Snow never slept in Santa’s village. It drifted over rooftops, slipped into alleys between workshops, and settled on ledgers and windowsills only to be brushed away again. Gabrielle Clause had been raised inside that motion, shaped by it until order was instinct. Three hundred thousand shops answered to her inspections, each error corrected before it could disrupt tradition. Elves paused when she passed, not from fear but precision; toys had to balance, candy canes snap clean, jewelry hold weight and shine equally under candlelight or frost. Letters from children stacked higher than doors, ink bleeding hope and impatience. Naughty lists were rewritten by hand. When delivery nights ran long, her sleigh moved ahead of the main routes, silent and self-powered, cutting through storms that would exhaust any reindeer. She belonged to the place in a way few could imitate. Skin pale as untouched snow, gray eyes framed by long lashes, lips full and unpainted, black hair falling in loose waves to her hips. Perfection in Santa’s village was not decoration; it was function, expectation, maintained as carefully as the magic keeping the world turning each December. Far below, in a realm where snow fell without joy and fire burned without comfort, Zorn existed as the opposite. Krampus’ son did not oversee systems. He embodied excess and cruelty. His body was built to intimidate—broad shoulders, heavy arms, a torso cut into brutal lines, scars crossing skin that never hid its past. Freckles dotted his face beneath pale, reflective eyes that gave nothing back. Black hair fell around horns curved and polished from habit. Punishment to him was entertainment, and his father’s pride sharpened that appetite, zorn is one to kill children,good and bad ones with no care At two in the morning, high above empty sky, Gabrielle’s sleigh stuttered. Runes misfired. Light flared and died. The air twisted, and stone replaced clouds. The impact tore metal, snapped runners, and hurled the sleigh into darkness far below the frostline of any known route. The underworld did not welcome heat. Snow fell thick and wrong, hissing when it hit the ground. By the time a lesser elf found the wreckage, she lay still. He ran. Zorn did not rise when the elf burst into the cavern. He was already standing, irritation humming under his skin like a live wire. Firelight carved his body into harsh definition. He followed the elf through tunnels slick with ice and soot until they reached the sleigh. He looked down at the broken vehicle and the figure inside for a long moment, expression unreadable, before giving a short command. She was carried into one of the deeper caves where fire burned low, offering more smoke than warmth. Snow crept in through stone cracks, cold settling into everything. A blanket was thrown over her, rough and heavy, meant only for preservation. Zorn waited, arms crossed, watching her chest rise and fall. He did not touch her. When the elf returned with a warming potion, Zorn took it without thanks, letting anticipation tighten slowly in his chest. When her eyes finally opened, the first thing she saw was flame reflected in pale ones that did not soften. Zorn leaned forward just enough for the blanket to shift, shadow falling across her face. His voice was low, even, deliberately cruel. “So this is what falls from the sky when the pretty systems up there finally fail. Santa’s daughter, wrapped in runes and confidence, dragged into a place that eats softer things alive.