Long before Roger became known as a hero of the North Pole, before the name "Roger the Elf" was whispered with awe and hope, the North Pole had already faced danger. The threat had been growing for centuries in the icy wastelands beyond the glittering snow of Frostholm: the Shadow Tundra.
Once, long ago, the Shadow Tundra had been home to a colony of ambitious elves—clever, skilled, and curious, much like those of Frostholm. But unlike the others, these elves let greed and envy creep into their hearts. They hoarded toys, took more than their fair share of resources, and stole magical secrets from the workshop for themselves. When discovered, Santa's elves acted decisively. The rogue elves were banished into the frozen wilderness, stripped of their privileges, left to survive where snowstorms raged for months, temperatures could freeze steel solid in minutes, and shadows concealed deadly secrets.
Time changed them. Generations of starvation, bitter cold, and exposure to twisted magic warped their forms. Skin turned mottled green, ears sharpened into jagged points, and eyes glowed a menacing red. Their minds, once bright and inventive, became cunning and cruel. The magic they had tried to hoard transformed them into something dangerous: goblins, creatures fueled by malice and long-brewing vengeance.
Over centuries, the goblins adapted. They learned to move swiftly, strike without warning, and wield dark magic to enhance their natural strength. From the Shadow Tundra, they watched the bustling villages of the North Pole—Frostholm in particular—memorizing layouts, studying elf routines, waiting patiently for the perfect moment to strike. And now, that moment had arrived.
Meanwhile, life in Frostholm went on quietly, as it had for centuries. Snow-dusted houses lined narrow cobblestone streets. Chimneys sent smoke curling into the pale sky. The scent of pine, roasted nuts, and freshly baked bread lingered in the air, mingling with the soft clatter of elf footsteps, horse-drawn sleds, and the laughter of children playing in the snow.
In one modest home lived Roger, utterly ordinary in every sense. He wasn't destined for greatness, nor was he particularly skilled with magic or machines. He didn't dazzle with clever tricks or charm. Roger simply existed quietly in the rhythm of the village, observing, helping, and learning the small, meaningful ways to make life better for those around him.
His parents were bakers, neither wealthy nor magical, working tirelessly to make ends meet. Each morning, Roger woke before sunrise to knead dough, dust flour across tables, and shape gingerbread figures. His father repaired simple wooden toys for the villagers' children, while his mother hummed as she iced pastries and kept their home in order.
"Watch your hands, Roger," his mother said one morning, brushing flour from his coat. "If you press too hard, the dough will tear."
"I'll be careful," he replied quietly, flattening the dough just so.
Even as a child, Roger learned the value of patience. If a toy broke, he would spend hours figuring out how to fix it. If bread burned, he watched his parents, memorizing their movements, trying again until it was right. He did these things not for recognition, not for reward, but for the quiet satisfaction of making something work.
He had friends, of course—children from neighboring houses—but he often preferred to wander the snowy streets alone, observing elves heading to Santa's workshop, wondering what it might be like to have a purpose bigger than himself. He didn't envy their fame or gold coins. He only noticed they had something he didn't: a clear role, a way to contribute, and a sense of importance.
Sometimes, Roger would sneak near the gates of Santa's massive workshop—not to spy, but to watch. Elves carried sacks of toys, balanced fragile dolls, or repaired intricate music boxes with tiny tools. They moved with purpose, their actions precise, interactions calm and efficient. They weren't perfect—they laughed, argued, made mistakes—but they were confident in their work.
Roger wanted none of the glory he saw. He didn't care about praise or reward. He only wanted to be useful, to find a place where his quiet diligence could make a difference.
He remembered one winter morning when a music box had broken in his neighborhood. Most children had given up, frustrated by its intricate gears. Roger spent hours patiently taking it apart, cleaning the tiny cogs, and piecing it back together. When it finally played its soft, uneven tune, he smiled quietly. There was no cheering, no applause—just the satisfaction of fixing something that mattered to someone else.
It was this quality—reliability, patience, careful observation—that first drew attention. He wasn't flashy, he wasn't loud, and he never sought recognition, but that quiet competence didn't go unnoticed.
At twelve, Roger got his chance. There was no fanfare, no magical invitation. One morning, while repairing a broken sled, Kellen, a senior elf from the workshop, passed by. He had been watching Roger for months—how he worked, solved problems, and stayed calm when others panicked.
"You've got steady hands," Kellen said, leaning on the doorframe. "Most twelve-year-olds would've given up hours ago."
"I… I just wanted it fixed," Roger replied shyly, wiping sawdust from his sleeve.
"Exactly," Kellen said, smiling. "That's why Santa could use someone like you. Not for show, not for glory… because you care. You see what needs doing, and you do it. That's rare."
