The cabin was quiet, the fire in the hearth crackling softly as shadows danced along the walls. Mrs. Claus sat at the head of the long wooden table, her bow resting against the chair. Smoke lay at her feet, his ears twitching with unease. Across the table, Snegurochka stared out the window, her dark eyes scanning the snow-covered forest beyond. Claude busied himself at the counter, arranging plates of cured meats and fresh bread.

The knock at the door shattered the quiet. It was deliberate and firm, the sound echoing through the small cabin. Mrs. Claus rose, her sharp eyes darting toward the door. Smoke growled low in his throat, his hackles rising.

Claude stopped what he was doing, his hand instinctively going to the knife on his belt. “Expecting anyone?” he asked softly.

Mrs. Claus shook her head. “No.”

The knock came again, louder this time. Mrs. Claus motioned for Claude to stay back as she moved toward the door. Bow in hand, she opened the door a crack, her muscles tensed for a fight.

The figure standing on the threshold wasn’t Volk. Instead, it was a cloaked woman with sharp eyes and a crooked smile. Granny Night.

“Well,” Mrs. Claus said, her tone icy, “this is unexpected.”

Granny Night’s smile widened. “Good evening, Mrs. Claus. May I come in?”

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Mrs. Claus didn’t lower her bow. “Why are you here?”

“To talk,” Granny Night replied smoothly. “I’ve come to propose a truce.”

Granny Night stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the cold mist following her like a shroud. She moved with deliberate slowness, her sharp eyes scanning the room. Snegurochka tensed, her expression hardening as Granny Night’s gaze landed on her.

“This is quite the gathering,” Granny Night said, removing her shawl and draping it over the back of a chair. “I’ll get straight to the point: we have a common enemy.”

“Volk,” Snegurochka said flatly.

Granny Night inclined her head. “She’s growing stronger by the day. If we don’t stop her now, she’ll become unstoppable.”

“And you want us to help you,” Mrs. Claus said, her voice laced with skepticism.

Granny Night chuckled. “I want you to summon Jack Frost. He’s the only one with enough power to take Volk down.”

The room fell silent. Mrs. Claus’ jaw tightened, and she exchanged a glance with Snegurochka. The tension in the room was palpable.

“You think we’d trust you?” Snegurochka said, her voice sharp.

“I don’t care if you trust me,” Granny Night said, her tone calm but firm. “I care about survival. And unless you have a better idea, you’ll listen to me.”

After much deliberation, Mrs. Claus reluctantly agreed to hear Granny Night out. The tension eased slightly as Claude served plates of food, though the atmosphere remained far from cordial. Granny Night reached into her bag and pulled out a flask of thick, spiced eggnog.

“A toast,” she said, pouring the drink into four glasses. “To survival.”

Tense moments passed as they imbibed.

Mrs. Claus eyed Granny Night warily but said nothing. She reached for her glass, but her attention was briefly drawn to Snegurochka, who muttered something under her breath. In that moment, Mrs. Claus picked up the wrong glass—the one Granny Night had been drinking from.

Granny Night’s sharp smile faltered for a split second as she noticed, but she said nothing. Mrs. Claus drank deeply, the rich, spiced flavor warming her throat. She set the glass down and continued the conversation, unaware of the faint sheen of saliva that lingered on the rim.