Tyrancilcus Rex wasn’t supposed to be in the northern reaches.

The wind here cut like sharpened glass, and snow swallowed footprints as soon as they formed. Pines leaned under frost-heavy branches, whispering secrets between creaks. The sky above shimmered with a cold aurora that felt too still — as if holding a breath.

Rexy adjusted his red scarf, pulling it higher over his muzzle. “Perfect place for a vacation,” he muttered, watching the vapor curl from his breath like smoke.

He wasn’t here for fun.
He was tracking a signal.

More specifically: a distress beacon that shouldn’t exist. One that pulsed on a frequency older than any world he’d stepped into. Soft. Rhythmic.

Alive.

He found the crash site in a frozen clearing at the edge of a ravine — trees blown outward in a spiral pattern, snow melted into glass, and streaks of shimmering red light staining the ice.

And in the center…

Something moved.

A creature lay curled in the snow, chest heaving, breath fogging in sharp bursts. Brown fur, powerful limbs, antlers glowing faint red — almost pulsing.

Rexy blinked. “No way.”

The creature raised its head weakly. Two red eyes met his, filled with fear and exhaustion.

It was Rudolph.

Not a cartoon.
Not a legend.
Something older, wilder — the creature stories tried to remember but softened over centuries.

Rexy approached slowly. “Easy. I’m not your enemy.”

Rudolph flinched as another pulse of red light flickered from his glowing nose, casting long shadows across the clearing.

“That beacon… that was you,” Rexy realized. “You called for help.”

A low rumble shook the ground.

Not from Rudolph.

From the ravine.

Rexy turned just as something crawled up from the darkness — a shape made of ice, bone, and ancient hunger. It moved like a predator but left no tracks. Its eyes glowed a dead, icy blue. Frost crackled in its breath.

A Frost Wraith.

A creature from the oldest winter myths — one that hunted heat, hunted light… hunted Rudolph’s glow.

Rexy hissed. “Should’ve stayed in Pixel Park.”

The Wraith lunged.

Rexy dove aside as a spike of frozen air slammed into the ground where he’d stood. Snow blasted outward, shards of ice embedding into the surrounding trees.

Rexy rose, shaking off frost. “Alright, snowcone. Let’s dance.”

The Wraith rushed him again. Frost formed on Rexy’s jacket instantly, stiffening the leather. He ducked under a claw swipe and rammed his shoulder into the creature, forcing it back a step.

Not enough.

Rudolph tried to stand but collapsed again, antlers flickering. The Wraith turned toward him.

Rexy snarled. “Not happening.”

He sprinted toward the beast and slashed with his claws — sparks and ice flew. The Wraith shrieked, stumbling, its form glitching between solid frost and swirling snow.

Then it struck.

A blast of frozen wind slammed into Rexy’s chest, throwing him back into a pine tree so hard snow cascaded from the branches.

His breath stung. Limbs numb.

And the Wraith moved toward Rudolph.

No.
Not while he was breathing.

Rexy dug his claws into the ice, forcing himself upright despite the cold burning through his bones.

He glared at the creature. “You want that light? Come through me.”

Rudolph’s glow flickered weakly — then steadied.
He lifted his head and met Rexy’s eyes.

The red light pulsed once. Then twice.
A signal.
A shared rhythm.

Rexy understood.

“Alright, partner. Let’s blind it.”

He charged.
Rudolph’s nose flared bright — impossibly bright — casting a beam across the clearing like a flare igniting in darkness. The Wraith twisted, screeching as the heat and light tore through its frozen body.

Rexy leapt at the same moment and slammed into the creature’s core. The Wraith shattered, exploding into a vortex of icy shards that evaporated in the air like snow in sunlight.

Silence fell.

Rexy breathed hard. “That… was unpleasant.”

Rudolph managed a weak, grateful snort.

Rexy approached slowly, offering a steady hand. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

Rudolph leaned against him — heavier than he looked, but steady. Together they trudged through the snow, the aurora brightening overhead as if relieved.

When they reached the edge of the forest, Rudolph nudged Rexy gently, lowering his head.

And spoke — voice old and soft as drifting snow.
“Thank you.”

Rexy nodded, humbled. “Anytime.”

Rudolph’s antlers glowed. A portal opened — swirling, warm, inviting.

He stepped inside.

Just before vanishing, Rudolph looked back. “The worlds are shifting, Tyrancilcus Rex. Stay ready.”

The portal closed.

The winter night returned.

Rexy tugged his scarf tighter and trudged back toward the dark trees.

He shook his head.
“This universe needs a vacation.”

But he smiled.

Because for the first time in a long time…
he wasn’t walking alone.