The workshop rang with the steady rhythm of reconstruction. Wood groaned under pressure, hammers struck in sharp, echoing cadence, and the occasional shout from a foreman carried across the frozen expanse. Steam curled from elves' mouths as they worked, visible against the cold North Pole air, mingling with the faint smell of sawdust and pine. Roger's gloves were thick over his hands, the leather stiff with frost, but he ignored the stiffness, focusing instead on the long timber balanced carefully across his shoulders. Every step required attention—beams, nails, and scattered scraps of wood littered the ground, a treacherous obstacle course that threatened to send him tumbling if he let his mind wander.
"Roger!"
The call broke through his concentration. He set the timber down with deliberate care, brushing snow from his coat, and pulled off his gloves. Standing at the edge of the site, calm amid the chaotic hum of reconstruction, was Santa. Even in the fur-lined hood and heavy robes, his presence carried an authority that silenced the clamor for just a moment. His eyes, sharp and observing, tracked Roger's movements as if weighing not only his work, but the boy himself.
"Roger," Santa said, voice steady, low, almost carrying the weight of the wind itself. "I hear you and Milo came across something unusual while checking the goblin hideout. What was it again?"
Roger hesitated. The memory of the cave came unbidden—the shadows, the faint glimmer of the carving, the strange hush over the goblins as they knelt before it. "It… it was a carving," he said carefully. "A huge reindeer, bigger than anything I've ever seen. And the goblins… they acted like it meant everything to them. Almost… like they worshipped it."
Santa raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful. "A large reindeer, you say?" He let out a quiet sigh, the sort that seemed to carry centuries of knowledge. "I've heard that tale before. It's an ancient myth here in Frostholm. Stories passed down for generations. Goblins, elves, even humans—everyone's heard some version of it. Old folklore meant to teach lessons, maybe to explain the goblins' strange ways. That's all it is."
Roger's frown deepened. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, brushing away strands damp from sweat and snow. "My parents said the same thing… that it was just a story their parents told them, and so on, generation after generation. But it felt… real. The way the goblins reacted, the way they treated it… it wasn't just a story to them."
Santa nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, gentle but knowing. "I understand. I'm older than most here. I've heard this story countless times, seen it told in every form imaginable. Legends often carry a grain of truth, but they're exaggerated, reshaped by time. You've seen the goblins' devotion, yes, but don't let imagination cloud your judgment. Observe carefully, think clearly, and you'll know what's important."
Roger nodded, swallowing the knot of curiosity and concern in his chest. Santa's words, though steady and measured, carried a weight he could not ignore. "I understand. I'll pay attention."
Santa placed a firm hand on his shoulder, the touch grounding. "Good. Now, get back to helping the elves. We have a workshop to rebuild and time is short before Christmas."
Roger returned to his task, muscles aching but resolve firm. As he lifted timber and secured beams, the image of the massive reindeer carving lingered, embedded in his mind's eye. Myth or reality, he realized, the reverence it inspired among the goblins was real, and that alone was cause for caution. Every step, every task, felt layered—not just with physical effort, but the weight of observation, understanding, and the strange stirring of possibility that something ancient and powerful might be real.
The hours stretched. Sunlight, pale and weak in the North Pole's winter, filtered through gaps in the workshop roof, casting long shadows across piles of lumber and tools. Roger felt the cold in his bones despite layers of clothing, his breath fogging before him with each careful step. The repetitive motions—lifting, hammering, guiding—became meditative, giving him space to think, to reflect on the events that had unsettled the village. His mind wandered to Milo, to the bravery and recklessness that had nearly cost them both dearly, and to the unseen forces that might lie behind the goblins' worship.
By late afternoon, exhaustion had settled into his muscles like lead, and Roger trudged home through the snow, boots crunching against the frozen path, each step measured. The familiar sight of his cabin brought a momentary relief. He tugged off coat and gloves at the door, rubbing his hands together against the persistent chill.
"Roger, you're back!" his mother called from the living room, her voice carrying that warm, teasing edge he had known all his life. "And… someone left a note for you while you were out."
Roger's brow furrowed, wiping a smear of dirt from his sleeve. "A note?"
She held it out, leaning back in her chair with a book balanced on her lap, a small smile playing across her face. "Yes. From a girl in town. She wants to meet you at The Frosted Hearth. Says the time right here." Her eyes sparkled mischievously over the top of her book.
Roger felt that strange flutter again, the one that had taken him by surprise since the goblin attack. Carefully, almost reverently, he took the note. "She… wants to meet me?" he asked, voice low, unsure whether to be excited or embarrassed.
His mother chuckled softly, setting her book aside. "Looks like it. So… who is she?" Her tilt of the head was playful, teasing, but warm, genuine curiosity shining through.
Roger hesitated, still processing the subtle warmth thrumming in his chest. "I… don't really know. Blonde hair, green eyes, freckles… she seemed confident. That's all I know."
"Well, Roger Blanche… you never told me you had a girlfriend hiding in town, huh?" Her tone was teasing, light, but infused with affection, the kind that made him feel a fleeting ease.
Roger's cheeks heated. "Mom! It's not like that," he muttered, shoving the note into his coat pocket.
She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. "I know, I know," she said, softer now. Her teasing dissipated, replaced by quiet concern. "But… you've been through a lot these past few days. If spending time with her makes you happy, makes you feel… lighter after everything, then I think that's good, Roger. You deserve some normalcy. Even just a little."
Roger blinked at her, the sincerity in her tone pressing through the fatigue and nerves. "Thanks, Mom," he murmured. "I… I guess I just want to feel… useful. Like I'm doing something right, even outside the workshop."
"You are, you know," she said, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. "Just by being who you are, taking care of others, helping when it matters. Don't underestimate that."
He nodded slowly, feeling a rare lightness settle over him despite the chill lingering in his bones. "I'll… I'll go. I'll get changed first."
"Good," she said with a soft laugh, smoothing the front of her sweater. "But don't be too long. And… watch out for yourself out there, okay? You've got a lot of people counting on you. And… me."
Roger smiled faintly, carrying the weight of her words with him as he stepped into the cold. He glanced back to see her on the porch, eyes following him, love and worry etched into every line of her face—a quiet anchor in the midst of chaos.