Santa's First Succession
Evela - May 1800
When Neik Klass delivered the very first Christmas gifts in 1508, he forged a tradition rooted in wonder, generosity, and hope. For over three centuries, he led the Christmas Eve flights — through bitter storms, across war-torn lands, over mountains and seas.
But even with the magic of the North Pole nourishing him, Neik Klass knew: no one, not even Santa, could serve forever.
As the year 1800 approached, Neik began feeling the subtle whispers of age. His sleigh runs were just a little slower. His laughter, though hearty, carried a note of tiredness. His heart, still filled with love, ached not for himself — but for the need to protect the future of Christmas.
So Neik did what few mortals ever dared:
He asked the Spirit of Christmas itself for guidance.
Far to the south, on a different world, where the pine forests of old Europe blanketed the hills, there lived a young man named Christopher Kringle.
In a village mostly forgotten by maps but not by wonder, Christopher worked in a toymaker’s shop that smelled of cedar shavings and peppermint wax. His hands, though calloused, were gentle. His voice, though quiet, was kind.
Children adored him. He was the sort who gave away his mittens without a word and carved small wooden animals to leave anonymously on frost-kissed doorsteps during winter festivals.
On one such evening, as he worked late by candlelight, there came a knock at the door. The air shifted. The flame flickered. And there, silhouetted in the glow, stood an elf.
He wore a robe of crimson and forest green, and upon his brow sat a crown woven from holly and frost. The stirrings of a faint memory from his youth captured Christopher’s attention
“I am Fenric,” the elf said, “Herald of the Crimson Star. Christopher of the Giving Heart — you have been seen. You are summoned.”
Christopher’s journey north was unlike any he had known. Guided through ancient paths and hidden portals, he arrived in a place few humans ever tread: Santa’s Village, lit by starlight and the warmth of a thousand tiny hearths.
There, the elves prepared three trials — not tests of strength or intellect, but of soul.
The Trial of the Frozen Mirror awaited him first.
Within a chamber of ice, Christopher stood before a mirror that did not reflect his face, but his fears: loneliness, failure, despair. He saw himself lost in snow, forgotten by all. Yet he did not turn away.
“Even if I falter,” he whispered to the image, “kindness will guide me again.”
The mirror melted.
The Trial of the Empty Sleigh came next.
One cold night, Christopher was shown a sleigh and asked to deliver joy across a village. But the sleigh was empty. No toys. No treats. No magic.
So he worked.
Through the night, he carved toys from scraps. He gathered berries and nuts to make simple sweets. He left stories written on ribbons and laughter woven into every bundle. By morning, every doorstep had a gift.
The Trial of the Lost Star was the last.
In a vast, open field of snow, he was told only this: “There is a star buried here. Find it.”
There were no clues. No tools. Just silence.
Christopher stood still. He breathed. And then, slowly, he knelt—not where the snow seemed disturbed, but where his heart felt something stir.
He dug with bare hands until his fingers closed around something warm.
A star.
Neik Klass met him there, by the banks of the Rootbeer River, beneath the shimmering northern lights. The air shimmered too — with fairy dust, with magic, with hope.
“You do not seek greatness,” Neik said, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You seek to give. That is why greatness has found you.”
And as the elves gathered in quiet reverence, and reindeer watched from their snowy posts, the Spirit of Christmas itself shimmered above them — not as a shape, but as light and presence.
Neik unclasped a pendant from around his own neck — a Crimson Star, ancient and glowing — and placed it around Christopher’s.
From that moment, Santa Claus had a successor.
Christopher did not ascend the sleigh that night. Nor the next. He stayed — to learn, to listen, and to grow.
For a decade he trained under Neik.
He practiced sleigh flight through turbulent skies and learned how to coax the reindeer through icy winds. He studied the Toycraft Lore and read from the Great Registry, where wishes from across the world appeared in glowing script.
He learned the ways of wonder and logistics alike. He forged bonds with Glimmer, Crag, Twill, and the others who would one day fly beside him.
He laughed with elves and listened to maps that spoke in whispers of wind.
Then, in 1810, with snow falling in soft curtains around the Village, Neik finally stepped aside. The sleigh stood waiting. The stars above shimmered in quiet welcome.
Christopher, now robed in crimson trimmed with white, stepped aboard. The reindeer pawed the snow. Elves gathered below, and Neik stood atop the highest tower, smiling through eyes filled with memory.
The sleigh lifted.
And the world welcomed its new Santa.
From that day onward, a truth was written into the lore of Christmas: No Santa would cling forever. Each would serve, teach, and step aside in honor — that the Spirit of Christmas might remain ever bright, ever young, and ever shared.