Page 16 of Kraved By Krampus

Drink while warm. Hope you rested well.

The care in such a simple gesture makes my chest tight. I cradle the warm ceramic between my palms, inhaling deeply. The spiced chocolate smells divine, but different from last night - deeper somehow, with hints of something ancient and wild.

“Magnus, are you lurking about?”

The door creaks open an inch in response.

“Did you see him make this?”

The door swings back and forth in what I take to be as a nod.

I take a careful sip and close my eyes as warmth spreads through me, chasing away the lingering sleepiness. It tastes like winter nights and secret stories, like magic made liquid.

My author brain kicks in, and I grab my notebook from beside the bed. The words flow faster than I can write them, describing the taste of magic and the way frost patterns dance across window panes. My pen scratches across the page, leaving trails of ink that seem to shimmer in the morning light.

Stop romanticizing him, I scold myself.He’s still keeping you here against your will.But the words feel hollow now, especially after seeing him with that child, after watching him put himself between us and danger without hesitation.

I close the notebook quickly, focusing instead on finishing the perfectly heated drink, before I get ready to leave. Every sip seems to clear my mind while simultaneously making the world feel more... magical?

You’re just tired, I tell myself.And possibly developing Stockholm Syndrome.

But deep down, I know something is changing—in me, in him, in the very air around us.

The world shifts and blurs around us as Krampus pulls me close. My stomach lurches, like missing a step on the stairs, then everything snaps back into focus. We’re standing at the entrance of what looks like a village plucked straight from a snow globe.

“Welcome to Winterhaven.” Krampus’s voice rumbles against my ear. “Where magic still thrives.”

I blink, trying to process what I’m seeing. Cobblestone streets wind between Tudor-style buildings with snow-laden roofs. Warm light spills from frosted windows, and wreaths made of evergreen branches and magical floating orbs adorn every door. The air sparkles with what looks like diamond dust, but when I reach out to touch it, it tingles against my skin.

“This isn’t possible.” I spin in a slow circle, taking in the sights. “We were just at the cabin. How...?”

“Magic, little mate.” His hand rests at the small of my back, steadying me. “The village is protected by ancient wards. You couldn’t have found it on your own.”

A group of children races past us, their laughter echoing off the buildings. My writer’s mind struggles to catalog every detail—the bookshop with actual floating books in the display window, the candy store where sweets dance and change colors, the café where teapots pour themselves.

We pass a marketplace where vendors sell everything from enchanted trinkets to potions in bottles that glow like the northern lights. An elderly woman with silver hair is bargaining with a merchant whose shadow moves independently from his body. She catches my eye and winks, her iris shifting color like an opal.

“They’re all magical?” My voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“Most.” Krampus guides me past a fountain where the water flows upward instead of down. “Some are creatures of myth, others are humans born with gifts. Like you.”

I start to protest, but then I notice my reflection in the fountain’s impossible water. For a moment, just a moment, I swear I see something shimmer around me, like heat waves rising from hot pavement.

A bell chimes somewhere in the distance, and suddenly the street fills with more children, their school day apparently ended. They wave at Krampus as they pass, completely unafraid of his imposing presence. One little girl even runs up to hug his leg before scampering off.

“But I thought... I mean, the stories say...” I struggle to reconcile the gentle way he interacts with the children against everything I’ve heard about Krampus.

“Perhaps it’s time you learned the truth about those stories.” He turns me to face him, his red eyes soft with an emotion I’m not ready to name.

Krampus leads me into a converted firehouse with steamed windows and a weathervane that seems to spin without wind. The sign above reads “Frost & Flame Café” in elegant, frost-like script.

Warmth envelops me as we step inside. The scent of coffee, spices, and something otherworldly fills my nose. Behind a counter that gleams like ice stands a giant of a man with a frost-tipped beard and a hand-knit sweater.

“Welcome.” His voice carries the weight of mountains and the gentleness of falling snow. “I’m Henrik, but everyone calls me Hank.”

My eyes dart to the fireplace where flames dance in impossible colors—blue, purple, and even silver. The tables seem to shift and adjust as patrons move around them.

“Noelle Goodheart.” I extend my hand, noticing how his fingers radiate a comforting warmth despite their weathered appearance. I see Krampus glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn’t say anything.

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