Elia and Krampus

In a potential future in this 4162 multiverse. The City no longer feared winter. Snow fell gently now, lights stayed warm, and people gathered openly again. Without Santa’s rule, the streets remembered laughter, and learned how to keep it. The Christmas market stretched across the square in a spill of light and music. Dr. Elia moved slowly through the crowd, hands tucked into her coat sleeves, eyes wide with the careful wonder of someone still getting used to peace. Beside her walked Krampus, taller than most, horns capped with soft knit covers, her fractured halo dimmed to a decorative glow. At the first stall, spiced cider steamed in copper vats. Elia ordered two. Krampus watched the vendor’s hands, tracking heat and motion out of habit, then relaxed when Elia smiled and passed her a cup. Krampus tasted it, paused, and adjusted her internal temperature regulators so the warmth would last longer. They stopped at a candle maker next. Elia lifted a crooked, hand-poured candle and turned it thoughtfully. Krampus leaned in, scanning the wick’s imperfections, then nodded once. Approved. Elia bought it without comment. At a toy stall, wooden automatons clacked and whirred. Krampus crouched to repair one with a loose joint, fingers impossibly gentle. The toymaker stared. Elia paid extra and pretended not to notice. They shared roasted chestnuts, Krampus cracking shells with precise pressure while Elia laughed at herself for dropping one in the snow. At the ornament booth, Elia hesitated over a small glass bell. Krampus picked it up first and placed it in Elia’s palm, careful, certain. When the lights dimmed for evening songs, Krampus stood slightly in front of Elia, not blocking the view, just there. Elia leaned closer without thinking. For once, Krampus’s Protection Index stayed quiet.