The acrid stench of smoke burned my lungs as I trudged slowly through the snow.
It swirled in thick, choking clouds, obscuring the streets of Santa’s Village.
It broke my heart to see the once picturesque, beautifully painted Elven buildings now smouldering — many reduced to little more than blackened shadows of their former selves.
I had become separated from the Elves with whom I had fought side by side, as the great horn had sounded our retreat.
Unseen by the Dokkalfar, we had fled — sliding down ice chutes and darting into hidden tunnels beneath the surface, vanishing into the night as we ran for our lives.
I struggled to focus, urging my legs forward one heavy step at a time.
The Sword of Ages, which had served me so well in battle, now nothing more than a makeshift crutch.
Flaming missiles had rained down upon the western walls — some striking the outer ice barrier, others crashing deep into the village itself.
The night sky had burned like a storm of falling stars.
With every corner I turned, my eyes stung as I peered through the smoke.
Would the baker, from whom I fetched my daily bread, still be standing?
Would the small café, where I would often pause for a warm drink, still remain?
An eerie silence had fallen over our North Pole home.
Only the crunch of hurried footsteps broke the stillness, as the able-bodied rushed past carrying the injured.
The healers… there were too few.
Far too few.
Elves wandered the shattered streets like pale ghosts of their former selves.
Their bright clothing, once full of colour and joy, now hung in tatters.
The siege had come swiftly… and without mercy.
We had repelled the attack.
But it had come at a cost.
For now, Santa’s Village still stood.
And more importantly…
We still held the source of the Northern Lights.
The story continues within the pages of the book…
