Page 12 of Kraved By Krampus

He raises his hands, speaking words that make reality itself shudder. Chains of shadow and ice materialize, wrapping around the corrupted creature. It thrashes and howls, but each movement only tightens its bonds.

The creature’s form begins to dissolve, eaten away by pure magic until nothing remains but scattered ashes and melting snow.

Krampus sways, one hand pressed to his wound. “The child...”

“I’ve got him.” But my legs shake as I try to stand. The magical backlash hits me all at once, making the world spin.

He catches us both before we can fall, and despite his injury, his arms are steady and sure.

The journey back to Magnus tests even Krampus’s ancient strength. I watch him struggle with each step through the deepening snow, the wound across his chest bleeding through his torn shirt. My hand keeps finding its way to his arm, needing that physical connection to know this is real—that we both made it. The boy sleeps peacefully in Krampus’s massive arms, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Magnus’s door swings open before we reach the porch. Blessed warmth wraps around us, and I notice the stairs to the second floor shifting, becoming less steep as we climb.

“This way,” Krampus says, leading me to a guest room that seems to have prepared itself—bed turned down, extra blankets piled nearby, even a glass of water on the nightstand.

My hands shake as I tuck the boy in, but I focus on each movement—adjusting his pillow, pulling the covers up to his chin, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“He’ll be fine after some rest. Young magic often exhausts itself this way,” Krampus tells me.

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from the child’s face. “I’ve seen him before. In my writing.”

The realization hits me like a physical blow. All those scenes, all those characters I thought I’d created...

“We should tend to your wounds.” I turn toward Krampus, and my breath catches in my throat. Through his torn shirt, I can see not just the fresh wounds, but intricate patterns etched into his skin beneath them. My knees go weak.

“These marks...” My fingers hover over the designs, exact replicas of what I’d drawn in my manuscript. “I drew these. In my manuscript. But how...” When I trace one of the ancient runes, magic crackles between us like static electricity.

Krampus catches my hand before I can snatch it back. “Your stories were never just stories, little mate. The magic has always been there, waiting.”

“That’s impossible. I’m just... ordinary.” The word tastes like a lie, even as I say it.

He laughs, a deep rumble that makes my skin tingle despite the gravity of the moment. “You faced down a shadow beast to protect a child. You’ve been writing a world into existence without even knowing it. There’s nothing ordinary about you.”

I step back, but my eyes keep returning to those marks—the ones I somehow knew to draw with perfect detail despite never having seen them. Everything I thought I knew about myself starts to unravel.

“The events that seemed so close to what I had written.” I press my hands to my temples as memories flood back. “I thought I was just tired. Or imagining things.”

“You’ve been attracting magic through your writing. It’s why I was drawn to you. Why the manuscript called to me.”

Magnus creaks in agreement, and suddenly a fresh bandage floats in from the bathroom, followed by a bowl of steaming water.

I stare at them hovering in midair, wondering how many other “coincidences” in my life weren’t coincidences at all.

Chapter nine

Krampus

The fire crackles as we settle before it, Magnus helpfully pushing my favorite chair closer. Clara kneels beside me, medical supplies spread across the coffee table that’s inched itself within her reach.

“Take off your shirt.” Her clinical tone doesn’t match the blush spreading across her cheeks.

I comply, wincing as the fabric pulls away from the wounds. Her sharp intake of breath echoes in the quiet room.

“These need cleaning.” She dips a cloth in warm water, her hands steady despite her racing pulse. “I always wondered, you know. About the stories.”

Here it comes.My muscles tense, preparing for the judgment I’ve faced for centuries.

“They say you beat naughty children with birch branches.” Her voice remains carefully neutral as she begins cleaning the wounds. “That you drag them to hell. Some versions even claim you eat them.”

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