(Old Man Claus POV)
Claus climbed the slight incline with slow, steady breaths, his lungs drawing in deep pulls of the cooling evening air.
In a few steps, he reached the tree where he had left his belongings. He gathered his things without rush, then lowered himself against the trunk of a towering oak, sitting upright with quiet ease. The bark pressed firmly against his back.
wind shifted gently through the clearing, brushing past the river and weaving between the three of them. The sky was fading now—gold bleeding into amber, then dimming steadily as the sun slipped below the horizon. Shadows stretched longer, until only a faint wash of evening yellow remained.
Night was coming.
Across from him, one of the boys—Luke—had begun scrambling to gather small logs and dry scraps. He crouched low, hurried hands fumbling as he struck one piece of wood against another, trying to coax even the smallest spark.
Again.
And again.
Nothing.
Claus watched in silence for a moment.
And then a faint breath escaped Claus's lips.
Air close to his lips turned red, and a soft and thin stream of flame slipped from his lips—narrow, controlled, no wider than a finger at first, then tapering even finer as it stretched forward. It didn't burst outward; it flowed, as a ribbon of light carried on breath alone.
It crossed the short distance between them and touched the wood.
The flame spread gently, licking along the dry edges before settling into a steady burn.
No explosion.
No untamed heat
Just enough for a spark.
Claus closed his mouth and exhaled the rest of his breath normally, the heat already gone from his body as if it had never been there at all.
The fire crackled softly to life.