Chapter 75 THE NORTH POLE UNDER SIEGE

Chapter 75 THE NORTH POLE UNDER SIEGE

POV: Amara

The call comes through as I am pulling people off an iced subway stairwell.
I want the panic to stop. I want the fear to loosen its grip on the city. Sirens echo between buildings while volunteers pass out blankets. My hands are numb from pulling warmth into places that should not need saving this close to spring.
My comm crackles. Helena’s voice breaks through, sharp and breathless. “Amara. Listen to me. We can’t hold.”
I freeze, one knee on the concrete, a woman’s arm still in my grasp. “What’s happening?”
“He’s here in force,” Helena says. “The outer wards are gone. The palace walls are cracking. If the throne room falls…”
She does not finish the sentence. She does not have to.
Christmas magic does not live in ornaments or songs. It lives in the heart of that place. If it goes, everything goes with it.
“Santa?” I ask.
A pause. Short. Heavy. “He’s fighting. But he’s slowing. The cost of what he gave me is catching up to him.”
My throat tightens. I picture Santa with his shoulders squared, still standing because that is what he has always done. “I’m coming.”
“You’re too far,” Helena says. “Even with gates.”
“I’ll find a way.”
The line cuts.
I straighten slowly. The city noise rushes back in. A child is crying nearby. Someone is calling my name. I should stay. I should finish what I started here.
But the North Pole is burning.
I back away from the crowd, heart pounding. Noelle’s absence is a hollow ache I do not have time to touch. Ember is gone. Santa is weakening. Helena is holding a line that should never have been crossed.
I have one choice.
I step into an alley, press my palms to the brick, and close my eyes.
“I need everything,” I whisper to the magic that hums beneath my skin. “All of it. Just this once.”
The air resists. Distance presses back like a wall. I push harder, not with force, but with intent. The North Pole is not a place to me. It is a promise. A home. A beating heart.
I pull.
Pain flashes through me as the world stretches thin. My breath catches. The alley dissolves into light and cold and sound tearing itself apart. I feel something give inside me, like a cord pulled too tight.
Then I am falling.
Ice slams into my side as I hit the floor of the throne room. The impact rattles my teeth. I try to move and fail. My limbs feel distant, uncooperative. The magic that usually answers me is silent, spent.
The room is chaos.
Columns are shattered. Frost creeps across banners torn from their hooks. Elves and guards fight in tight clusters, light clashing against shadow. The great throne is cracked down the center.
Santa stands near it, breath coming hard, his beard rimed with ice that does not melt. His movements are slower than I have ever seen them. Each strike costs him more than the last.
Helena is beside him, eyes blazing, power flaring in bursts that shake the floor. She looks fierce and tired and unbreakable all at once.
And Malachi stands between them and the broken doors.
He turns as I gasp, lifting my head.
“Well,” he says, smiling. “That was dramatic.”
I try to rise. My arms tremble and give out. I fall back to my knees, vision swimming.
“Amara,” Helena shouts. “You shouldn’t have done that!”
“I had to,” I manage.
Malachi strolls closer, boots crunching over ice. “You burned yourself out for a grand entrance. I respect the commitment.”
I glare up at him. “Get away from them.”
He crouches, close enough that I can see the dark frost veining his eyes. “You are empty. You have nothing left to threaten me with.”
He is right, and he knows it.
Santa steps forward despite Helena’s grip on his arm. “Leave her.”
Malachi rises. “Still standing, old man? Admirable. Wasteful.”
He flicks his hand. A wave of cold slams into Santa, throwing him back against the throne. The crack widens.
Helena screams his name and launches herself at Malachi. They collide in a burst of light and shadow that throws everyone off balance.
I drag myself toward them, nails scraping ice. I want to help. I want to do anything.
Nothing comes.
Helena fights like a storm, but Malachi matches her blow for blow. He is stronger here. He always has been. This is his endgame.
“You see?” he calls over the clash. “This place is old. Rigid. Afraid to change. It cannot survive what is coming.”
“You’re wrong,” Helena snaps, driving him back a step.
He laughs. “Am I? Look at him.”
He gestures toward Santa, who is struggling to stand, leaning on the throne for support. Time has finally caught him. The cost of love is written into every line of his face.
“This magic was never meant to last forever,” Malachi continues. “It needed to be broken so something new could rise.”
“Not like this,” Helena says.
I reach the base of the throne and grab Santa’s sleeve. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I used everything.”
He looks down at me, eyes kind even now. “You used it to come home.”
Malachi tires of watching. He lifts both hands and the room darkens, shadows pouring in from every crack and doorway.
“This ends now,” he says. “With you watching.”
Helena braces herself in front of Santa. Guards fall back, forming a line that cannot hold.
I force myself upright, swaying. My magic is gone, but I am still here. I am still the Yuletide Guardian, even if the title feels hollow without power behind it.
“Malachi,” I say. My voice carries farther than it should. “If you want this place, you go through me.”
He turns, amused. “You are barely standing.”
“Then it should be easy,” I reply.
Something flickers across his face. Not fear. Recognition.
“You still think you matter without your light,” he says softly. “That faith will be your undoing.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But it won’t be yours.”
I step forward, putting myself between him and the throne. My legs shake. My head spins. I do not stop.
Helena’s eyes meet mine, fierce and wet. She knows what I am doing.
“Amara,” she warns.
“I know.”
Malachi raises his hand. Power gathers, cold and sharp. The air screams.
I plant my feet and hold his gaze.
This is what the stories never show. The moment when you have nothing left but choice.
The blast hits.
It throws me back into the throne, pain flashing white. I slide to the floor, breath gone. For a second, everything goes quiet.
Then I hear footsteps.
Malachi stands over me, shadow curling around his boots. He smiles down at me like this was always meant to happen.
“Brave,” he says. “And pointless.”
I try to lift my head. I can barely see him through the blur. My body feels hollowed out.
He leans closer. “Now you watch the last light go out.”
Behind him, Santa struggles to his feet again. Helena moves to shield him, bleeding and shaking but unyielding.
Malachi straightens and turns back toward them, raising his hand for the final blow.
I scream his name, raw and useless.
He pauses.
Just long enough to look back at me.
“Oh,” he says lightly. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget you.”
The shadows surge.
And I can do nothing but watch as the fate of Christmas hangs in the balance.