Page 18 of Kraved By Krampus

“Children would gather to share stories and songs.” His expression gentles, transforming his fearsome features. “The magic flowed freely then, before the modern world buried it under electric lights and plastic decorations.”

“What about the switches? The chains?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

A shadow crosses his face. “Tools for protection, not punishment. The switches were rowan wood, meant to ward off dark spirits that prey on children. The chains...” His hands fall still, the ice dancers dissolving. “They bind my power so I don’t frighten those I’m meant to protect.”

Just like the silver chains in chapter twelve of my work-in-progress.My heart pounds as I flip through my mental catalogue of recent stories. The mysterious protector in my holiday romance series. The ancient being learning to trust again.

“The stories we tell shape reality,” Mrs. Redmond’s voice drifts over from somewhere among the stacks. “And sometimes reality shapes our stories.”

I pull my notebook out of my bag with trembling fingers. “The stories I write...” My fingers trace the embossed cover of the book in my lap. “Sometimes they come true. Three nights ago, I wrote about a winter spirit who could craft ice into living art. The next morning, frost patterns on my window formed exact replicas of my characters.”

I hesitate before continuing, “A scene about a hidden town protected by magic, where a café serves impossible drinks.” My voice catches. “A story about a library where books find their readers instead of the other way around.” I pause. “Not justsmall things anymore. Last month, I wrote about a lost child found by a winter spirit. And then in the woods...”

“You found exactly that scenario.” Krampus leans forward, his eyes intent on my face. “What else have you written?”

“It’s been happening more often. Characters I create appear in the news weeks later. Places I imagine spring up in towns I’ve never visited.” My heart pounds. “I thought I was just good at predicting trends, or subconsciously picking up on patterns. But this...” I gesture to the library around us, to him. “This is real magic, isn’t it?”

The pages of my notebook flutter without any breeze. Words I wrote weeks ago glow softly:His touch brought winter’s bite and summer’s warmth, a contradiction that made perfect sense in the moment their magic merged.

Just like when we kissed in the cabin.

“How long have your stories been coming true?” Krampus asks softly.

“I thought I was just being observant. Finding inspiration in everyday things.” I close the notebook, but I can still see those glowing words behind my eyelids. “But I wrote these scenes before they happened. Before I ever met you.”

He leans forward, shadows shifting across his face. “What else have you written recently?”

“A story about a woman who discovers she’s not who she thought she was. About hidden magic awakening through...” I stop, heat flooding my cheeks as I realize what I’m describing.

Through love. Through a connection with a being of winter.

“Through what?” His voice deepens, and my body trembles with a sensation entirely separate from winter’s chill.

“I can’t remember exactly.” The lie feels clumsy on my tongue. “But if what I write really does affect reality, isn’t that dangerous?”

“Only if you fear your own power.” His eyes hold mine. “Tell me, little mate, what ending did you write for that story?”

“I haven’t finished it yet.” I clutch the notebook tighter. “I was stuck on how to make it believable.”

A deep chuckle resonates through the room. “Perhaps reality will help with that.”

Chapter eleven

Clara

Back at the cabin, I wander the halls, my notebook clutched to my chest. The revelations from Winterhaven swirl in my mind like snowflakes caught in a winter gust. A door creaks open to my left—one I swear wasn’t there before.

Warm light spills from inside, revealing a library with a cozy alcove with a curved window seat overlooking the snowy forest. Plush cushions in deep burgundy invite me to sink into them. A small writing desk, complete with an antique brass lamp, stands ready with fresh paper and—is that my favorite fountain pen?

Magnus wants me to write.The thought comes naturally now, as if conversing with a sentient house is perfectly normal. The room responds with a gentle warmth, like a cat purring its approval.

I settle into the window seat, spreading my materials around me. The blank page beckons, and my pen hovers over it. Usually, I write sweet holiday romances full of cocoa and mistletoe kisses. But tonight...

What if I wrote something different? Something darker?

My pen touches paper, and the words flow like mulled wine, rich and intoxicating.

His touch blazed across her skin like frost-fire, dangerous and addictive. She knew she should pull away, but the darkness in his eyes promised pleasures worth burning for.

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