Page 17 of Kraved By Krampus

“I know exactly what you need.” Hank turns to his equipment without taking my order.

I watch, mesmerized, as he crafts something in a cup that changes color with each stir. Steam rises in patterns that look suspiciously like words before dissipating.

The drink he sets before me glows softly, the color of sunset through icicles. I glance at Krampus questioningly, but he just nods once.

One sip and warmth floods through me, carrying memories of writing late at night, of stories flowing freely without fear of judgment.

This tastes like pure inspiration, like every creative spark I’ve ever chased at 3 AM, like the rush when words flow faster than I can write them down. Each sip unleashes another burst of possibility, reminding me of nights spent crafting stories at my desk, ink-stained fingers flying across the page.

“The library next?” Krampus’s question pulls me from my reverie.

“This is...” I cradle the now-empty cup, searching for words that could capture what I just experienced. “Thank you, Hank. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.”

The giant of a man’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes my cup. “The café has a way of giving people what they need most.”

I lean forward, unable to resist my curiosity. “How long has this place been here? I write about small towns, but I’ve never heard of Winterhaven before.”

“Time moves differently here.” Hank’s fingers drum against the glacier-ice counter. “The Frost & Flame has stood since thefirst winter winds blew through these mountains. Though the building itself...” He gestures to the converted firehouse. “That’s a more recent addition.”

Recent could mean last week or last century, the way he says it.

“I’d love to hear more stories about this place.” My fingers itch for my notebook, for a chance to capture the strange magic of this café. “Would it be alright if I came back?”

“You’ll always find a warm welcome here, Miss Goodheart.” Hank’s gaze flicks briefly to Krampus, and something unspoken passes between them.

The weight of Krampus’s presence reminds me we have somewhere else to be. I turn to him, noting how the firelight plays across his features, softening the sharp angles. “I’m ready for the library now, if you are.”

My heart stutters at the way his eyes warm at my words. For a moment, I forget he’s not human, forget everything except how natural it feels to be here with him.

The library occupies what must have been an old Victorian mansion. As we enter, books flutter their pages like birds greeting old friends. An elegant woman with silver hair swept up into a perfect French twist looks up from her desk, her glasses catching the light oddly.

“Mrs. Redmond,” Krampus inclines his head.

She nods to him before studying me over her glasses, from which hangs a chain that moves like liquid silver. “Oh dear, you’ve dropped something.” She bends down and produces a leather-bound volume I definitely hadn’t been carrying.

“But I didn’t—”

“Best take a look, dear. Books have a way of finding those who need them most.”

The tome feels warm in my hands. Its title reads “Winter’s Children: A True Account of Seasonal Magic.” As I flip it open,illustrations of familiar holiday figures dance across the pages – but not as I’ve known them. These are raw, real, powerful beings of magic and mystery.

My fingers trace a passage about winter-touched humans who can weave reality through their words. About how their magic often manifests through creativity first. About how their stories sometimes come true.

Like mine have been doing.

“Perhaps you’d like to browse our holiday collection?” Mrs. Redmond gestures to a section of shelves that I swear wasn’t there a moment ago. “You might find some familiar tales there.”

The spines reveal titles I’ve never heard of, yet the stories within feel like memories I’ve always known. Tales of winter spirits finding their human mates. Of magic awakening through love. Of power discovered in the heart of winter’s darkness.

My hands shake as I close the book about winter’s children. “These stories... they’re real, aren’t they?”

Krampus guides me to a secluded reading nook where a fire crackles in an ornate fireplace. The flames cast dancing shadows across his features as he settles into an oversized leather armchair.

The book about winter’s children rests heavy in my lap while he begins speaking, his deep voice softening with memory.

“The first winter festivals weren’t about punishment.” His fingers trace patterns in the air, and tiny ice crystals form, dancing in the shape of ancient celebrations. “They were about survival, community, hope in the darkest times.”

The ice-crystal people twirl in a dance that feels achingly familiar.I wrote a scene just like this last month, down to the exact movements.

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