It was late in Frostfall, and snow fell in soft waves outside Santa’s cottage window. Inside, all was quiet but for the hiss of steam rising from his mug of spruce tea and the distant ticking of the wall clock near the hearth.

A knock sounded—not at the grand carved entry, but at the narrow pantry door seldom used by anyone but elves. Santa rose, unlatched the door, and stepped aside as Skit entered, brushing frost from his boots.

Skit was a wiry Shoe Elf, all sharp eyes and sharper elbows, with soot on his sleeves and a scent that mingled pipe tobacco and peppermint. He rarely left his tinkering bench in Cobblerton, so arriving in person—and uninvited—meant something odd had occurred.

“I found something,” he said without ceremony. From the folds of his coat he drew a small leather pouch. “Near the Reindeer Fields. Just past the grove with the humming mushrooms.”

Santa took the pouch, loosened the drawstring, and peeked inside.

A fine powder—deep red like crushed cranberries glinting in sunlight—shimmered softly even in the dim kitchen light.

“It sparkled in the air before I scooped it up,” Skit added. “Didn’t seem dangerous. Just… strange.”

Santa pinched a bit between his fingers. It felt lighter than flour, but tingled faintly, like frost with a heartbeat.

“Strange things,” Santa murmured, “tend to become important.”

🛷 Into the Woods

The next morning, bundled in his travel cloak and carrying his satchel, Santa set out. Skit’s map was scrawled on the back of a biscuit wrapper—barely legible, with landmarks like “weird stump” and “sings if it’s sunny.”

Even so, Santa found the trail.

Past the cobbled alleys of Cobblerton, beyond the whispering birches and frozen brooks, he came to a hollow laced in morning mist. The frost moss was thick here, undisturbed and quiet.

And yet—there it was.

A faint red shimmer, as if some firefly had spilled its glow across the ground. Motes hovered above the moss like memory-embers, slowly drifting toward the earth.

Santa crouched. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “But what are you?”

“Looking for more, are you?” said a voice—not from in front or behind, but around, like an echo made curious.

Santa turned. A tiny figure hovered nearby, no more than four inches tall. His wings were clear and veined like beetle glass, fluttering slowly as he floated with the ease of thought. His tunic was made of stitched birch leaves, and his boots looked bark-wrapped. The tips of his silver hair shimmered in the air like wind-borne thread.

“I’m Forlot,” the little being said, bowing mid-air. “And what you see here is my trail.”