Santa’s Village – June 1903

In the long, sun-drenched days of June 1903—sun-drenched by North Pole standards, at least—a new sound echoed through the frosted trees at the edge of Santa’s Village. It was not the cheerful ring of sleigh bells or the high, whistling whoosh of red-dust flight, but something slower, deeper. The sound of change, if anyone had stopped to listen close enough.

Metal-bound wooden wheels crunched over packed snow, grinding softly in rhythmic protest. Snow-white goats, broad-chested and thick with winter coat despite the season, strained at their harnesses. Atop the ridge came a cart, solid and squat, built to last the mountain passes. It gleamed in patches of sunlight, the iron hardware on its frame already beginning to frost.

Three Dwarves walked alongside it—short, stocky, and purposeful, their bootsteps leaving small, deliberate prints in the snow. Their cloaks were ash-gray, trimmed in charcoal fur. Each wore a belt heavy with tools, and their braided beards were wound tightly to guard against the wind. These were not traders, nor explorers. They were smiths, and they had come bearing gifts.

Behind them: a wagonload of gleaming ore, stacked in raw glory—iron, copper, and veins of silver caught in dark stone. Each chunk had been mined, hauled, sorted, and selected for purpose. And this delivery had a purpose. A great one.

The request had been made months earlier by Santa Chris Kringle himself—no longer the wide-eyed apprentice he once was, but a master of his craft with nearly a century of Christmas Eves behind him. Long ago, he had trained under the quiet, watchful eye of Neik Klass, the first Santa of the Village. Though Neik had retired decades ago and now lived quietly in a hill cottage near Lone Pine, his influence lingered in every tradition.

But where Neik held fast to ancient customs, Chris had always been drawn toward innovation. He dreamed not only of magic, but of motion—of toys with gears and ticking hearts, of holiday wonders that could wind and whir and blink to life.

For such marvels, wood and nails would no longer suffice.

So, under a glimmering spring moon, Chris had written a letter—scratched carefully in Dwarven runes using a stylus of silverwood and purpose. He sealed it with red wax and entrusted it to a Messenger Elf, swift enough to cross the Grey Mountains and return before the week’s end.

There had been no reply. Not by bird, not by scroll.

But the Dwarves had come.

No one in the Village had heard of Bromli Ironpost in many years. An elder smith of Dwarfheim, Bromli was rumored to have once forged the keystone of the Great Mountain Gate itself. His family’s forges had glowed in the deep for generations, burning bright even beneath Mt. Kloor’s grumbling shadow. He did not smile when Chris met him outside the Toyshop gates—but he gave a curt nod. And among Dwarves, a nod like that meant everything.

Elves began to gather, some leaning from workshop windows, others slipping out of cottages to stand in the street. No one spoke. No one dared. The arrival of the ore-wagon was like the first snowfall of winter—quiet, transformative, and unmistakably significant.

Chris stepped forward and gestured to the cleared space near the forge room. The Dwarves turned the cart with a practiced efficiency. Snow churned beneath the wheels as they maneuvered the load into place.

When the canvas tarp was pulled back, a collective gasp rippled through the elves. The wagon held not just ore, but pre-forged ingots—dark, dense bars ready for the smithy. There were also polished billets, bronze gears, and a brand-new anvil. Its horn gleamed faintly, and its face was still warm from the mountain fire. A block of obsidian, etched with ancient runes, sat to one side. No one asked what it was for, but everyone knew it would serve a purpose.