Chapter 17 #2
“Look,” Kenai said quietly. “At the housing complex on the east side.”
I squinted. Corporate housing wasn’t common in the U.S.
because of its complexity and cost, but it had a long, ugly history of exploitation.
It was often framed as a “benefit” that allowed employers to underpay workers while garnishing their wages for low-quality housing. “The buildings are different sizes.”
“Peary reindeer get the smallest units,” Taimyr explained. “Siberian herd gets mid-size. Finnish forest reindeer get the largest, but they’re the most isolated from the main campus.”
“Housing assignments based on subspecies,” I murmured, recognizing the pattern. “Separate and unequal.”
“Wait until you see the inside.”
Kenai’s hand found the small of my back as he guided me down the hill into the campus. Up close, no one even spared me a second glance. The frantic energy was palpable. No one had time to worry about a surprisingly small reindeer walking between two alphas standing a little too close.
“Guys, I’m not going to get mugged. You’re being obvious.” They both huffed but took only a very small step away from me.
Kenai badged us into one of the buildings, and I was greeted by a laboratory filled with glowing artifacts.
“Magical equipment research and development,” Kenai whispered in my ear.
The workers here were all obviously Peary reindeer, many with the same light or white hair as Kenai. A few looked up as we entered, but most kept their heads down.
Screens I suspected were powered by magic, not electricity, floated in front of them, full of graphs and runes. Even as a human, I could feel the magic thrumming through this place. But it didn’t feel like the soft snowflakes of Kenai’s bond. It felt…energized, like a live wire waiting to ignite.
And ignite it did. The miasma of the room shifted suddenly, and a massive icicle three reindeer tall manifested over a laboratory table, knocking the nearest worker backward. His companion helped him up, dusted him off, and they immediately went back to work.
“This place is primed for an incident,” I said.
Kenai nodded. “We get the dangerous magical work because we’re ‘naturally resistant to magical feedback.’ That would have put a Siberian reindeer out of work for a week.”
“But they all choose to be here, right?” I asked. “I mean, this isn’t forced labor.”
Taimyr’s laugh was bitter. “Technically? Yes, we all choose to be here. Just like humans choose to work for companies that pay minimum wage with no benefits—because the alternative is starvation.”
“Reindeer shifters are born with a connection to winter magic,” Kenai went on. “It’s part of who we are—we can fly, we can navigate in any weather, we can work with magical energies that would kill other species. But that connection requires regular reinforcement.”
“The North Pole operation provides that reinforcement—and commodified it,” Taimyr continued. “Work here, and your magic stays strong. Try to leave…”
“And you lose your abilities,” I finished, understanding flooding through me. “You become essentially human.”
“Worse than human,” Kenai said quietly. “Humans are adapted to live without magic. We’re not. Reindeer who leave the operation don’t just lose their supernatural abilities—they get sick, depressed, disconnected from their own nature. Most don’t survive more than a few years.”
I stared around the office. “So it’s not technically slavery, but the alternative is death.”
“They claim it’s not that serious—that the deaths aren’t related to the loss,” Taimyr replied.
“And so few leave, it’s hard to prove. But we know the truth.
Every reindeer down there ‘chose’ to sign their contract knowing full well they could never leave.
And their children will do the same when they come of age. ”
“What about wages?”
“Competitive,” Kenai gritted out. “Housing, meals, and healthcare provided. All the benefits of a modern employer. I remember…” He paused, guilt flashing across his face.
“Being excited when I saw my package. Peary reindeer always get the best pay—our magical influence is valuable to the North Pole infrastructure.”
“But now?”
“It’s just golden handcuffs. The hours and work are draining. Peary have the highest burnout rate, and the healthcare focuses on getting you back to work as quickly as possible—not actually treating the root cause.”
Taimyr pointed to a building marked with a red cross. “They treat magical fatigue with stimulants instead of rest. Tell you to try more ‘self-care.’”
Even from this distance, I could see the exhaustion etched into the workers’ faces—the dark circles, the slumped shoulders, the way they moved like people running on fumes. Someone was crying at their desk, trying to hide it.
“How many hours do they work during peak season?”
“Officially? Ten hours a day, max.”
“And unofficially?”
“Fourteen to sixteen. But we’re salaried—there’s no overtime. The extra work gets classified as ‘emergency response,’” Taimyr said. “Turn down too much, and you get flagged for ‘lack of team spirit.’”
“Which affects your performance reviews, housing assignments, healthcare priority…” The system snapped into focus. “It’s coercive without being technically illegal.”
“Exactly. And because we’re all ‘independent contractors’ rather than employees, most labor protections don’t apply anyway.”
“Contractor misclassification,” I muttered. “You should all have full benefits and representation.”
“And completely deniable,” Kenai added. “Everything can be justified as ‘subspecies strengths’ and ‘optimal job placement.’”
“What about organizing? Union activity?”
“Officially discouraged as ‘divisive to team cohesion,’” Taimyr answered. “Workers caught organizing get transferred to ‘special projects’—usually the most dangerous assignments available.”
“Like myself,” Kenai said with a tired grin.
I reached out and threaded my fingers through his, giving them a squeeze. “And you still keep fighting.” I gave him a small smile. “What have they offered you to stop?”
“The same they offer the other rabble-rousers. Early retirement packages,” Kenai replied with a scoff. “Generous severance. Of course, since leaving means losing your magic, those severance packages only apply while the reindeer live to collect. Nothing for their families.”
My lips pressed into a hard line. I’d seen all these tactics before—it was the corporate playbook. But with magic added to the mix, the stakes were higher. Lives were at risk.
As if to illustrate the point, I watched an elf supervisor approach a group of reindeer who’d been talking during their break. The exchange was brief and professional, but it ended with the workers dispersing quickly, heads down.
“That’s why we need legal action,” Taimyr insisted. “Individual resistance gets you disappeared. But a coordinated legal challenge…”
“Could force them to change the entire system,” I agreed. “But it has to be bulletproof. One legal misstep, and they’ll crush any organized resistance for the next century.”
Through our bond, I felt both men’s hope and determination—and underneath it, their faith that I could actually pull this off. Kenai squeezed my hand again, and Taimyr risked a soft kiss to my temple. Good thing we have you.
“I’ll need documentation,” I said, still watching the campus below. “Employment contracts, injury reports, wage data, housing policies—everything.”
“Dangerous to obtain,” Kenai warned. “But I’ll make it happen.”
I took one last look at the corporate campus—the modern benefits masking old hierarchies, the illusion of choice covering systemic coercion.
It was the perfect example of twenty-first-century exploitation: too systematic to be accidental, and too profitable to be abandoned willingly.
But it was also something I knew how to fight. I might not be a magical reindeer who could fly, but I was a lawyer—and a damn good one.
“Time to go,” Taimyr murmured. “We’ve been here long enough.”