A Merry Theft on a Moonlit Snow

The snow fell quietly that night, soft enough to hide footprints, heavy enough to muffle regret.

No one in the village heard the bells—because there were none.

The sleigh moved through the trees without song or cheer, pulled not by eight glowing legends, but by a single stag with eyes sharp enough to see mischief before it happened. Its hooves cut deliberate lines through the frost, guiding the sleigh down a path that hadn’t existed until it was needed.

At the reins stood the Green One.

Wrapped in a red coat borrowed but never earned, candy cane staff clenched in one clawed hand, he smiled the kind of smile that only comes from a very specific joy—the joy of knowing you got away with something. Behind him, the sleigh overflowed with color: stolen packages, wrapped in paper too bright for the silent forest, stacked carelessly like trophies from a night well spent.

This was not a night of punishment.Nor was it a night of mercy.

It was a night of choice.

Some say he took the presents to teach a lesson. Others whisper that he only wanted to see if Christmas could survive being carried by something unexpected. Whatever the reason, the forest watched in silence as the sleigh passed—tiny snow-dusted pines bowing under the weight of the moment.

By morning, the village would wake confused but unchanged. The gifts would return, as they always do in stories like this. But something subtle would linger: the idea that tradition is fragile, that magic wears many faces, and that sometimes the line between villain and legend is thinner than fresh snow.

The sleigh vanished into the trees before dawn.

Only the tracks remained—and the feeling that Christmas had briefly belonged to someone else.

Krampus escaping...