On the eve of Saint Lucia's Day, the North Pole seemed to be holding its breath.
The night was deeper than usual, soft and velvety, as if it were preparing to welcome something important.
Even the wind had slowed down, leaving the workshop in an almost sacred silence.
The elves had gathered around the tablet, but for the first time, it was not the tablet that lit up the room.
A more subtle glow floated in the air, an expectation made of calm and gentleness.
Rudolf was watching the sky, his muzzle slightly sparkling.
— “Tonight, the night widens,” he said softly.
"And tomorrow, the light will sing."
Pipette didn't really understand, but she felt something.
An unusual peace.
A cold that no longer stung, as if it were waiting for someone.
Groubelin consulted the Magic Compass.
The needle, instead of turning as usual, rose delicately upwards,
as if she were searching for a specific star.
Ludo, however, had noticed a strange detail.
At the end of the table, a small wooden box had opened by itself.
Inside lay a tiny candle, as thin as a thread of light.
— "We didn't put that there... did we?"
Pipette shook her head, fascinated.
— “No… I think it’s a sign.”
Rudolf approached, his gaze deep.
— “Humans from a country not so far from here are preparing to walk through the night with crowns of flames.
They carry the light to push back the shadows.
And we… we will have to follow that light.
A wave of shivers ran through the elves.
They sensed that something was about to happen.
Not just a simple clue this time, but a whole celebration, carrying a different kind of magic.
Tomorrow, the portal would show them a party they had never seen before.
A festival dedicated to light in the longest night.
The night… where the magic begins.