The journey to the center of Evela was grueling.
The fields gave way to icy plains, and the winds grew harsher, carrying the scent of ancient snow and unseen magic. Even the hardy Elves pulled their cloaks tighter, their breath rising like smoke in the freezing air.

At last, on the fifth day, they crested a low ridge and saw it: a broad, flat basin, ringed by low hills dusted in frost — the very center of the island — the legendary North Pole of Evela.

The land was empty, untouched, and fiercely cold.
But Santa’s heart swelled at the sight.

"This," he said, stomping his boots into the crunchy snow, "feels right."

They set about building at once.  Lira organized the construction of sturdy shelters, weaving evergreen branches and packing snow to seal the walls.  Fenril hunted, bringing back hares and wild fowl.  Mera found herbs hidden under the snow, brewing hot teas to stave off the chill. Bernard — ever practical — kept the fires blazing and set up a carving bench from a fallen log.

Santa worked with a tireless joy, his breath steaming in great puffs, his hands never idle.
Where others saw cold and hardship, he saw potential.

They transformed a hollow between two hills into a rough workshop, using planks and stones carried from nearby woods. Inside, the air soon buzzed with life.  Lira fashioned simple wooden toys, such as spinning tops, carved horses, and tiny flutes.  Bernard crafted warm mittens and scarves from spun wool and leftover cloth.  Fenril forged iron tools, hatchets, knives, and nails.  Santa himself carved intricate toys and figures, each one unique, polished smooth and painted with berry dyes.

They worked by firelight late into the long nights, laughing and singing to keep their spirits warm.

The first snowstorm of the season howled against the workshop walls — but inside, the world was full of light.

As the days passed, something strange and wonderful began to happen.

The workshop grew warmer, even though the fire was no larger.
The snow around the camp glittered faintly, even at night, as if the land itself was beginning to respond to the joy, the creativity, the spirit being planted there.

Mera, the healer, said it best:  "You are not just building a village," she whispered to Santa one evening. "You are awakening the heart of Evela itself."

When at last they rested, they had created several dozen gifts — not trinkets, but items of true need and beauty, perfect for the people of Dromstead:

Thick woolen scarves and hats, stitched with colorful designs.

Carved toys for the children: flocks of wooden sheep, little boats, dolls with painted faces.

Small tools for the farmers and fishermen: hammers, awls, fishing lures.

Bundles of dried herbs and healing salves to fight the winter illnesses.

Bundles of firewood, tied with braided cords of ivy.

Each gift was wrapped with simple, rustic care: cloth bundles tied with twine, and small, fragrant sprigs of evergreen tucked inside.

And most importantly, each gift carried no name, no request for payment — only a small carved symbol:
🌟 The Star of Giving — a mark Santa had designed himself, a simple five-pointed star enclosed in a circle.

One evening, as the aurora danced across the night sky, Santa gathered his companions.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice firm and joyful, "we travel south."

"We will leave these gifts quietly at the edge of Dromstead. No boasts. No explanations. Only wonder."

Bernard chuckled. "You really think a bundle of mittens and toys will melt those frozen hearts?"

Santa’s eyes twinkled. "Maybe not all at once. But it is a beginning."

Around him, the Elves smiled — even Calindor, the sternest among them.

The Christmas Spirit had taken root.
And soon, it would bloom.