The sleigh glided over packed snow, leaving a faint, glittering trail in its wake. The wind bit at Roger's cheeks, crisp and sharp, carrying with it the scent of pine, smoke, and the faint tang of winter air that always seemed to seep into his lungs and invigorate him. He and Milo approached the partially rebuilt workshop, where the sounds of reconstruction reached them even from a distance. Smoke spiraled lazily from the chimneys, rising into the pale sky, while the rhythmic hammering, sawing, and occasional shouted instruction of the elves echoed across Frostholm. The village, though scarred by the recent goblin attack, was alive once more. Shattered windows had been replaced, splintered beams reforged, and snow-dusted patches of debris still hinted at the chaos that had erupted only days ago.
Milo leaned against the sleigh for a moment, brushing a strand of dark hair from his face. His green forest coat, layered over the standard elf tunic, shielded him against the cold, and his gloves were tightly laced, hands resting easily on his knees. While Roger's energy often carried him forward in bursts—restless, impulsive, eager to act—Milo moved with careful thought, observing every detail with measured precision. His calm presence was a quiet counterpoint to Roger's intensity, and in moments like these, Roger found himself grateful for it.
"You think the elves can finish this in time?" Roger asked, voice low, scanning the half-rebuilt workshop with furrowed brows. His gaze followed a group of elves lifting beams, another measuring a wall, others checking gears and mechanisms with focused precision.
Milo's eyes tracked the same movements, noting how smoothly the teams worked together, how methodical their actions had become after days of rebuilding. "If anyone can, they will," he said simply. "Look at them. They've been at it for days. Focused, coordinated. It's impressive."
Roger's stomach twisted slightly. His mind, still haunted by the memory of fallen friends and the chaos of the goblin attack, couldn't help but tally the costs of inaction. "Four days until Christmas," he murmured, almost to himself. "We can't afford another strike."
The sleigh slid to a halt, the runners crunching over frost-hardened snow. They stepped down, boots sinking slightly with each careful movement, leaving crisp imprints behind. Santa's workshop rose before them, a complex amalgamation of old-world charm and new construction, sturdy beams supporting patches of new timber, roofs dusted with snow, and windows reflecting the pale light. Inside, elves moved with practiced precision—carrying wood, hammering beams, patching walls, repairing machinery, arranging stacks of toys. The cadence of work was almost hypnotic, a comforting rhythm that reminded Roger that life, despite the chaos, moved on.
"Roger, Milo," came a deep, warm voice. Santa stood at the threshold, robes brushing the snow, eyes steady beneath the fur-lined hood. Even amidst the clamor of construction, his presence seemed to quiet the space around him, a grounding force. "Come with me. We need to talk."
The two elves exchanged a brief glance before following, stepping carefully over scattered tools and snow patches, through the bustling workshop and into Santa's office. The room was small but solid, perched above the work floor with windows framing the ongoing activity below. A long wooden table dominated the center, littered with papers, blueprints, and notes in various states of completion. Santa gestured for them to sit, his movements deliberate.
Roger and Milo exchanged another glance before settling into the chairs, the muffled sounds of construction outside forming a backdrop, rhythmic and constant. It was almost soothing, yet there was an undercurrent of tension in the air, as if the calm rhythm of rebuilding could be shattered in an instant.
"You two have seen what the goblins are capable of," Santa began, voice steady but carrying the weight of responsibility. "You've seen their base, their carvings, their organized attacks. I've reviewed your reports, and I've assessed everything myself. This… reindeer lore—it's more than a story. But whether myth or reality, it has guided these creatures for centuries. Their devotion gives them structure, and that makes them dangerous."
Milo leaned forward slightly, hands clasped loosely on his lap. His tone was measured, careful. "Sir, from what we observed, their base wasn't disorganized or haphazard. They've been producing toys—copies of ours, likely for trade or some other gain. It's how they maintain resources, power, and control. They're far more organized than we initially expected."
