Christmas Gifts

Dragonheart Calendar, Year 1010, July 10 — Clear
The Fiftieth.

Today, the sun shone so brightly.
The orphanage courtyard had shade and soft grass—perfect for an afternoon nap.

Most children huddled together, eyes closed, drifting to sleep.
Only one boy remained awake—little Leck—singing hymns in a voice clear as glass.
He always sat on the doorstep, poring over the Holy Scripture, though he couldn’t read a word.

I offered him candy.
He shook his head: “Mama said… never take things from strangers.”

My chest tightened.
His mother died in last year’s plague—just like my wife.

The cellar’s stench grows heavier.
I burn wormwood, but the blood-smell lingers.

Leck didn’t cry. He only looked at me and whispered:
“Uncle… will eating this really let me see Mama again?”

I nodded. “The Scripture says so.”

When the blood filled the bowl, he didn’t tremble like the others.
He smiled.

That night, I tried writing to my daughter.
I wrote—then tore it up.
“Father will heal you soon,” I wanted to say—
but the ink felt thick with blood, staining every page.

Am I mad?
To kill a hundred children… to save one?
God… tell me—what am I doing?

Dragonheart Calendar, Year 1010, September 8 — Fog
The Seventieth and Seventy-First.

The fog was so thick, the orphanage windows blurred like tears.

They were twins—Amy and Abel.
Hand in hand, they followed me.
Amy glanced back at the orphanage gate: “Will Sister Martha miss us?”
Abel hugged her: “We’ll visit her often, even after we’re adopted!”

My vision darkened.
The clay jars in the cellar were nearly empty now.

I carried Amy first. She cried: “Uncle… I miss Sister Martha.”
I covered her mouth—my tears fell on her cheeks.
My daughter had clung to me last night, sobbing: “Papa… I’m scared.”

Abel bit my hand.
I shoved him away—
his head struck the stone wall with a dull thud.
He crumpled, blood pooling around his small face.

I stood frozen.

Tonight’s entry is jagged.
The bite on my hand still burns.
I placed Amy’s hair ribbon and Abel’s smooth river stone in the drawer.
It now holds seventy-one such things.

The Pope says: “Almost there… only thirty more.”
But I feel my soul has already been torn into a hundred bleeding pieces.

Dragonheart Calendar, Year 1010, December 24 — Snow
The Hundredth.

Christmas Eve.
The orphanage’s tiny tree glittered with red threads tied by the children.

Little Ruth wore a dress faded white from washing.
She tugged my hand: “Uncle, guess my Christmas wish!”
“A pretty flowered dress,” I said.
Her eyes lit up: “How did you know?!”

I knew—because she always stared at noble girls’ dresses in the market.
So did my daughter.
I’d saved for months to buy her one…
meant it as her Christmas gift.
But seeing Ruth’s face… I changed my mind.

The cellar lamp flickered.
I watched Lucy—dressed in that flowered gown, laughing like sunlight—
and wept uncontrollably.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a candy:
“Uncle, don’t cry. Eat this.”

The knife fell.
Her small hand landed on the dress.
I couldn’t tell if the red was blood… or just the fabric.

That night, snow buried the cellar door halfway.
I knelt before the cross, coughing blood.
I said nothing—just knelt… all night long.

“Ugh!”

Every word in the diary reeked of iron and guilt,

making little Jack’s stomach churn.

He was the orphanage’s brightest—taught to read early.

Now, he wished he’d never learned.

Trembling, he flipped to the last page—

covered in cramped, frantic script.

Some letters he couldn’t decipher…

but fragments leapt out:

“The day has come. When I saw the dead tree sprout new leaves, I knew—
the Pope’s plan is half complete. The child is born.”
“They say her name is Kristine…”

He hadn’t finished the sentence—

when a voice cut through the silence:

“Find your marble?”

Jack jerked—the diary slapped to the floor.

He whirled around.

Old Charn stood in the doorway,his hood pulled so low only his wrinkled, bloodless mouth was visible.

He’d made no sound approaching—as if he’d stepped out of the shadows themselves.

Charn bent slowly, retrieved the journal.

“Just a storybook,” he rasped, voice lower, rougher.

“The nuns write these to scare disobedient children. See?”

He pointed to a smudged inkblot.

“Fake blood.”

Jack nodded numbly—

though the stain looked exactly like dried blood.

But fear locked his throat shut.

Then Charn lifted his head—

and Jack saw his eyes.

No pupils. Just milky, clouded voids.

Jack had never found the old man so terrifying.

“Come,” Charn said, reaching for his hand.

His fingers were ice-cold.

Jack flinched.

“No—no thank you, Grandpa Charn! I know the way back!”

He bolted—didn’t dare look back once.

Behind him, Charn closed the door.

He slumped against it, clutching the diary like a lifeline.

His lips moved—soundless.

Only shadows writhed across his face,

as if consuming him from within.

The celebrations in Servia finally quieted past 10 p.m.

As the city sobered, details of the dragon-slaying emerged.

And one truth stunned the people:

Princess Alice—the overlooked Second Princess—had delivered the final blow to the Dragon King.

Overnight, her name soared in public acclaim,her popularity rivaling the First Princess.

Yet sorrow shadowed the triumph:rumors spread that the Princess lay at death’s door,gravely wounded in battle.

She remained unconscious,rushed by the Empress to the Holy City of Eden for healing.