Snow drifted in lazy spirals as Boxy, Gluebert and Pete climbed the frosted hill.

Behind them, the final sparks of the Festival of a Thousand Lights drifted into the night like tiny fireflies. Ahead, the land shimmered with white. Candy striped trees lined the path, their trunks glowing faintly under the moonlight.

The map in Boxy’s satchel gave a gentle buzz. Frost crept across its edges as he pulled it out, forming delicate patterns that looked suspiciously like tiny gears.

Gluebert shivered dramatically. “Wonderful. Cold. My beard is going to freeze solid.”

Pete had wrapped an oversized scarf round his wooden middle. He raised a sign that read: TOLD YOU I NEEDED A COAT.

Boxy smiled, breath puffing softly. “The frost is pointing us north. Something is calling us.”

“Hopefully something warm,” muttered Gluebert.

They trudged deeper into the snowy woods. Every so often, a snowflake paused mid air and gave a tiny shimmy, as if inspecting them before drifting on.

Pete watched one spin by and raised a new sign: THE SNOW IS ALIVE AND I DO NOT LIKE IT.

Boxy pretended not to notice the way another snowflake paused to stare directly into his cardboard face.

The woodland thinned, opening into a clearing filled with round red figures. Each one had a cotton wool beard, a cheerful painted face and a curved base that suggested rocking.

A moment later they did exactly that.

One wobbled forward, tipped almost over, gave a squeak, and sprang upright again. Soon dozens of Rocking Santas were rocking towards them in a cheerful procession.

Gluebert sighed. “Of course. Animated decorations. Crafteria never does anything by halves.”

A Rocking Santa tapped Boxy’s foot with its hat, then rocked away along a side path, pausing every few seconds to check they were following.

“I think they want to guide us,” Boxy said.

Pete lifted a sign: SUSPICIOUS BUT A BIT CUTE.

They followed the wobbly parade through drifts of sparkling snow. Above them, giant snowflakes drifted down, joining together mid air to form long glimmering garlands. Each one swayed in the breeze with a soft chiming sound that felt almost like whispering.

“Sentient decorations,” Gluebert muttered. “Why ever not.”

The path led them into a broad valley where the sky appeared strangely close. Floating just beneath it were wreaths of evergreen and holly, each circling a single glowing star.

The wreaths drifted slowly, arranging themselves with purpose.

“Look,” Boxy whispered. “They are forming a pattern.”

The wreaths swooped and glided until they formed a giant spiral. Around the edges, smaller stars lined themselves into the shape of little teeth, exactly like a gear.

Pete raised a sign: IT IS THE SPIRAL AGAIN.

Gluebert nodded grimly. “The same symbol in the Festival. The same one carved in the Hollow Hall. This cannot be chance.”

Before they could study it further, a loud cheerful honk echoed through the valley.

“That sound is far too happy for this temperature,” Gluebert said firmly.

A plump penguin shot towards them across the snow on a tiny sled. Its stripy earmuffs bounced, and a fluffy scarf trailed behind it like a banner.

It skidded to a halt and honked twice, delighted.

Boxy laughed. “Hello.”

The penguin pointed a flipper towards a wooden archway glowing with warm golden light.

“It wants us to follow,” Boxy said.

Gluebert sighed. “Everything in this world wants us to follow it. I feel like a tourist attraction.”

Pete lifted a sign: I TRUST THE PENGUIN.

The penguin honked approvingly and zoomed ahead.

They trudged through deeper snow, and as they passed under the archway, the garlands above gently unravelled, as though acknowledging they had reached a place with its own kind of magic.

They gasped.

Built into the hillside stood a vast circular building with a chimney shaped like stacked gift boxes. Icicles framed the windows like crystal teeth. Colourful lights twinkled along the beams in neat waves. Warm light poured from a great round window above the entrance.

On the wooden door, carved deep into the grain, was the spiral and gear symbol.

“The Winter Workshop,” breathed Gluebert. “Where Crafteria makes its winter magic.”

The penguin hopped up the steps, knocked three times with its beak, and the door swung open.

Inside was a bustling wonderland.

Wooden elves scurried along walkways. Ropes and pulleys moved parcels overhead. Snowflake garlands rearranged themselves with every clap. Tiny wreaths and stars floated into labelled baskets. A giant press stamped bubble patterns onto tree cards. Rows of folded paper trees waited to spring into a pop up forest.

And weaving excitedly through the chaos was a long sausage dog puppet made of concertina card. It stretched, snapped back, stretched again, and showered Pete in glitter.

Pete leapt behind Boxy and raised a sign: NO THANK YOU TO THAT.

A nearby elf approached, apron covered in specks of glue and snow. “Welcome, travellers. We have been expecting you.”

“You have,” Boxy said, surprised.

“The Festival lights showed us. Not many reach this far north.”

Pete’s next sign read: DO WE GET A BADGE.

The elf smiled. “If you restore the Workshop, you might receive more than that.”

Gluebert muttered, “That never means something simple.”

The elf led them to the centre of the Workshop. A glass dome rose on a platform, surrounded by polished brass rails.

