Kraved by Krampus (Yule Be Mine Monster)

8. Clara

Chapter eight

Clara

A howl splits the night—deep, ancient, and furious. The sound vibrates in my bones, and I feel an answering surge of power.

Krampus.

The ground trembles as he bursts into the clearing, his massive form casting long shadows across the snow. His presence hits me like a physical force—raw power that makes my own magic sing in response.

“Step away from them.” His voice rolls like thunder. The corrupted creature whirls to face him, ichor dripping from its jaws.

The magic around the child spikes in response to Krampus’s arrival, sending razor-sharp ice crystals shooting in all directions. I throw myself over him, trying to contain the wild surge of power.

“I can’t hold it!” His small body shakes against mine.

Krampus moves with impossible speed, placing himself between us and the creature. His cloak of shadows writhes with barely contained fury. “Shield him,” he commands, never taking his eyes off our attacker.

I wrap my arms tighter around the child, pouring what’s left of my strength into maintaining the protective sigil. The air crackles as Krampus and the creature clash—darkness against corruption, ancient power against twisted magic.

The force of their battle tears through the clearing. Trees splinter and crack. Snow melts and refreezes in violent patterns. My barrier flickers dangerously.

Hold on. Just hold on.

A blast of corrupted energy slips past Krampus’s defenses, heading straight for us. He throws himself into its path, taking the full force of the attack. The sound he makes—pain and rage mixed together—cuts straight through me.

“No!” The word tears from my throat.

Magic explodes outward, silver light blazing. The sigil I drew transforms, expanding into a dome of pure power. The child’s magic merges with this magic, ice and light weaving together in impossible patterns.

Krampus straightens, black blood staining his side. His eyes meet mine across the clearing, and something passes between us—understanding, trust, shared purpose.

He raises his hands, speaking words that make reality itself shudder. Chains of shadow and ice materialize, wrapping around the corrupted creature. It thrashes and howls, but each movement only tightens its bonds.

The creature’s form begins to dissolve, eaten away by pure magic until nothing remains but scattered ashes and melting snow.

Krampus sways, one hand pressed to his wound. “The child...”

“I’ve got him.” But my legs shake as I try to stand. The magical backlash hits me all at once, making the world spin.

He catches us both before we can fall, and despite his injury, his arms are steady and sure.

The journey back to Magnus tests even Krampus’s ancient strength. I watch him struggle with each step through the deepening snow, the wound across his chest bleeding through his torn shirt. My hand keeps finding its way to his arm, needing that physical connection to know this is real—that we both made it. The boy sleeps peacefully in Krampus’s massive arms, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Magnus’s door swings open before we reach the porch. Blessed warmth wraps around us, and I notice the stairs to the second floor shifting, becoming less steep as we climb.

“This way,” Krampus says, leading me to a guest room that seems to have prepared itself—bed turned down, extra blankets piled nearby, even a glass of water on the nightstand.

My hands shake as I tuck the boy in, but I focus on each movement—adjusting his pillow, pulling the covers up to his chin, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“He’ll be fine after some rest. Young magic often exhausts itself this way,” Krampus tells me.

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from the child’s face. “I’ve seen him before. In my writing.”

The realization hits me like a physical blow. All those scenes, all those characters I thought I’d created...

“We should tend to your wounds.” I turn toward Krampus, and my breath catches in my throat. Through his torn shirt, I can see not just the fresh wounds, but intricate patterns etched into his skin beneath them. My knees go weak.

“These marks...” My fingers hover over the designs, exact replicas of what I’d drawn in my manuscript. “I drew these. In my manuscript. But how...” When I trace one of the ancient runes, magic crackles between us like static electricity.

Krampus catches my hand before I can snatch it back. “Your stories were never just stories, little mate. The magic has always been there, waiting.”

“That’s impossible. I’m just... ordinary.” The word tastes like a lie, even as I say it.

He laughs, a deep rumble that makes my skin tingle despite the gravity of the moment. “You faced down a shadow beast to protect a child. You’ve been writing a world into existence without even knowing it. There’s nothing ordinary about you.”

I step back, but my eyes keep returning to those marks—the ones I somehow knew to draw with perfect detail despite never having seen them. Everything I thought I knew about myself starts to unravel.

“The events that seemed so close to what I had written.” I press my hands to my temples as memories flood back. “I thought I was just tired. Or imagining things.”

“You’ve been attracting magic through your writing. It’s why I was drawn to you. Why the manuscript called to me.”

Magnus creaks in agreement, and suddenly a fresh bandage floats in from the bathroom, followed by a bowl of steaming water.

I stare at them hovering in midair, wondering how many other “coincidences” in my life weren’t coincidences at all.