An Infernal Yuletide

An Infernal Yuletide

The snow fell in quiet flurries, blanketing the cobblestone streets of the ancient mountain town of Skaldhaven. Lanterns glowed warm against the darkness, their fiery light flickering against the edges of looming stone buildings and ancient wooden huts. In this remote Alpine enclave, festive wreaths adorned every door, pine garlands hung low between cottages, and the scent of spiced mead and caramelized nuts wafted through the crisp air. Yet, despite the merriment, an air of unease crept in the shadows—a whisper here, a glance there. Whispers of the Crimson Devil who visited each Yuletide night to exact a toll on the town’s guilty souls.

From the balcony of the Frosted Rose Tavern, Alara watched the revelry below, her scarlet lips curled in faint amusement. Her figure cut an intoxicating silhouette against the frosted glass panes of the upper room. She wore a red bikini trimmed with white fur that hugged her lithe frame, revealing alabaster skin kissed by the deep glow of lantern light. Draped across her shoulders was a miniature red cape fluttering in the evening breeze, its edges lined with fur that shimmered in the lamplight. Her hands, encased in crimson gloves that reached her elbows, toyed with a ribbon adorning an extravagant silver-wrapped gift box. Long pink hair cascaded down her back, framing two crimson devil horns that gleamed like polished coral. Her eyes, a piercing shade of fuchsia, surveyed the scene below with a mix of curiosity and calculation.

“You’re going through with it, then?” a gruff male voice interrupted her reverie.

Alara turned slightly, her horns catching the light. Behind her, standing amidst an assortment of empty tankards and Yuletide ornaments, was Thalos—a towering figure cloaked in midnight black leathers. His wolfish features were rugged, a face that mirrored Skaldhaven itself: sharp, cold, and relentlessly weathered. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, his steel-gray eyes fixed on the gift she cradled.

“Of course I am,” she purred, her voice silky yet laced with a quiet menace. “The terms were set. Their sins are written in blood, Thalos.”

“Their sins are old,” he countered, stepping forward. “This town already pays the price in secrets and shame.”

“Not to me,” Alara retorted, her gloved fingers brushing across the ribbon on the box. “Perhaps that’s the real injustice tonight, don’t you think?”

Thalos sighed, running a hand through his disheveled dark hair. The soft glow of the tavern firelight reflected off the long scabbard strapped to his back. “The townsfolk think you’re just a myth—a twisted legend to scare children into obedience. They aren’t ready to face the truth.”

Alara’s lips curled humorlessly. “That’s the beauty of it. Legends can’t be stopped.” She moved past him, the soft click of her heeled boots against the wooden floorboards punctuating her words. “Stay here if you prefer warm ale and cowardice. I, however, have work to do.”

The Hunt Begins

The streets were more alive than she anticipated. Revelers danced and sang around large bonfires, their jovial energy contrasting against the cold, foreboding facades of ancient stone buildings. Wreathed in shadow, Alara glided past the townsfolk unnoticed, her devil horns hidden beneath the hood of her cape. The silver-wrapped gift in her arms gleamed eerily under the moonlight, drawing occasional curious glances, but none lingered too long. Those who looked closely swore they felt a chill that wasn’t the winter breeze.

She soon entered the edge of the forest, where the merriment faded to eerie stillness. It was here, among frozen trees heavy with snow, that she would begin. The names of the guilty echoed in her mind, each one a weight she carried. Each Yuletide, the Crimson Devil did not come for the innocent but for those whose transgressions had gone unpunished. She was both executioner and fate, a consequence given flesh and form.

Her first stop was Magnus, the town’s wealthiest merchant, whose fortunes had been built on deceit and exploitation. His lavish cabin lay secluded at the heart of the forest, bedecked in garish golden ornaments and a grotesquely oversized spruce tree that extended through an open-roofed atrium. The man, wrapped in velvet robes, greeted her entrance with a mix of terror and disbelief.

“Y-you’re not real,” he stammered, his face pallid as he backed away, tripping over the edge of a bearskin rug. “Just a children’s fairy tale! Something mothers frighten their brats with!”

Alara tilted her head, amused. “Shouldn’t you have listened to those mothers, then?” she murmured, stepping forward. She set the gift down on the floor between them, the crimson ribbon shifting ominously as though alive.

“What… what are you doing?” he gasped, his eyes glancing between the gift and her unyielding stare. His bravado melted away entirely as the ribbon unfurled on its own, the box creaking open to release a burst of dark, fiery energy that swallowed the room.

The Weight of Judgement

When the light faded, the cabin lay silent. No trace remained of Magnus, only the singed edges of the rug and the shattered remnants of gilded ornaments. Alara adjusted her cape, brushing a strand of pink hair from her horns. One soul down, two to go.

By the time she returned to the streets of Skaldhaven, the revelry had begun to wane. Drunken songs gave way to quiet murmurs, and the bonfires dimmed. Thalos stood waiting for her near the town square, his expression unreadable but his sword hand twitching slightly as she approached.

“It’s done,” she said simply, her voice carrying the weight of finality.

Thalos didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied her as though searching for some semblance of humanity amidst her devilish guise. “Does it ever end?” he finally asked. “The cycle of punishment?”

Alara stopped, snowflakes catching on her lashes. Her fuchsia eyes glimmered with an emotion too fleeting to name. “Not until the ledger is clean.” With that, she vanished into the night, leaving behind only the faint echo of hooves on cobblestone and the lingering scent of brimstone.

Genre

Dark Fantasy