whip. It carved a bright arc through the dark. "MOVE!" she yelled.
Milo barreled into another goblin, knocking it into the wall. "Roger, door—door—DOOR!"
Roger kicked a smaller goblin away and glanced toward the rusted exit hatch behind them—the only way back to the sleigh tunnels. Ten meters away. Maybe eleven.
And the goblins were fast.
One leaped at his face.
Roger ducked, rolled, and slashed upward. The candy-cane blade cracked like ice against the goblin's chest. The creature shrieked and collapsed.
Tilly grabbed Roger's arm. "Stop staring! RUN!"
They sprinted for the hatch as the goblins swarmed behind them, shrieking, claws scraping stone. Milo slammed into the door first, spinning the wheel-lock furiously. Rust flaked off in sheets.
"HURRY!" Roger yelled, spinning and slashing as goblins dove toward them. One grabbed his ankle. Another latched onto his sleeve.
He kicked the first. Tilly sliced the second.
Milo finally forced the hatch open, the hinges screaming.
"In! GO!" he shouted.
Roger and Tilly dove through. Milo slammed the hatch closed and spun the lock until his hands were raw. The pounding on the other side started immediately.
Roger leaned against the cold tunnel wall, chest heaving. He stared at his hand—the hand that had touched the carving. Dust still clung to his fingertips.
That reindeer…That symbol…Something about it was wrong. Old wrong. Deep wrong.
Tilly wiped sweat from her forehead. "Next time," she panted, "we don't follow creepy stairs into creepy basements with creepy drawings."
Milo pointed at Roger's hand. "And dude—stop touching ancient things. Look what happens every time."
Roger didn't laugh.He kept seeing those runes.That carved nose.That impossible face.
Something was waking.
Something the goblins feared.Something the elves had forgotten.
And it wasn't just a drawing.
The pounding on the hatch didn't stop.If anything…it got louder.
Boom.Boom-boom.Screeching. Nails dragging down metal.The sound vibrated through the tunnel floor and into Roger's spine.
Tilly whispered, "T-That's not just the four that chased us…"
Milo pressed his ear to the metal. He immediately jerked back. "There's way more. Like… WAY more."
Roger frowned. "How many?"
Milo's face went pale. "A whole tribe. Maybe every single one down there."
As if answering him, another roar shook the tunnel — deeper, heavier, like a creature twice their size was now slamming the door. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Tilly grabbed Roger's arm with both hands. "We can't stay here. We'll get buried alive if they break through."
Roger nodded, forcing himself to breathe. "Back to the sleigh tunnels," he said. "We warn Frostholm. We regroup."
They began running, the cold metal floor clanging under their boots. The tunnel was narrow and poorly lit, their shadows stretching behind them like stretched claws. The further they ran, the more distant the pounding felt… but something else started rising instead.
A noise behind them — not claws, not footsteps.A rumbling. Like stone grinding.Like something big waking up.
Tilly looked back. "What… what is that?"
"Don't look at it," Milo said. "Just run."
They sprinted around a bend — and froze.
Another hatch.Hanging open.
Not the way they came from.Another entrance. One none of them had ever seen before.
And from inside that opening… dozens of faint, green eyes blinked awake.
Roger whispered, "Oh no…"
Goblins stepped out — but not the same kind as earlier.These ones were bigger.Stronger.Their skin darker, almost obsidian.Their eyes sharper.Warriors.
One sniffed the air and hissed, "Elves… elves… elves…"
Another raised a jagged bone spear.
Tilly stepped back. "Why are there so MANY?!"
Roger pulled his blade out again, but his hand was shaking. "This wasn't supposed to be a fight mission… We're not equipped for this!"
The goblins screeched and lunged.
Milo shoved Roger forward. "RUN NOW!"
They tore back down the tunnel, sprinting blindly. Behind them, dozens of footsteps thundered. The goblins weren't just chasing — they were hunting. Their laughter echoed in the metal corridor, twisted and sharp.
Roger's lungs burned. His legs felt like jelly. But adrenaline kept him going.
The sleigh garage door came into view — a slanted wooden gate Santa had built two centuries ago, connecting the old travel tunnels.
Roger yelled, "Milo, open it!"
Milo skidded to a stop and yanked the lever. The gears inside groaned, frozen from years of disuse, but slowly the gate began to lift.
The goblins closed in — teeth snapping, claws scraping the floor, screeching with excitement.
Tilly screamed, "Faster!"
"IT'S OLD!" Milo shouted, voice cracking. "I'M TRYING!"
The gate lifted just enough for them to slide under. Roger pushed Tilly through, then dove after her. Milo threw himself down last, pulling the lever again from underneath.
The gate slammed shut just as the goblins reached it.
Claws stabbed through the wood. Teeth bit the lower edge. Screams and roars rattled the whole thing violently.
