Nikolas trudged through the deep snow, his thin boots offering little protection against the bitter cold. The village behind him grew smaller with each step, and ahead lay nothing but endless white wilderness. In his pocket, he clutched the small wooden reindeer his father had carved—the only thing he had left of home. The wind howled around him like a living thing, and for a moment, he wondered if he would ever see another Christmas. But then he remembered the children's faces, their eyes bright with hope despite their own troubles. He had made them a promise, and promises, his father had always said, were more important than fear.