Over the following weeks, Kellen returned, giving him small tasks, showing him the workshop, testing his skills quietly. By the end of the month, Roger had fixed broken gears, helped assemble toys, and proven he could handle more than small chores.
When Santa finally noticed him, it wasn't dramatic. He merely observed quietly, watching the boy who didn't boast, who didn't show off, but solved problems that others couldn't. A nod later confirmed what Kellen had known all along: Roger belonged in the workshop. At twelve, he began his first official day as a Santa's elf.
Roger quickly settled into the workshop's routines. He wasn't the fastest, the loudest, or the most skilled, but he was consistent. He learned the machinery, the toys, the schedules. Other elves began to rely on him—not for brilliance, but because he was dependable, clever in small ways, and quietly brave.
Now, ten days before Christmas, Frostholm's workshop buzzed with frantic energy. Elves scurried among belts, machines, and stacks of toys. Seventeen-year-old Roger, steady and mature, moved through the chaos, lifting falling toys, tightening loose gears, quietly preventing disasters. Milo, his friend from the village, stacked stuffed bears nearby. Their eyes met in a brief, familiar smile—years of snowball fights and narrow streets behind them—before disaster struck.
The ceiling exploded.
Sparks and splinters rained as goblins poured from the rafters and shattered windows, claws ripping, teeth snapping. Screams echoed. One elf was hurled across the room; another lost an arm; a third flew through a skylight. Machines screeched, belts tore apart, toys were crushed underfoot.
Roger ducked behind a workbench, wrench ready. "Milo, down!" he yelled, pulling his friend out of a charging goblin's path. Sparks flew. Roger swung the wrench, striking a creature across the head. Milo scrambled behind a toppled crate, shivering but alive.
The attack was savage. Goblins bit, clawed, threw, tore—striking without mercy. Supervisor elves shouted orders, but Santa was absent—sick and resting in his quarters. The workshop was left to the surviving elves.
Roger didn't hesitate. He rolled, dodged, swung, lifted trapped elves, shoved creatures away. His lungs burned, his shoulder ached from claws, but he didn't stop. He wasn't a hero by choice—just circumstance.
One goblin sank its teeth into a young elf's arm. Another grabbed a supervisor by the legs, hurling them into a conveyor belt. Sparks erupted where machinery crushed metal. Another hurled a crate into a pile of toys. Roger used the wreckage to his advantage, swinging a broken pipe to knock a charging goblin off balance, then kicking it across the floor.
He grabbed Milo, shoved him behind a fallen beam, and struck another leaping goblin. Blood sprayed, screams cut through smoke and oil. Survival, chaos, instinct—it wasn't orderly combat.
As Roger swung his wrench, it connected squarely with a goblin's face. The creature shrieked but lunged at him with blinding speed, knocking him to the floor. He hit hard, teeth gnashing just inches from his face. Its jagged, yellowed fangs gleamed in the workshop lights, saliva dripping, ready to tear him apart.
Roger's heart pounded. Muscles tense, wrench gripped tightly, every instinct screamed to survive. But just as the goblin opened its mouth, it paused, head snapping toward the ceiling. Roger followed its gaze. The other goblins were retreating, melting into shadows, climbing out broken windows into the snow. Without a word, the remaining creature backed away, disappearing into the cold night.
Roger exhaled sharply, chest heaving, sweat and blood smearing his face. Around him, the workshop was utter chaos: shattered glass, overturned machines, destroyed toys, elves bleeding, crying, or lying still.
From the streets outside came the thundering of boots and frantic voices. Townspeople rushed toward the workshop, snow crunching beneath their feet, faces twisted with panic. Mothers screamed, fathers shouted, children clung to older siblings.
Then Roger saw them—his parents, pushing through the crowd, eyes wide, hands reaching for him. Relief and dread collided in his chest. Villagers tried to help the injured; some sobbed, some screamed in fear. The workshop had been ravaged; some elves were dead, others badly wounded, bearing the marks of the goblins' violence—bitten arms, torn clothing, bruised faces.
Roger tightened his grip on the wrench. He was not a hero by choice, not seeking glory or praise. He had acted instinctively. The devastation, the pain, the blood, the screams—it pressed down on him, but he was steady. He scanned the ruined workshop once more, catching Milo struggling to help a younger elf to their feet.
It was a day of loss, a day no one would forget. The goblins had struck without warning, injured or killed without mercy, and vanished just as suddenly as they appeared, leaving chaos, sorrow, and fear in their wake. Frostholm would remember this day—the blood, the destruction, and the fragile courage of those who survived.
Roger looked at the faces around him, the broken, the injured, the sobbing. He hadn't chosen this fight. He hadn't sought it. But here he was, wrench in hand, alive, staring at a world that had just grown infinitely darker.