The Yellow Fairy Dust Saga
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5
The Vanishing Teacup Where Dust Takes Us Crossing Worlds The Eve Begins Scaling Up
The Vanishing Teacup
Santa's Village - March 1820
In the quiet of a snowbound laboratory beneath the Great Fir Tree, Santa Chris Kringle paced in front of a glowing hearth. A worn leather journal dangled from one hand, the other clutched a small, corked jar. Inside the jar shimmered a dust the color of dandelions in full sun—warm, golden, and impossibly light. Yellow Fairy Dust, freshly extracted from a collapsed fairy trail in the hills beyond Snowball Village.
Outside, the wind howled softly across the rooftops of Santa’s Village. Icicles clinked like wind chimes on the rafters. Inside, the lab was warm and dimly lit, its worktables strewn with gears, feathers, candle stubs, and every imaginable kind of spoon.
Chris had been testing this new dust for weeks.
He had already documented the properties of Red Fairy Dust, which allowed flight—one of the most world-changing discoveries in recent memory. But Yellow? Yellow was a puzzle. It was elusive. Unruly. Unpredictable.
Objects sprinkled with it sometimes flickered. Sometimes glowed. Once, rather alarmingly, an entire inkpot had vanished with a soft pop, leaving behind only a few droplets and a faint lemony scent.
“Every time I don’t know what I’m doing,” Chris muttered to himself, “it disappears.”
The hearth crackled in response, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. A dozen labeled boxes—“MARBLE: CONTROL,” “TEACUP: TESTED,” “BUTTON (WOOD): MAYBE”—lined the shelves behind him.
He set the journal down and peered once more into the jar. The particles swirled in slow spirals, almost as if responding to his thoughts.
A knock echoed from the arched entryway.
“Come in,” Chris called.
Fenrick Redgleam stepped through the doorway, brushing snow from his broad shoulders. The Reindeer Corps captain wore his usual stern expression, trimmed with a practical beard and a belt full of keys. He was also the steward of the Red Fairy Dust reserves—an unyielding job made even more complicated by Santa’s curiosity.
“I hear Rudy’s chasing a crate of missing fruitcake around the supply shed,” Fenrick said, eyeing the lab suspiciously. “Anything you want to tell me?”
Chris grinned, just a little. “Purely for science.”
Fenrick crossed the room and glanced at the nearest table. “We ration fairy dust for a reason.”
“I know,” Chris replied, holding up both hands innocently. “But I think I’m onto something. I wasn’t trying to move that crate, exactly. I just… didn’t want it here. And poof. It wasn’t.”
“So you did want it gone.”
“Exactly.” Chris stepped over to the workbench and picked up a plain wooden block about the size of a sugar cube. He held it up for Fenrick to see, then sprinkled a faint pinch of yellow dust over it.
The particles settled softly onto the block, disappearing into the grain like sunlight into thirsty soil.
“Now,” Chris said, closing his eyes and speaking slowly, “I’m going to imagine it on the shelf in the observatory. Top left corner. Next to the star maps.”
A moment passed. Nothing happened.
Then—ping—the block shimmered once and vanished.
Fenrick blinked. “Where’d it go?”
“To the observatory,” Chris said. “Come on.”
They hurried through the hall, past the spiral stairs and the Great Fir’s base, finally pushing open the door to the tower observatory. Cold air poured in. The star maps fluttered slightly in their cubby.
And there, precisely where Chris had visualized, sat the wooden block.
Fenrick let out a slow whistle. “So… it moves things. Just by thinking?”
Chris nodded, wonder widening his eyes. “Teleportation. But it’s intent-driven. No incantation. No gesture. No rune. Just pure focus and placement in the mind.”
Fenrick squinted. “What if you’re thinking of a waterfall? Or a person?”
“I don’t know,” Chris admitted. “I only tested small items so far. But the dust doesn’t obey—it seems to interpret. You don’t get scatter or misfires unless your thoughts are muddled. It responds to clarity.”
“Dangerous,” Fenrick muttered.
“Revolutionary,” Chris countered.
Back in the lab, Chris began flipping through his journal, scribbling notes feverishly.
Observation: Teleportation can be localized.
Theory: Thought + Dust = Displacement.
Limitation: Requires high precision. Risk of vanishing increases with vague intent.
“I need something repeatable,” he muttered, digging through the test box labeled “TEACUP (WOOD).”
He retrieved a carved teacup—ornate, round, and carefully weighted for trials. Setting it on the central workbench, he dusted it lightly with Yellow Fairy Dust, then closed his eyes.
He envisioned the crate labeled "Experimental Ceramics" beneath the Harmonica Club’s back stairs.
The teacup vanished with a shimmer.
Moments later, Rudy Winters, the lead reindeer wrangler, poked his head into the lab. “Chris?” he called. “Any reason there’s a wooden teacup inside the tuba locker?”
Chris looked up, startled. “Tuba locker?”
“I think it tried to go to the crates outside,” Rudy said, holding up the cup. “But those crates were moved this morning. You really need to label these better.”
Chris groaned. “Of course. I was using yesterday’s layout.”
Fenrick smirked. “Told you. Dangerous.”
Chris took the cup and carefully added a note to his log:
Spatial coordinates must reflect current conditions. Memory alone insufficient.
He glanced back at the small, flickering jar of yellow dust.
“This isn’t just moving objects,” he said. “It’s movement without distance. Without travel. It’s not flying—it’s arriving.”
Fenrick nodded. “I’ll inform Rudy the sleigh team’s grounded until we know more. No mix-ups mid-air.”
Chris, already sketching possible containment shells for portable anchors, didn’t respond.
“This changes everything,” he murmured, eyes shining.