The North Pole had always been cloaked in darkness during its endless winter nights, but this year, something about the darkness felt alive. It pressed against the windows of Santa’s workshop like a malevolent force, hungry and waiting. Inside, the air was thick with tension.
Santa had grown irritable over the years. The weight of centuries, the demands of Christmas, and the ungrateful world had chipped away at his once jolly demeanour. The elves bore the brunt of his temper. The workload increased, breaks were forbidden, and punishments for mistakes were swift and merciless.
But tonight, the elves were different.
The Silent Assembly
Santa sat alone in the great dining hall, the long table before him piled high with roasted meats, warm pies, and steaming mugs of spiced cider. It was his tradition to feast before Christmas Eve’s journey, but this year, the hall was eerily silent. The elves, usually bustling and cheerful, had not come to serve him.
“Where are they?” Santa growled, his voice booming in the empty hall.
He stood, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor, and stormed toward the workshop. The corridors were empty, the air unnaturally still. He reached the grand doors to the toy factory and threw them open.
The elves were there, standing in perfect rows, their small bodies motionless and their faces shadowed by their pointed hats. None of them spoke. None of them moved.
“What is the meaning of this?” Santa demanded, his voice tinged with unease.
No one answered. Instead, they parted silently, revealing an enormous figure at the far end of the room. It was Mrs. Claus, her face pale and sunken, her hands clasped in front of her. She stepped forward, her eyes fixed on Santa.
“They’ve had enough, Nicholas,” she said, her voice cold.
The First Strike
Before Santa could respond, the lights above flickered. A sudden chill swept through the workshop, extinguishing the warmth of the furnace. He turned to the elves, but they were no longer standing still. They were advancing, slowly, their faces devoid of emotion, their black eyes glinting with something inhuman.
“What is this madness?” Santa roared, stepping back.
The elves moved as one, their tiny hands gripping makeshift weapons—shards of broken toys, jagged bits of candy canes sharpened into spikes. The lead elf, a once-cheerful helper named Snick, stepped forward, dragging a sack behind him. The sack squirmed.
“You’ve taken everything from us,” Snick hissed, his voice low and guttural. “Our joy, our freedom, our lives. Tonight, we take something back.”
With a flick of his wrist, Snick dumped the sack’s contents onto the floor. Santa recoiled in horror. It was a reindeer—Dasher—its lifeless eyes staring up at him, its body mangled.
The Hunt
Santa turned and ran, his boots slipping on the icy floor. The elves followed, their movements unnaturally fast, their weapons scraping against the walls. Santa’s heart thundered in his chest as he reached the armoury, a forgotten room filled with relics of past battles against the forces of darkness.
He grabbed a battle-axe, its blade glowing faintly with ancient magic. The workshop was alive now, the walls pulsing as if they were breathing. The sound of the elves’ footsteps grew louder, their twisted laughter echoing through the halls.
When the first elf appeared, Santa didn’t hesitate. He swung the axe, its blade cleaving through the air. The elf crumpled, its body dissolving into a puff of black smoke. But for every elf he struck down, more emerged from the shadows.
“Stop this!” Santa bellowed, his voice cracking. “I am your master!”
“You are nothing,” came Mrs. Claus’s voice from behind him. Santa spun around, but she wasn’t there. Her laughter, cold and mocking, filled the corridor.
The Throne Room
Bloodied and exhausted, Santa stumbled into the throne room at the heart of the workshop. The grand chair where he had ruled for centuries loomed before him, its red velvet now dark and tattered. Mrs. Claus was waiting, seated calmly on the throne. The elves filled the room, their black eyes glowing in the dim light.
“You should’ve listened, Nicholas,” she said, her tone almost pitying. “We gave you centuries of loyalty, and you repaid us with chains.”
Santa gripped his axe, his hands trembling. “This is treason.”
“No,” she replied, standing slowly. “This is justice.”
At her command, the elves surged forward. Santa fought with all his strength, the magical axe cutting through the swarm, but it wasn’t enough. The elves overwhelmed him, their small hands dragging him to the ground. They pinned him to the floor, their faces close to his, their breath cold and foul.
Mrs. Claus approached, her eyes shimmering with a dark light. She knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his chest.
“You’ve hoarded the magic of Christmas for yourself,” she said. “But tonight, we share it.”
The Transformation
Santa screamed as the elves began to chant, their voices merging into a single, haunting melody. The room darkened, the shadows closing in. He felt the magic draining from his body, the ancient power that had sustained him for centuries being ripped away.
When the chant ended, Santa was no longer the towering figure he had been. He was small now, hunched and frail, his beard patchy and grey. The elves released him, and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath.
Mrs. Claus stood over him, her expression unreadable. “You’re free now, Nicholas,” she said. “Free to see what you’ve created.”
The elves parted, revealing the throne. It was no longer empty. A figure sat there—a new Santa, taller and darker, his red suit shimmering with black frost. The figure smiled, its teeth sharp and glinting.
“You’ll work for me now,” the new Santa said, his voice a deep rumble. “Just like the rest of them.”
The Eternal Winter
The North Pole changed that night. The workshop became a factory of nightmares, churning out toys that no child would ever want. The skies above the Arctic swirled with dark clouds, and the stars seemed to dim.
Santa, now just another elf, toiled in silence alongside his former subjects. His body was weak, his hands calloused and trembling. He never spoke, for he knew no one would listen.
And every Christmas Eve, the new Santa took to the skies, spreading not joy, but fear. The world forgot the warmth of Christmas, replaced instead by a chill that never left—a chill that whispered of the Long Winter and the downfall of the man who once called himself Saint Nicholas.
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