The workshop was hushed, illuminated only by lanterns that swayed gently with the night air drifting through cracked windows. Snow pressed thickly against the panes, muffling even the faintest creak of timber or the distant call of an owl. Midnight had long passed, yet Roger felt no fatigue. His hands gripped the polished railing of the sleigh, his breath forming faint clouds as he scanned the small group of elves Santa had assigned. Four in total, each distinct: one with a forest-green scarf threaded with silver, another with well-worn boots, a third carrying a satchel heavy with notes and tools, and the last moving with the fluid confidence of one accustomed to the shadows.
Santa's tall figure appeared at the edge of the room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp but gentle. "Good luck tonight," he said, his voice deep and steady. "Observe more than you act. The goblins' loyalty is not to each other, nor to their treasures. They serve something far older. Your task is to understand it. That is your mission."
Roger nodded, his stomach tight with a mixture of fear and purpose. Milo, standing beside him, gave a small, knowing smile. "We'll manage," he said softly, though Roger could feel the underlying tension in his words.
Santa gestured toward the sleigh, its runners gleaming faintly in the lantern light. "You'll need swiftness and discretion. The caves are treacherous, and the path is not forgiving. Use the moon, use the snow, and above all… return safely."
The elves climbed into the sleigh, and Roger took the front seat, Milo beside him. The runners creaked as the sleigh shifted, then it glided forward over the fresh snow, silent against the frozen expanse. The village below lay in peaceful slumber, unaware of the night's unfolding mission. Every bump, every whisper of wind against the sleigh's frame heightened Roger's awareness, sharpening his focus.
The journey was slow and deliberate. Trees loomed like dark sentinels on either side, branches heavy with frost, and the faint smoke of distant goblin fires lingered in the air. Milo's movements were precise and quiet, his eyes constantly scanning, noting patterns, listening to every sound. Roger followed his lead, heart racing but steady, aware that any misstep could compromise the mission.
They arrived at the cavern mouth, a yawning hollow in the snow-dusted rock. The wind howled faintly through the entrance, carrying the scent of smoke and the faint tang of iron and wood. Carefully, they dismounted, moving to the shadows, leaving no trace of their approach. Below, the goblin base sprawled in organized chaos—rows of stolen toys, crude benches, and small piles of carefully stacked supplies hinted at their meticulous routines.
Milo whispered, "They're efficient. Every toy, every mark in the snow… it's intentional."
Roger exhaled slowly. "Whatever they're guarding… it's more than we imagined."
Inside, the cave was damp and chilling, the walls echoing their careful movements. Shadows shifted in the flickering light of their torches, revealing the uneven, hand-carved paths and signs of goblin labor. Then, in the deepest chamber, they found it.
The reindeer. Enormous, carved from stone with antlers that stretched and curved like ancient branches. Its nose bore a streak of dried crimson that seemed almost alive under the torchlight. The carvings surrounding it glimmered with the faint magic of an ancient language, long forgotten in Frostholm, preserved only in whispers of elder lore. Angular, flowing symbols etched deeply into the stone spoke of age and purpose:
"From the heart of frost, he who bears the crimson mark commands devotion. Guarded by those bound by night, his essence sustains the lost. Disturb not the sacred, lest the oath unravel and all falter. In silence, the lifeblood; in vigilance, the end of ages."
Roger ran his gloved hand along the grooves, feeling the centuries-old craftsmanship. "It… it's like a warning, or a decree," he murmured.
Milo crouched beside him, eyes wide with realization. "This isn't just reverence. It's the foundation of their lives. Their rituals, their raids… everything is tied to it. They exist to protect it."
The echo of movement snapped their attention upward. Shadows shifted. A group of goblins emerged, eyes faintly glowing red in the darkness. Their hissed words, spoken in the ancient tongue, were sharp, deliberate, commanding, yet impossible for Roger or Milo to fully translate. Every motion was purposeful, each movement connected to the carvings they guarded.
Milo pressed close to Roger. "We memorize. We do not act. Not unless we have to."
Roger traced the image in the air one final time, imprinting the red-streaked nose, the posture, the weight of the carvings into memory. A loose stone clattered underfoot. A goblin spun, nostrils flaring, before Milo yanked him back into shadow. Moments passed. The goblins tested the silence, sniffing and snarling, then slowly, almost reluctantly, retreated into the deeper darkness.
Roger exhaled, trembling but alive. "We've seen too much to ignore. This is… their life. Their purpose."
Milo's eyes swept over the carvings one last time. "We have knowledge now. And with it… the responsibility to act wisely."
Together, they moved to a hidden alcove deeper within the caves, carefully relocating the carving where no goblin could reach, preserving it while preventing the possibility of harm. Every careful step, every measured breath, reinforced the weight of their discovery.
The return to Frostholm was quiet, the sleigh gliding over the moonlit snow. Roger looked at Milo, understanding the gravity in his companion's posture. "This… it changes everything. They're not just thieves. They're… guardians."
Milo nodded. "And we now know what we're really dealing with. Knowledge is power, but power carries responsibility."
By the time they landed near the workshop, the village was awake with preparation for Christmas, yet unaware of the truths Roger and Milo carried. They dismounted silently, the air still and crisp, every snowflake sparkling with the cold clarity of the night.
Santa's office welcomed them with warm candlelight, papers and scrolls scattered across the desk, maps dotted with marks of the known world—and beyond.
"Tell me everything," Santa said quietly, leaning forward, eyes intent. "Do not leave anything out."
Roger and Milo recounted the chamber, the carving, the crimson nose, the ancient words, the goblins' devotion. Every detail, every nuance, every tremor of reverence was described with care.
Santa's gaze darkened. "This… explains much. Their toys, their raids, their secrecy. They are not violent without cause. They serve something older, deeper… and dangerous. You've seen it firsthand. And now, you understand the truth behind the myth."
Roger swallowed hard. "So if this… if the reindeer is threatened, they'll fight to the death?"
Santa nodded gravely. "Yes. And if we are to act, we must tread with caution. Respect their devotion, respect the ancient rules—knowledge and patience will be your greatest weapons tonight and beyond."
Roger's heart pounded with the enormity of it. The North Pole, the myths, the goblins—they were no longer simple threats or playful stories. They were threads in a tapestry of history older than Frostholm itself. And he and Milo were now part of it.