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… know her name now. Liora Vale," he said, voice quiet, as if saying it aloud made it more real. "She… works in the market. Chestnut hair, green eyes, freckles… she seems confident, smart… and kind."
"Well, Roger Blanche… you never told me you had a girl in town noticing you, huh?" His mother's 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.
Roger walked up to The Frosted Hearth, his coat tucked under his arm, gloves in his pocket, wearing just a simple wool sweater and trousers. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open. The warm smell of baked bread and spiced cider greeted him, and he spotted her almost immediately.
She was sitting at a small table near the window, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow around her. She looked up, smiled, and waved.
"Hey," she said, her voice soft but steady.
"Hey," Roger replied, walking over. They both stood for a moment, a little awkward, then she leaned forward, and he gave her a quick, friendly hug.
"You didn't have to wait long, did you?" he asked, sliding into the chair across from her.
"No, not really," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I thought… well, I thought you might need a little break. After everything."
Roger nodded, grateful. "Yeah… I guess I did." He smiled faintly. "Thanks for thinking of me."
The server brought over warm plates of stew and bread. They dug in, the conversation light at first—small talk about the village, the weather, the workshop—but gradually it settled into something calmer, more comfortable.
"So… how are you holding up?" she asked after a moment, eyes watching him carefully. "After the… you know."
Roger swallowed a bite, thought for a second, then shrugged. "I'm… managing. It was rough seeing everyone get hurt. But I've got to keep moving, help where I can."
She nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. "I can tell you care a lot. You've got that… look. Like you take responsibility seriously."
He laughed quietly. "Guess it runs in the family."
The sun dipped lower, spilling orange and pink across the frost-covered village outside the window. Inside, the Hearth glowed warm and safe, and for the first time that day, Roger felt like he could breathe.
They kept talking, about little things, sharing laughs over small mistakes in the village market, or the funny way one of the construction elves tripped over a stack of wood. It was simple, normal, and for Roger, that was exactly what he needed.
When the plates were empty, she smiled at him. "I'm glad you came," she said quietly.
"Me too," Roger replied, feeling a warmth in his chest he hadn't expected. Not from the stew, not from the fireplace—something else entirely.
As they left The Frosted Hearth, Roger adjusted his coat and looked down at the cobblestone street, feeling the cold nip at his cheeks.
"Thanks… again," he said quietly, glancing at her.
She smiled, her eyes soft in the fading light. Before he could respond, she leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
Roger froze for a moment, heat rushing to his face. He forced himself not to smirk, but a small, uncontainable grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"See you around," she said, her voice light, playful, and then she turned and walked away.
Roger watched her go for a few steps, then shook his head slightly, still smiling to himself. He started walking home, the colors of the sunset spilling across the village—gold, pink, and lavender blending into the snow-covered streets.
For once, in the midst of chaos and responsibility, life felt quiet. Peaceful.
And as he trudged along, the cold air filling his lungs, he allowed himself a rare thought: maybe things were going to be okay.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows behind him. Roger kept walking, carrying the warmth of the moment with him, the memory of her smile and the gentle brush of her lips lingering on his cheek. For the first time in a long while, the North Pole felt alive, not just with work or worry, but with the simple, fragile beauty of life moving slowly—and beautifully—forward.
And with that, he let the day end, savoring the quiet, the glow of the sunset, and the faint flutter in his chest that made even the cold feel like home.