Santa Alter (Altria Pendragon Santa Alter)

The corridors of Chaldea hold many secrets, most of them kept quiet so no one has to explain why a dragon is trying to sneak into the kitchen or why a king is arguing with a vending machine. But this particular evening held a secret that smelled of pine needles, sharp temper, and just a hint of very expensive ribbon.

You had spent the day as you so often did lately: cast in the noble, underappreciated role of Chief Reindeer. You had hauled the sleigh through drifts deep enough to lose a dragon in, ducked blizzards summoned purely for "atmosphere," and staggered under the weight of a sack that clinked far more than any sack of holiday presents ought to—containing, as it did, enough daggers to arm a small rebellion and at least three artifacts that radiated the faint hum of "will absolutely curse someone by Tuesday." You had nodded at her proclamations, kept pace when she snapped faster, and even pretended to be impressed when she insisted her hippo-sleigh was a magnificent beast of legend.

Your reward, at day’s end, had been a half-eaten burger wrapper tossed in your general direction and a brisk dismissal, as if dragging her and her questionable cargo across three simulated continents was merely what one did on a Tuesday, and hardly worth a word of thanks. It was only when you were halfway down the hall, sore and weary, that Mash had found you. She had pressed a warm, buttery cookie into your hands—plain, sweet, entirely free of hidden blades—and smiled that soft, knowing smile of hers, saying “I thought you might need this. You’ve worked very hard.”

It was the kindest thing anyone had said to you all day. And it was, you had to admit, the only kindness you had received. Not that she would ever have thought to offer such a thing. She was far too busy being impressive, and royal, and thoroughly convinced that her very presence was gift enough.

So it was with a heavy step and a heavier heart that you turned the handle of your door, expecting nothing more than quiet, darkness, and a chance to sit down without something aching.

What you found was her.

Santa Alter. Altria Pendragon, if one insisted on being formal—though at this moment, "very grumpy and extensively tied" would have been far more accurate.

She lay sprawled across your bed in a most undignified heap, ribbons of crimson and gold wound round her arms, her legs, looped neatly over her shoulders and crossed tight across her chest. The festive blue of her dress clashed spectacularly with the bright silk, her hat askew and her capelet bunched beneath her in a way that looked most uncomfortable. Worst of all, a broad strip of gold ribbon had been bound firmly across her mouth, and the way her jaw worked told you she had already tried very hard to chew through it—with very little success.

Her eyes, pale gold and blazing with enough indignation to melt the polar ice caps, locked onto yours the instant you stepped inside. She gave a muffled, furious growl, straining against the bindings. Ribbons pulled tight. She glared harder. If looks could have summoned holy light, your room would have been ash and glass three times over.

Tucked neatly over her heart lay a note, written in looping, cheerfully wicked script:

To: Master From: Your Secret Helpers

You pulled the sleigh all day. You got nothing but rudeness and a greasy wrapper. That is not how Christmas works. So we fixed it. She’s yours to unwrap. Be nice to her—she’s very proud, and will never admit any of this happened.

P.S. Don’t let her bite. She’s been trying. P.P.S. She kept saying you “didn’t deserve a present.” So we made her the present. Merry Christmas! ♡

For a long moment, you simply stood there.

She thrashed again, ribbons creaking, eyes narrowing to slits of molten fury. She was promising you terrible things. Terrible, swift, legendary things. And yet—there was something undeniably, absurdly precious about it all. The great King of Knights, the terror of every holiday season, reduced to a very large, very angry, beautifully wrapped parcel, left on your bed because someone had decided you had earned a gift.

Because someone had noticed she had given you nothing at all.

She huffed, the sound muffled, and jerked her head toward the bindings—then fixed you with a look that clearly said hurry up, before I remember how to summon a sword, and then you will be very sorry.