The morning settled over Frostholm like a soft, white blanket. Snow drifted lazily onto rooftops and streets, muting the usual clatter of the village. Inside the workshop, the scent of sawdust and pine mingled with the faint curl of chimney smoke and the comforting aroma of hot cocoa from the kitchen below. Elves worked tirelessly, hammering, sawing, and carrying planks in a rhythm that pulsed like the heartbeat of the village itself. Frostholm had been rebuilt, but the memory of the attack lingered, etched into walls, tools, and hearts alike.
Roger leaned against a workbench, splinters catching on his coat. Milo stood beside him, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes sharp with thought. The memory of the carvings, the crimson-streaked reindeer, and the goblins' devotion weighed heavily on them both.
Finally, Roger broke the silence. "So… what's next? We've seen their caves, we know a little more… what do we do with that?"
Santa, standing near the center of the workshop with a large map spread across the table, looked up. Lines etched into his face reflected decades of experience. "It's time to act," he said calmly, voice carrying the weight of responsibility. "We cannot allow them to continue threatening Frostholm. Every raid, every theft, every life at risk—they will not stop unless we confront the source directly. We act now, with precision and care, to protect everyone here."
Roger swallowed. "But… are we ready? We've seen how organized and violent they can be. We're not fighters."
Santa's eyes softened. "Readiness comes in many forms, Roger. Courage alone is not enough—but neither is fear. Strategy, observation, and careful coordination are our strengths. We've survived attacks before, and we've learned from them. Now we must apply that knowledge. Every elf here deserves safety."
Milo's brow furrowed. "It's not just about courage. The carvings, the red-streaked reindeer… they're guarding something. If we act blindly, we could trigger more than just resistance."
Roger's hands tightened around the edge of the bench as memories surged: goblins crashing through ceilings, screams, toppled equipment, and the weight of a fallen friend. "I know," he murmured. "We're not fully ready. But we can't wait either. For everyone who didn't make it… for our families and friends. We have to act."
Santa nodded, acknowledging both fear and resolve. "Exactly. That is why you, Roger, will lead part of this effort. Your observations, calm under pressure, and experience in the field—those qualities will guide others. You are not just participating. You are leading."
The weight of leadership pressed on Roger, heavy yet undeniable. He glanced at Milo, who gave a small, steady nod. "We'll do it," Roger said firmly. "For Frostholm. For everyone we can still protect."
"Good," Santa said. "But preparation is key. Tonight begins the first phase of reconnaissance. We know their routines better thanks to your efforts, and soon we will plan a coordinated strike. Until then, every moment matters. Train, plan, and ready yourselves—not for glory, but for survival and justice."
Milo's voice was quiet but firm. "Then let's make sure we're ready. No surprises this time."
Sunlight slanted through frost-laced windows, casting long golden streaks across the workshop. Elves moved with renewed purpose, carrying beams, repairing machinery, and sorting gifts. Frostholm had been rebuilt—and it would defend itself again.
Roger ran a hand over his wrench, a simple tool now transformed into a symbol of responsibility. He wasn't a hero by choice; he was chosen by circumstance. And the purpose he carried felt heavier and clearer than ever before.
Later that day, Roger and Milo moved quietly through the village, speaking to elves they knew could be trusted—those who had stayed calm during the attack, acted without fear, and could be counted on when danger returned.
They recruited a dozen capable elves: Lenny, the tunnel mapper; Kira, expert with locks; Taro, a sharp observer even if he sometimes slept through chaos. Each elf was approached with care, told only what they needed to know, and shown the seriousness of the mission.
Meanwhile, Santa recruited older, experienced elves—the veterans of Frostholm, whose hair had grayed in winters past. They remembered raids that Roger could scarcely imagine, and their quiet nods of acceptance spoke louder than words.
One elderly elf rested a hand on Santa's shoulder. "About time we stand up again," he murmured.
Santa bowed slightly, acknowledging both their readiness and the weight of what was coming.
That evening, as Roger returned home, snow crisp under his boots, the cold air nipped at his cheeks. Inside, the comforting smell of dinner and a warm hearth greeted him. His mother stirred at the stove, and his little sister Lila played quietly on the floor, her tiny wooden reindeer clutched in her hands.
"Roger, sweetie. You're home late," his mother said softly.
He took a deep breath. "Mom… Dad… I need to tell you something. I'm helping Santa. For Frostholm. For the town."
His mother's eyes sharpened immediately. "This is about the goblins, isn't it?"
Roger nodded, chest tight but determined. His father exhaled heavily, concern etched into his features. "Are you sure you need to be involved?"
"Yes," Roger said quietly, looking at both of them. "I want Lila to grow up safe. I want Frostholm to be the place we love again."
His mother stepped forward, placing her hands on his face. "You're really your father's son…" she whispered, hugging him tightly. His father joined in, resting a hand on his back.
"We're proud of you," his father said. "Just… come home after. Whatever happens, come home."
Roger knelt before Lila, who handed him the wooden reindeer. "For luck," she said, eyes bright with trust.
"You keep it safe," he replied, smiling faintly. "I'll need it when I come home."
Later, as he stepped outside again, he froze. Liora was already there, standing softly in the falling snow. Her hair shimmered with tiny crystals, catching the last sunlight, framing a face that was gentle, radiant, and alive with warmth. Her amber eyes glimmered with care, and her soft smile made the winter chill feel almost comfortable.
"Hey," she said quietly, meeting him halfway.
Roger's chest lifted in relief. "Liora… you came?"
"I heard… around town," she said softly. "I had to check on you. Are you… okay?"
"I'm… trying," he admitted. "It's… serious, but I'll manage."
They walked together through the snow, talking quietly. Liora asked gentle questions about the goblin caves, the carvings, and the elves' preparations. Roger shared what he could without giving away too much. She listened intently, nodding, sometimes squeezing his hand lightly for reassurance.
After a while, they arrived at the edge of town, where she would head home. Neither moved to leave immediately. Snow crunched beneath their boots. Without thinking, Roger hugged her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Liora leaned in, resting her forehead lightly against him. The hug was warm, grounding, and… beautiful. He held her a little longer than necessary, feeling a sense of peace in the cold night.
"I'll come back safe," he whispered.
"I know you will," she replied softly.
From across the street, Milo stood at the factory entrance, hands in his pockets, grinning ear to ear. He let out a loud whistle. "Ouuuu! Look at you two! Kindergarten-level shipping in full effect!"
Roger groaned, cheeks heating, while Liora chuckled quietly, shaking her head but smiling warmly at him.
She waved at Roger. "Bye, Roger."
"Bye, Milo," she added, stepping closer and giving him a quick hug. "Watch over him for me, okay?"
Milo feigned seriousness, holding his hands up. "Roger? Don't get any funny ideas! And… uh, got it, ma'am. I'll guard him like a fortress—or, you know, until he trips over his own boots!"
She laughed softly, patting his shoulder, then turned to walk back home, snow drifting lightly around her.
Roger watched her go, heart tight with something tender and protective, before finally turning back toward Milo and the workshop. Milo nudged him, smirking. "Ouuuu, look at you two! Straight outta kindergarten! You're making me jealous, man!"
Roger rolled his eyes, shaking his head, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
Meanwhile, back at home, Liora stepped quietly into her room. She knelt by the window, eyes closed, hands clasped tightly together. Snowflakes brushed against the glass, soft and silent, as she whispered a quiet prayer.
"Please… keep him safe. Let him survive. Let him come back to Frostholm… and to me."
Her words were soft, but her hope and fear echoed loudly in the empty room. Outside, the village slept under its white blanket of snow, unaware of the hearts and prayers tied to the coming storm.