Roger nodded, the memory of the carvings pressing in on his mind. "And the carvings… there's something ritualistic about them. The way they arrange the toys, the way they conduct themselves—it's purposeful. It's like they're following instructions passed down for generations, feeding off this… reindeer god. There's an intent behind everything."
Santa's expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp. "Precisely. That is why they persist. Understanding what drives them gives us an advantage. Knowledge alone will not stop them, but careful observation can. You must see not only what they do, but why they do it. That is the difference between being reactive and being prepared."
Milo exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, tension threading through his movements. "And what is the plan?"
Santa tapped the table, spreading out a set of blueprints for emphasis. "We continue reconstruction here. Every beam, every repaired mechanism matters with only four days until Christmas. Simultaneously, we must gather intelligence. Observe patterns, routines, habits. Roger, Milo—you will coordinate this. Your insight in the field is invaluable."
Roger felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle into his shoulders, heavy but not unwelcome. He exchanged a glance with Milo, who gave a subtle nod, steady and reassuring. Together, they would face the challenges ahead.
"Remember," Santa continued, standing to emphasize his point, "this is not for glory. It is for the children, for the elves who dedicate themselves tirelessly, and for the safety of this village. Every small action matters."
Milo's hands tightened lightly on the table. "So… no reckless rushing in. Observation first, analysis second."
"Exactly," Santa said, a faint crease of approval in his brow. "The goblins may be violent, but their actions follow patterns. Myth and ritual shape their behavior. That is where your advantage lies. Your task is to see those patterns, understand them, and be prepared."
Roger nodded, tension easing slightly in his chest. "Observation first, action second. Understood. We'll track, we'll report, and we'll be ready when the time comes."
Santa's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "Good. Now, check on progress outside, coordinate the teams, and remember—the smallest detail can make the difference."
Stepping out into the cold, the North Pole wind tugged at Roger's hair and coat. Snowflakes clung to eyelashes and coats, glittering in the weak sunlight. He glanced at Milo, who adjusted his satchel and scanned the horizon. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us," Roger murmured.
Milo's lips curved into a small, knowing smirk. "It will be challenging, but it won't be dull."
Roger's eyes drifted toward the workshop windows, snow pressing against the glass like delicate frost paintings. He spoke quietly, more to himself than Milo. "So… what now? Do we sneak in again?"
Milo raised a measured eyebrow, an almost imperceptible smirk crossing his face at Roger's phrasing.
Santa's voice carried from behind them, calm but firm. "Not blindly," he said, stepping closer. "But yes, we return. Not in daylight—tonight."
Roger blinked, the chill forgotten for a moment. "Tonight?"
Santa nodded, a deliberate, steady motion. "Goblins are sluggish during deep night hours. Not asleep, but less alert. That is our window."
Milo exhaled slowly, mind already working through logistics. "And who is coming with us? Just us?"
"No," Santa replied, opening a drawer and producing a small red notebook with gold corners. "I'll assign a small infiltration team—elves trained in quiet movement, observation, and discretion. No unnecessary fighters."
Roger's gaze met Milo's. "A stealth team, then."
"Precisely," Santa said, scanning the names in the notebook. "Four elves. Quick, intelligent, agile. They will meet you at the old sleigh hangar once the moon is high. Your goal is to gather clues, document routines, and understand their operations. Every scrap of information counts."
Milo crossed his arms, thought threading through his expression. "If they're replicating toys… there must be a larger purpose behind it."
"There is," Santa said softly, the weight of knowledge and concern evident. "And the answer lies somewhere deep within their base."
Roger nodded, determination settling firmly. "Tonight it is, then."
Santa gave each of them a firm, steady look—stern, yet full of trust. "Rest. Eat. Prepare. When night falls, you will descend deeper than before."
As Roger and Milo stepped back into the daylight, snow clinging to their coats, Milo murmured under his breath, voice quiet but tinged with anticipation, "I have a feeling this is going to get far more complicated."
Roger exhaled slowly, a faint laugh escaping his lips, but his eyes were serious, resolute. "It will. And we'll be ready."