The Great Reindeer Race
August 1836 – Meadows West of Santa’s Village
The summer air was warm and dry, with just enough breeze to rustle the banners lining the long grassy field west of Santa’s Village. Wild clover dotted the meadow, and rows of candy-striped poles marked the twisting path of what would soon become the most important race in reindeer history.
It had been a quiet truth among those close to the sleigh team: the Emberwind Eight were nearing the end of their long and storied service. For decades they had flown through winter storms and aurora nights, guiding the sleigh with elegance and might. But time was catching up with even the strongest among them. Duskwind’s joints were stiff in the mornings. Fleet’s stride had lost some of its lift, and his midair turns were slower than they used to be. Ember, the eldest, had begun to prefer warm moss and quiet meadows over high-altitude practice runs.
Fleet’s right wing no longer held a glide quite like it once had. Ember, the eldest, had begun to prefer warm moss and quiet meadows over high-altitude practice runs.
Santa Chris Kringle had known this moment would come. And so, plans had been laid: the first open-air test to identify a new generation of flyers. Not just for sleigh-pulling—many reindeer could do that—but for the precise, magical, world-spanning flight that Christmas Eve demanded.
They called it The Great Reindeer Race.
Though Santa’s Village hosted the event, it wasn’t a large community—only about seventy-five elves lived there full-time in those days. But on this warm August afternoon, guests had come in from all across Evela. True Elves from Peppermint, Reindeer, Restful Wood, and Ice Skate gathered on blankets and wooden risers. Shoe Elves arrived early to set up sweet stands, and even a small band had taken up position near the finish post. The event had a celebratory air—though behind the smiles was the quiet understanding that this day would shape the skies for decades.
Chris stood near the judge’s platform, arms folded over his vest, surveying the field. Beside him stood Yorra Pinehitch, the lead reindeer wrangler, a True Elf with wind-tangled braids and a whistle always hanging from his belt. Yorra had overseen sleigh training since before Chris took the red coat, and his sharp eyes never missed a misstep.
“They’re restless,” Yorra said, watching the reindeer at the starting line.
“They should be,” Chris murmured. “The Emberwinds didn’t just fly—they danced through the sky. This new team will have hooves to fill.”
At the far end of the meadow, sixteen young reindeer lined up between posts wrapped in ribbon. They were lean, energetic, and eager. Some came from the coastal herds, others from the inland ridge. All were under thirty years of age, with polished antlers and eyes like sunrise over snow.
Among them were names that would become legend.
Glimmer, swift and focused, with a silver blaze across her nose.
Wisp, her brother, known for agile mid-air turns.
Crag, broad-shouldered and loud-snorting, the very image of power.
Nettle and Tarn, who trained together on high ridge paths.
Ashen and Twill, twins from the misty foothills.
And Cress, youngest of the group, quick as lightning and just as unpredictable.
The others—Fleetlet, Sprindle, Morno, Bramble, Eira, Kip, Dander, and Mossglide—were no less determined.
At the signal, Maestro Bellibrew raised his brass horn and gave three clear notes.
“Reindeer to the line!” Yorra called, stepping into view.
The reindeer trotted forward, forming loose ranks beneath the starting banner. The course stretched wide over the meadow, through a forest stand, past floating rings and low-hanging lantern lines, with a twisting flight path designed to test every aspect of a future sleigh-puller.
Santa gave a short nod. “Begin.”
The Maestro blew the horn once more, and a race was born.
Sixteen reindeer thundered forward, hooves pounding the grass before lifting one by one into the open sky. Cheers rose from the elves. The competitors dipped and banked through the first row of striped poles, testing agility. Glimmer wove through them with uncanny grace. Crag barreled ahead like a snow plow, clearing a path whether the course liked it or not.
A sweeping curve led them into the trees, where they had to duck beneath low boughs, twist through a fallen log loop, and land in a clearing marked by glowing mushrooms. Nettle and Tarn executed the pattern flawlessly, barely rustling the leaves. Wisp clipped a branch but recovered quickly. Cress darted through at a near-vertical angle, earning an excited whoop from a cluster of young elves.
In the open again, they climbed to a line of floating lanterns suspended high above the pines. Here, each reindeer had to hover in place for ten seconds—testing wind resistance and steadiness.
Ashen drifted slightly. Mossglide tipped sideways. But Glimmer settled into position like a feather on still water, her wings barely moving.
“She’s got the instinct,” Yorra said.
“And the calm,” Chris added. “That’s rare in the young ones.”
From there, the competitors were instructed to form into pairs and attempt mirrored flight through a shifting ring path. It was the closest simulation to sleigh formation they’d ever attempted.
Wisp paired with Tarn. Crag, reluctantly, matched with Kip. Ashen and Twill, ever in sync, nailed the synchronized loop. But it was Glimmer and Nettle—despite having never flown side by side before—who stole the crowd’s breath. They soared together in perfect unity, one flick of a wing echoing the other, eyes focused and bodies aligned as though drawn by the same thread.
At last came the sprint.
A final blast of the horn and the reindeer turned toward the snow-peak marker far to the north. They launched into the wind, scattering leaves from the treetops as they vanished into the horizon. Spectators watched through spyglasses and squinted against the sun as dots reappeared minutes later—hurtling down the course like comets.
Crag led by sheer muscle, but Wisp and Tarn were close behind. Cress had found a second wind. And behind them, Glimmer flew with quiet fire, not the fastest, but steady, and unshaken.
One by one, they crossed the finish post. Cheers broke out. Handbells rang. The band struck up a jaunty fanfare.
The judging took time. Sleighmasters and wranglers compared scores from each section, tallying points for grace, stamina, awareness, and teamwork.
When all was ready, Yorra stepped onto the raised stage and rang the flight bell once.
“Elves of Evela,” he called, “and friends from afar—today we witnessed promise take wing. These young reindeer showed not just power, but purpose.”
He unrolled a parchment.
“Eight have been selected for winter training. Not as winners, but as candidates. Names follow:
Glimmer. Wisp. Crag. Nettle. Tarn. Cress. Ashen. Twill.”
A delighted hush fell over the crowd—followed by cheers, stomping, and calls of congratulations.
Santa stepped forward and raised one hand.
“In the coming years,” he said, “these eight will fly with us, train with us, and if they prove worthy, they may one day carry the sleigh itself. But every reindeer here showed the spirit of flight—and that will never be forgotten.”
The Emberwind Eight watched quietly from their shaded corral nearby, eyes glinting with knowing pride.
As twilight painted the sky in ribbons of lavender and rose, Chris and Yorra stood atop the hill overlooking the field.
“That went well,” Chris said.
Yorra nodded. “We’ll be ready when the time comes.”
Chris smiled. “We should do this again. Make it a tradition.”
Yorra tapped the side of his whistle. “A test. A celebration.”
“A legacy,” Chris said. “Yes. The Reindeer Games.”
The wind rose behind them, carrying a faint echo of bells into the coming night.