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 song of sleigh bells or the whoosh of red-dust flight, but the slow, steady clatter of metal-bound wooden wheels grinding over packed snow.

At the crest of the ridge came a cart drawn by four thick, snow-white goats. At its reins were three Dwarves, squat and stern-faced, beards braided against the wind. Behind them: a wagonload of gleaming ore, stacked in dark glints of iron, copper, and silver-veined stone.

The request had been made months earlier by Chris Kringle—still learning under the quiet eye of Neik Klass, but already seeing the Village not only as a home of magic, but as a hub of innovation. While Neik was ever fond of tradition, Chris sensed the need for advancement. Toys with clockwork hearts and whirling gears were on the horizon. And for that, the wooden tools and iron scraps of old wouldn’t do.

So, under a glimmering spring moon, Chris had written a letter—scratched carefully in Dwarven runes and entrusted to a Messenger Elf swift and sure enough to cross the Grey Mountains and return.

The Dwarves did not send word back. That was not their way.

But they came.

Leading the group was Bromli Ironpost, one of the elder smiths of Dwarfheim, whose family’s forges had once melted stone in the shadow of Mt. Kloor. He had not smiled when Chris greeted him—but he nodded, and that was plenty.

As the wagon creaked to a halt outside the Toyshop, the elves gathered in silence, awestruck. Chris stepped forward to meet them, Neik Klass at his side. Neik spoke only once: “You see the need, and they’ve answered. That is how the work begins.”

The Dwarves uncovered the load: rich ores ready for smelting, and a second stack of dark ingots, already forged in the deep fires. There was even a fresh anvil among the supplies, its face still warm from the mountain forge.

The Elves offered cider and seedcakes in thanks, and though the Dwarves spoke little, they accepted with quiet dignity. By dusk, the wagon was empty, the Village stores filled with raw potential.

Within weeks, the Toyshop's backroom was transformed. New tools were forged—chisels, clamps, and coiled springs. By year’s end, prototype toys with moving parts appeared on the shelves. Chris Kringle, still an apprentice, was already shaping the Village’s future.

The Dwarves returned to the mountains the next morning, leaving only the grooved tracks of their cart and a deepened connection between the forges of Dwarfheim and the snows of the North.

It would not be their last visit.