Chapter 16 — Reindeer on Strike
“Just to confirm,” I said, flipping to a fresh page, “you both nearly obliterated yourselves, and the first thing you want to do after that is fly?”
“Yes,” Chuck said flatly.
The sleigh sat in the center of the stables, gleaming faintly under the aurora leaking through cracked skylights. The runners hummed in quiet anticipation, but the air around them stayed stubbornly still. Every reindeer shimmered faintly—ghostlike silhouettes tethered between reality and myth.
Except they weren’t moving.
Dax tugged at a harness. It didn’t even rattle. “They’re locked down,” he said. “Looks like they went union.”
Nick sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “They don’t strike, Dax. They wait. They can feel when the story stops believing itself.”
Chuck blinked. “You’re saying they won’t fly because I’m emotionally inconsistent?”
Nick grinned. “Exactly.”
I tucked my quill behind one ear. “Recording that as a diagnosis. ‘Case of acute magical self-doubt, chronic since approximately the dawn of winter.’”
Chuck shot me a look. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, Höbin.”
“I’ve written that down, too,” I said, scribbling. “Page fifty-six. Under delusions of charm.”
He ignored me and turned to the lead reindeer…a towering, translucent creature with eyes like molten gold and antlers that caught the light like cut glass. “Come on,” he said, voice low. “I know I’ve made mistakes. But we’ve still got a job to finish.”
The reindeer flicked an ear. No other response.
Nick folded his arms. “They don’t answer to orders anymore, Chuck. They fly on joy, not obligation. You can’t guilt magic into motion.”
Chuck groaned. “What does make anything fly anymore?”
“Hope,” Dax said quietly.
Chuck looked at him, frowning. “How would YOU know?”
“Because I’ve always had hope…in you,” Dax whispered.
Chuck swallowed. “Hope.”
“Hope,” Dax repeated.
Yours or mine?”
“Maybe hers,” Dax said.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small piece of parchment. I recognized the handwriting even before the faint glow sparked along the ink. Gwen’s looping script danced across the page…her lullaby, the one she used to hum when the nights grew too long.
Dax began to hum.
Soft. Off-key. But honest. The tune he’d heard Chuck use while growing up.
The sound echoed through the stables, brushing dust from rafters that hadn’t heard sincerity in centuries. It wasn’t music...it was memory finding its way home.
The reindeer stirred. Heads lifted. Ears twitched toward the sound.
Dax kept going, voice cracking on every third note but never once losing the truth of it. The runes along the harnesses began to glow…dim at first, then brighter, like fire learning how to exist again.
Chuck stood still for a long time, then joined in. The words stumbled out awkwardly, but they were real.
“Sleep, my north wind child,
dream where light can grow—
in hearts made small,
in souls made whole,
let kindness find the snow.”
Nick’s laughter came soft and full of relief. “She taught you that, didn’t she?”
Chuck nodded. “Every solstice. She always said even broken things should learn to sing.”
The sleigh trembled, its rails shedding frost. The reindeer stamped once, twice, their harnesses chiming faintly.
Dax’s humming deepened, and something in the room shifted—as if the very air remembered what it meant to believe.
I stared, ink running from the tip of my quill. “They’re syncing to emotional resonance,” I breathed. “This is…this is scientifically impossible!”
“Or,” Dax said between verses, “it’s just faith doing what it’s supposed to.”
The sleigh lifted an inch off the ground.
The floorboards groaned under the sudden relief, dust falling from the rafters in soft flurries. The glow from the reindeer reflected off the walls, scattering gold across the room.
Chuck’s voice wavered on the final line, but it didn’t matter…the melody had already taken hold.
Nick smiled, his face illuminated in the aurora’s spill of color. “Looks like she still believes in you.”
Chuck didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat worked, but only a half-laugh came out. A sound halfway between grief and gratitude.
The sleigh hummed softly, rising another inch.
I tilted my head, watching the impossible turn routine. “Well, gentlemen,” I said, “it seems forgiveness officially flies.”
Chuck wiped at his eyes, laughter bubbling out. “Let’s just hope it can steer, too.”
The reindeer snorted, their breath curling into clouds that shimmered faintly blue. Frost crystals spiraled up from the floor, spinning into the air until the whole chamber looked alive.
Dax slapped the side of the sleigh. “C’mon, old girl. Let’s see if you remember how to dance.”
The sleigh shuddered, eager now…runners sparking with light, reins humming in rhythm with Dax’s fading song.
Nick stepped forward, hand resting briefly on Chuck’s shoulder. “You’ve done enough fixing,” he said softly. “Now go fly something worth saving.”
Chuck nodded, taking the reins. The scarf around his neck fluttered once, its golden threads catching the aurora’s light.
The sleigh rose higher, the glow turning the air molten around us.
For the first time in centuries, the Prime Gate’s stables echoed not with guilt or magic or rules, but with something far rarer.
Joy.
And when it lifted through the broken roof into the open sky, I swear I could hear Gwen’s laughter riding the wind.