Inside, snowflakes drifted in slow, tired circles. The central glow that should have swirled with winter magic was dim.

“This is the Frostcore Engine,” the elf said softly. “It powers every piece of winter magic in Crafteria. It has been weakened.”

Boxy stepped closer. “What happened.”

“A shadow passed over us. A tall figure with hollow eyes.”

“The Hollow King,” Gluebert said.

Pete raised a sign: HE NEEDS A NEW HOBBY.

The elf continued. “He stole something from the Frostcore. The magic shattered. Three fragments lie scattered around the grounds.”

Boxy straightened. “We can find them.”

The elf handed him a small glass charm shaped like a star. It pulsed softly in Boxy’s hand. “This Sparkfinder will glow brighter when you are close.”

Boxy nodded. “We will restore the Frostcore.”

The Sparkfinder tugged them toward a side chamber. Paper lay stacked neatly in piles. As Boxy stepped inside, the room came to life.

Trees shot upright, branches unfolding gracefully. Hills unfurled beneath their feet. A paper forest blossomed around them in seconds.

Gluebert spun with caution. “I do not trust fully mobile stationery.”

Pete tapped a trunk and raised a sign: THIS IS ACTUALLY AMAZING.

The Sparkfinder glowed brightly. Boxy pushed through the trees until he reached a clearing. Between drawn paper roots lay a shimmering fragment of frozen magic.

“One,” he said, lifting it gently.

The trees rustled cheerfully and folded out of their way as they left.

The Sparkfinder began to pulse again, guiding them into a hall strung with long garlands of glittering pipe like snowflakes.

The sausage dog puppet bounded after them. Pete edged away and lifted a sign that said: KEEP THAT CREATURE BACK.

The dog wagged harder, over stretched and accidentally hooked its tail into a garland. One snowflake tugged another, then another. Within two heartbeats, the entire ceiling collapsed into one enormous sparkling pile.

Gluebert was beneath it.

A muffled voice floated up. “I am fine. Just buried alive in decorations.”

Pete lifted a sign: I KNEW IT WAS DANGEROUS.

As they tugged garlands off Gluebert, the Sparkfinder flared again. Hidden among the twisted flakes lay another frozen fragment, glowing softly gold.

“Two,” Boxy said.

The sausage dog wagged proudly. Gluebert glared at it. “That is quite enough helpfulness for one day.”

Outside, the penguin was pushing a huge glowing snowball up a steep hill, slipping with every attempt.

“We can help,” Boxy said.

Together they pushed the snowball upwards. At the top it trembled and cracked. Light spilled out like sunrise, revealing the third fragment.

The penguin celebrated with enthusiastic honks and a victory slide down the slope.

“Three,” Boxy said, tucking the final piece away.

Gluebert stretched his back. “Next time we are bringing a magical forklift.”

The Workshop gathered round as Boxy placed each fragment inside the dome. They floated up, whirled in a circle and melted into the storm of snow and light.

The Frostcore flared.

Snow inside burst into shining spirals. Colours raced through the glass. Warmth filled the room, cosy and golden, like fresh biscuits and blankets.

Outside, bells rang along the roof. Rocking Santas lined up and marched in wobbly unison. Snowflake garlands lifted and hung themselves neatly. The pop up forest rustled proudly.

Above the valley, the wreath constellations glowed with new brilliance. They formed the spiral and gear pattern again, clearer than ever, as if they were tracing the blueprint of Crafteria itself.

The map vibrated in Boxy’s hands. A new path appeared, pale blue and shining, leading further north.

The elf approached. “You have restored our Workshop. Winter will hold for another season. And you have earned this.”

He pressed a tiny iron badge shaped like a snowflake over a small gear into Boxy’s hand.

Pete raised a sign: IT IS SHINY. I LIKE IT.

Boxy tucked the badge safely away. “Thank you. But I feel this is only part of something much larger.”

The elf’s smile grew sad. “It is. Crafteria has layers, like pages in a book. This is the outer one. The first level. If the Hollow King breaks this level, he can reach whatever lies beneath.”

Boxy’s chest tightened. “Then we have to keep moving.”

“Yes,” the elf said. “The North is waiting.”

They stepped back into the snowy night. The Workshop glowed behind them like a giant lantern, its windows warm against the cold.

Boxy looked up.

The stars above Crafteria were usually gentle and twinkly. Tonight they were sharp and bright. One star pulsed once. Then again. Three short flashes. One long glow.

Pete raised a sign: THE STAR IS BLINKING LIKE IT KNOWS US.

Gluebert frowned. “That is not a natural constellation pattern.”

The star brightened and drew a thin straight silver line across the sky. It glimmered, held its place for a moment, then faded.

Boxy felt the map warm in his hands.

“Something is calling to us,” he whispered. “Something far above Crafteria.”

Gluebert adjusted his scarf. “I was hoping for cocoa. Apparently we get cosmic mystery instead.”

Pete raised a final sign: SPACE FEELS DANGEROUS BUT I AM IN.

Boxy smiled. “Then north it is.”

The snow crunched softly beneath their feet as they followed the glowing path. Above them, the pulsing star lingered.

Watching.
Waiting.
Almost ready.