A Christmas Beast

Chapter 1:

Vee

The wind howls through the gaps in the wooden walls as I push through knee-deep snow. My boots, patched three times over, barely keep the wet out. Each step feels heavier than the last, but the weight of the food bundle against my chest drives me forward.

The door creaks as I slip inside our humble shelter. The children huddle around the dying fire, their faces lighting up at my arrival.

"Miss Vee!" Little Sarah bounces up, her threadbare blanket falling from her shoulders.

"Shh," I press a finger to my lips. "Remember what we talked about? Quiet voices keep us safe."

The other children nod, though their eyes fix on the bundle I'm carrying. I unwind my scarf, the heat from the meager fire barely touching my frozen cheeks.

"Everyone sit in a circle," I whisper, pulling out the hard bread and preserved vegetables. "Share equally, just like always."

Tommy, the oldest at twelve, helps me distribute the food. "You should eat too, Miss Vee."

My stomach clenches at the sight of the food, but I shake my head. "I already ate while I was out." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

"That's what you said yesterday," pipes up six-year-old Marcus, crumbs dotting his chin.

"And the day before," adds Sarah, her bright eyes too knowing for someone so young.

I busy myself adjusting blankets and checking for drafts. "Eat up before it gets cold. And Tommy, make sure everyone drinks some water. We don't want anyone getting sick."

The sounds of quiet munching fill our little hut, punctuated by the occasional giggle or whispered comment. My stomach protests loudly, and I wrap my arms around my middle to muffle the sound.

"Miss Vee?" Sarah tugs at my sleeve, holding out a small piece of bread. "I'm full."

I know she's lying – they're all always hungry – but the gesture makes my throat tight. "That's very kind, but you need to keep up your strength. How about we save it for later instead?"

***

The meeting hall's drafty walls do little to keep out the biting cold, but the heated glares from the other settlers warm my cheeks. I grip my wooden charm, trying to steady my racing heart as Aldrich, our settlement leader, towers over me.

"You're reckless, Vee," he barks, jabbing a finger at my chest. "Feeding those brats like they're royalty while the rest of us starve. You're endangering us all."

My jaw tightens. The wooden charm digs into my palm. "They're children. They need hope. They need a future."

"Hope?" Aldrich's laugh sounds like ice cracking. "You fill their heads with nonsense about Christmas, about miracles. It's a fairy tale, Vee! You're making them weak."

It's true. I've been telling the children all about Christmas, trying to give them a spark of warmth in this cold, desolate winterscape. It's a wonderful, albeit ancient, human tradition to believe that a saint would deliver presents to all children in a single night. People would sing, exchange gifts, and have a feast. It was a time of forgiveness and love, of acceptance and selflessness.

The other adults murmur in agreement, their faces twisted with disdain. My hands start to tremble, but I force them still.

"Weak?" The word comes out sharper than I intend, and I take a step forward. "They've survived more than most of us ever will. They're stronger than you think."

The murmurs around me blend into Aldrich's thundering voice. "Enough, Vee. Stop talking about Christmas. Focus on reality."

My nails dig into my palms. The wooden charm presses against my chest, reminding me of Tommy's proud face when he gave it to me. I bite my tongue, tasting copper. Fighting back won't help the children.

"Meeting's over," Aldrich waves his hand dismissively. "Get back to work."

The cold hits me like a slap as I step outside. Through the swirling snow, I spot them – the BlazeOrcs. Their massive forms move with surprising grace along the settlement's edge, armor glinting despite the weak winter sun. One of them carries what looks like a whole deer over his shoulder, and my stomach twists with envy.

Martha hurries past me, clutching her shawl tight. "Guard change," she mutters. "Better stay clear."

I nod, but my eyes track the orcs' movements. The deer disappears into their camp, and I think of the children's hollow cheeks. We work ourselves to exhaustion providing for our "protectors," and what do we get? Scraps. The irony doesn't escape me – we traded one form of danger for another.

My gaze catches on movement at the edge of the settlement. Through the curtain of falling snow, I spot him. Fazo. The BlazeOrc chieftain towers above his warriors, his presence commanding even from this distance. The wind whips his heavy fur-lined cloak, revealing gleaming leather armor underneath, adorned with intricate tribal patterns that snake across the chest piece.

A coat like that… I shake my head at the impossible thought. Our work went to their hands and mouths, and exchange they protected us from the savage behavior of other orc tribes. Still, my eyes trail back to the warm furs and leathers.

My breath catches as our eyes meet. His amber irises burn with golden flecks, like embers in a dying fire. The crown of polished bones that circles his head catches the weak winter light, each piece carved with symbols I can't decipher. The massive battle axe strapped to his back bears similar markings, its blade wider than my torso.

He crosses his arms – muscles rippling beneath the fur and leather – and tilts his head slightly. The gesture makes his bone and metal ornaments chime softly, the sound carrying across the snow-covered ground. His black hair, braided with copper rings and beads, shifts with the movement.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I duck my head and pull my hood tighter, but the image of him stays burned in my mind: the way his smaller-than-usual tusks give his face an almost gentle cast, how the tribal paint across his cheekbones emphasizes his sharp features.

The snow crunches beneath my boots as I hurry away. Something about him – the intensity of his gaze, perhaps, or the way he stood apart from his warriors – makes my chest tight with an emotion I can't quite name. But I push the thoughts aside. The children are waiting, and their needs must come first.

"Three humans could eat for days with what one of them consumes," whispers Jakob as he passes, hauling firewood and nodding to where I had just been gawking. "Can't last like this."

He's right. The math doesn't add up, and sooner or later, the orcs will realize it too. What then? My fingers find the wooden charm again, and I think of Sarah's smile when she talks about Christmas miracles. Maybe Aldrich is right – maybe I am filling their heads with nonsense.

But hope isn't nonsense. It's all we have left.