Page 42 of Kraved By Krampus

Mrs. Redmond’s laugh echoes through the stacks. “Oh, my dear. Elizabeth was many things, but ‘regular’ was never one of them.”

The book in my hands suddenly feels heavier, more significant. I trace the unfamiliar symbols on its spine, watching as they shimmer under my touch.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Some truths require the right moment.” Mrs. Redmond’s buttons catch the light as she moves closer. “And some powers need time to wake naturally.”

The symbols on the spine start to shift and swirl, forming words I can somehow read.A Winter’s Promise. My mother’s elegant handwriting fills the pages, detailing her own awakening to magic.

“She made a deal?” The words catch in my throat as I scan the entries. “With Saint Nicholas?”

Mrs. Redmond adjusts her glasses. “To protect you until you were ready. Nicholas helped suppress your magic until you could handle it safely.”

That explains the constant Christmas “inspiration.”I close the journal, my fingers trembling. “Did she know about Krampus?”

“Your paths crossing wasn’t part of the arrangement.” A book flies off the shelf, and Mrs. Redmond catches it without looking. “But magic has its own ways.”

My head spins with revelations. The strange accidents growing up, the way stories seemed to write themselves, how children always gravitated toward me—it all makes sense now.

“You should visit the town square.” Mrs. Redmond tucks the new book into my hands. “The Academy children are practicing their lessons today.”

“But I should study more—“

“Some things can’t be learned from books.” She guides me toward the door. “Watch them. You might recognize something familiar.” She pats my arm warmly. “And when you’re done, be sure to come back and find me. I have a place you can stay upstairs.”

The town square buzzes with activity when I arrive. Children chase each other through the snow, their laughter echoing off the old buildings. A small group huddles near the fountain, heads bent together in concentration.

Suddenly, snowflakes spiral up from the ground, dancing in impossible patterns. I’ve seen this before, on our walk with Krampus. But he isn’t here now.

A little girl with pigtails squeals as her snowball hovers mid-air. Another boy’s eyes glow silver as he shapes the snow into tiny animals.

They’re doing this themselves. They’re like me.

“Miss Noelle!” The small girl with a silver streak in her hair waves, her snowball dissolving. “Watch what I can do!”

She scrunches her face in concentration, and frost spreads across the fountain in delicate spirals—just like the patterns that I imagined appeared in my tea when I’m deep in writing.

Oh.

The little boy next to her laughs. “Stop showing off, Sarah!”

My heart pounds as I watch the children playing. Everything clicks into place—their skilled control, Krampus carefully observing them, his vague mentions of their lessons.

“Can you teach us tricks?” Another child tugs at my sleeve. His purple eyes shine with barely contained power, snowflakes swirling around his mittened hands.

“I...” The words stick in my throat.I’m just learning this myself.

A crash draws my attention. Two boys wrestle near the fountain, their emotions making the ice crack and reform around them. Before I can move, Sarah steps between them.

“Stop it! Remember what Mr. Krampus said about control?”

The boys separate, shame-faced. The ice settles, smooth once more.

They’re not just magical, they’re learning. And Krampus is teaching them.

A small hand slips into mine and Sarah looks up at me, her eyes wise beyond her years. “You feel different today, Miss Noelle. Like us.”

“I think I am.” The admission feels both terrifying and freeing.

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