The three elves lay on the cold floor, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling as the gate shook and buckled.
Tilly finally whispered, "Roger… what did we just uncover…?"
Roger stared at his dust-covered hand.His fingertips still tingled from that carving.Like something had breathed against them.Like something ancient had woken up when he touched it.
"I… I don't know," he admitted quietly."But whatever's down there… the goblins are terrified of it. And now they're terrified of us knowing about it."
Milo sat up slowly. "Guys… this wasn't just a raid."His voice trembled."This was a warning."
Roger didn't answer.Because deep in his chest, he felt it too.
A warning.A stirring.A beginning.
Something ancient had opened its eyes.
And the elves had no idea what they were walking into.
The sleigh skidded across the frozen plains, snow spraying from the runners as Roger leaned forward, gripping the reins. His mind replayed the goblin tunnels: the screams, the sudden violence, the creatures' jagged claws and vicious teeth. Frostholm came into view, but the village was far from peaceful. The workshop had taken a heavy blow. Roof beams sagged, walls were scorched, and scattered toys—some broken, some buried in snow—littered the courtyard.
Despite the destruction, life moved within the chaos. Construction elves, summoned from nearby villages, worked alongside Frostholm elves to stabilize the building, lift beams, and clear debris. The air rang with hammering, the hum of magic, and the shouted instructions of supervisors. Frostholm looked battered but alive.
Roger leapt from the sleigh, boots crunching into the snow. He scanned the courtyard. Frostholm elves were shaken but moving with determination, lifting beams, resetting machinery, and helping each other recover. A few were bruised or exhausted, but none lay helpless. Relief flickered briefly in Roger's chest.
At the center of the chaos stood Santa Claus, wrapped in his thick red coat and scarf, coughing lightly but moving with a commanding presence. His eyes swept over the elves and construction teams, issuing instructions while also correcting misaligned beams. "Hold that beam steady! Excellent! Braces here! Now lift together—watch your footing!" He barked, turning back to a group of younger elves struggling with a heavy board. "No, no, steady! Slow and careful! There, perfect!"
Roger approached, careful to keep his voice low so as not to disrupt the workflow. "Santa… I saw where the goblins came from," he said, voice steady despite the chill. "The tunnels. Their layout. They're… organized. They know the workshop and the village routes. They attack fast, precise, and without mercy."
Santa nodded, listening while adjusting the placement of a fallen beam. "Organized," he said, almost to himself. He turned sharply to a nearby group. "Watch that corner—brace it properly! That beam can't shift!" His voice carried authority, and the elves obeyed instantly, moving as one. Then, turning back to Roger, he continued, "Tell me everything, from the tunnels to their markings. No detail is too small."
Roger took a deep breath. "They have carved living spaces, little hearths, storage. Walls marked with symbols—ritualistic, I think. And… they attacked everything they could. Machines, elves—if I hadn't helped some of our friends, they could have been worse."
Santa stepped forward, fixing the alignment of a beam. "I see. Your survival is not luck, but diligence. And your knowledge will guide our rebuilding." He paused mid-step, noticing a younger elf struggling with a heavy plank. "Careful, young one! Watch your footing! Don't drop it!" The elf nodded, red-faced but steadying the load with the help of a construction elf.
Turning back to Roger, Santa's voice softened. "You've seen what they are capable of. Their speed, their cruelty. That is why your observations matter. But you've done more than survive—you've returned to us. That alone… proves your value."
Roger glanced around at the elves, bruised and shaken, yet working tirelessly. The construction teams moved with practiced efficiency, lifting beams, bracing walls, and resetting machinery. Sparks flew as enchanted tools reinforced the damaged structures. Roger felt the weight of responsibility settle over him. He wasn't a hero by choice, but he could act. He could make a difference.
Santa's attention returned to the rebuilding efforts. "Reinforce that wall! Align the machines! We work fast, but carefully. The workshop must be ready for the solstice!" He gestured to the supervisors, then redirected his gaze to another corner where a plank threatened to collapse. "Steady! Steady! Hold it there, brace it from below!"
Roger stepped forward, helping a nearby elf steady a beam. "They won't stop," he said quietly to Santa. "If they've planned this… they'll come back."
Santa's hand rested briefly on Roger's shoulder. "And when they do, we will be ready. Today, we rebuild. Tomorrow, we prepare. Your knowledge will guide us. Frostholm will endure—not because luck saves it, but because we act."
Roger nodded, gripping the beam tightly. Around him, elves moved with renewed purpose, their bruises and exhaustion pushed aside by determination. The goblins had retreated, but Roger knew they would return. And when they did, he would be ready. Not for glory or praise, but because he had to be.
He looked up at the aurora overhead, letting the faint shimmer of light settle over Frostholm. The village was alive again, and this time, Roger would stand firm—no matter what came.