The storm erupted from nowhere.
Not just the usual swirling snow we know so well, the kind that whips around the chimneys of Santa's Village in great gusts and flurries. No, this storm was wrong.
The clouds above crackled with a strange, reddish thunder, as though the sky itself were arguing with the stars. The northern lights, usually our silent companions, our dancing heralds of the season, shivered and stuttered, flaring in unnatural pulses across the heavens.
It was December 17th, 1585, and I felt it in my bones: something was out of balance.
I watched from my study window, the frost etching intricate patterns on the panes as I leaned in closer to peer out into the darkness.
That was when I saw it.
The sharp flash and boom of an explosion echoing from the direction of the sleigh workshop.
At first, I thought it must have been a flash of lightning.
Then came the alarm bell.
Not the ceremonial kind we ring for winter cheer, but the one no one ever wants to hear.
The bell that sounds only when something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.
I grabbed my coat and made my way out into the snow.
In the sleigh workshop, the air reeked of charged copper and singed pine. Sparks danced across the floor, and the engine room, usually humming with comforting magic, was deathly quiet.
The Manna Core pulsed weakly, its usual golden glow flickering like a dying candle.
One of the outer rings had cracked.
The auric stabilisers were cold.
Without it, there would be no lift… no glide… no circumnavigating the globe on Christmas Eve.
From the shadows of the doorway, I cleared my throat.
Every Elf in the hangar froze.
“Tell me what exactly…,” I called out as I stepped inside.
