The Orc Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 1

Claire

The firelight dances across Tommy's innocent face as he answers my question about Christmas. His response makes my heart ache with memories of decorated trees and wrapped presents under them. Those days feel like another lifetime now.

"You're right about the presents," I say, adjusting my worn-out patchwork scarf. "But Christmas is also about finding light in the darkest times. Like this fire keeping us warm right now."

Sarah, a gap-toothed seven-year-old, raises her hand eagerly, and blurts out, "My mom says we used to have big feasts and sing songs."

"That's right," I say softly as my fingers brush against the locket at my neck. "We'd gather together, share food, tell stories. Just like we're doing now."

The wind rattles the makeshift wooden walls of our classroom, and I pull my coat tighter around me. Through the gaps in the planks, I catch glimpses of our settlement's guards making their rounds.

"Miss Claire, can we sing a Christmas song?" Little Marcus asks.

My chest tightens. These children deserve so much more than this cramped room and meager supplies. But their eyes shine with curiosity and hope – the very things I'm desperate to keep alive.

"Of course we can," I say as I clear my throat. "Does anyone remember 'Silent Night'?"

A few tentative voices join mine, growing stronger with each verse. The melody mingles with the crackling fire and howling wind, creating a strange harmony that brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them away quickly.

"Miss Claire?" Tommy asks. "Will Santa still come even though there's... you know, orcs and stuff?"

The other children lean forward, waiting for my answer. My locket feels heavy against my skin.

"Santa," I say carefully, "comes in many forms. Sometimes he's the person who shares their last piece of bread. Or the friend who gives you their warm blanket on a cold night. That's the real magic of Christmas – finding ways to give, even when we have so little."

Suddenly, the door bangs open. The smell of smoke from outside mingles with the musty wood of our shelter as Martha storms in, her face pinched with anger. Her boots leave muddy tracks across our worn floor as she marches toward her son.

"That's enough of this nonsense," she snaps, grabbing Tommy's arm. "Claire, what are you thinking? Christmas songs? Stories? Winter's breathing down our necks, and you're filling their heads with fairy tales?"

My fingers find my locket again, twisting it as I stand straighter. "They're not just stories, Martha. They're learning history and community." I say firmly.

"History won't keep them fed," she mutters as she yanks Tommy to his feet. "Come on, there's wood to be gathered before the storm hits."

One by one, the other parents appear in the doorway, summoned by Martha's commotion. They shuffle in with apologetic glances, collecting their children. My carefully cultivated atmosphere of warmth and learning crumbles with each departure.

"The children need more than just survival skills," I say, but my voice catches as Sarah's father leads her away. "They need hope."

Martha's laugh is as bitter as winter frost. "Hope won't protect them from raiders or feed them through winter. Tommy needs to learn real skills," she says.

The last child files out, leaving only the dying fire and the howling wind for company. I force a smile, though my chest aches with each retreating footstep. Their excitement dims like the embers in our hearth, replaced by the heaviness of our harsh reality.

"We'll continue tomorrow," I call after them, but the words feel hollow in the empty room.

The sun soon dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the wooden floor of our makeshift schoolroom. I'm tidying up the scattered slates and chalk when the village leader Vincent appears in the doorway. His face, usually so stern, is lined with a worry that seems to deepen with each passing day.

"Don’t let it get to you, Claire," he says, stepping inside. His voice is low but kind. "Your lessons give the children hope. That's not something we can afford to lose."

I nod. "But hope doesn’t fill empty stomachs," I reply, the words sour on my tongue.

Vincent sighs, his breath visible in the chilling air. "No, but it keeps us going. Still… we need to focus. Supplies are running low. We’ll need to send out more people to scavenge. Some of the children must help," he says.

My heart clenches at the thought. The children are our future, but they are also our most vulnerable. I can't bear the thought of them out there in the cold and danger.

I square my shoulders, meeting his gaze with a resolve that surprises even me. "I’ll go," I say, the decision making my pulse quicken. I want to protect them, to shield them from the harsh realities of our world for as long as I can.

Vincent's brows furrow, a storm brewing in his eyes. "Claire—" he starts, but I cut him off.

"I have my ways of surviving out there," I insist, thinking of the countless hours I've spent studying the land, learning which roots are edible, which berries will nourish rather than poison. "I can do this."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods, acquiescing to the determination etched on my face. "Alright," he concedes. "But take every precaution. We can't lose you."

I offer him a small, grateful smile, then turn to gather my things. The room feels smaller somehow, the walls closing in with the enormity of what lies ahead. I pull my heavy coat as tight as I can around me, wrap my scarf snugly around my neck, and lace up my boots firmly. Each action is a silent vow to return with something to sustain us.

As I step out into the biting cold, the door closing behind me with a solid thud, I take a deep breath. The air is sharp, slicing through my lungs like a knife. I can see my breath forming little clouds in front of me, dissipating almost as quickly as they appear.