Chapter 25 Sylvie
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sylvie
The North Pole was nothing like the cozy workshop of children’s stories.
Glass towers pierced the Arctic sky, their surfaces reflecting the aurora borealis in what would’ve been a beautiful display—if I didn’t know what lay beneath.
Inside the executive conference room, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the operation below: endless assembly lines where elves, reindeer, and all manner of magical beings moved with manic energy.
Jólnir—Santa Claus—sat at the head of a mahogany table that could’ve graced any Manhattan boardroom, his iconic red suit replaced by a perfectly tailored burgundy ensemble.
The jolly old elf of legend was nowhere to be seen.
Steel-gray eyes scanned the room above a neatly trimmed beard, and hair streaked white was slicked back from his peaked hairline.
Every inch of him radiated power. Literally.
I might’ve been human, but the magic rolling off him was palpable.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of a seasoned CEO addressing restless shareholders. “And lady.” His gaze flicked to me with dismissive politeness. “I understand you have some…concerns about our current operational framework.”
Kenai, Taimyr, and Aleksi flanked me, immaculate in the business attire we’d procured for this meeting.
But beneath their civilized facades, I sensed the wildness—the way Kenai’s fingers drummed against his thigh, how Taimyr’s shoulders remained coiled despite his calm, the dangerous stillness masking Aleksi’s rage.
We’d prepared as much as we could for this moment. Even with years of experience, I still felt that familiar flicker of doubt that came with every new negotiation—but I wasn’t alone this time. This was for them—for everything they’d fought for. Failure wasn’t an option.
I didn’t intend to lose. I reached for them through our bond, and they reached back—an unbreakable force. Together, we’d built an ironclad case for workers’ rights in a realm where magic had trumped jurisprudence. But no longer.
“Concerns is an understatement,” I replied, setting my leather portfolio on the table with a deliberate smack. The sound echoed like a gauntlet thrown. “What we have here is a systematic violation of basic labor rights that would make any employment attorney salivate.”
Santa’s brows rose—the first crack in his practiced composure. “I’m sorry, Miss…?”
“Hartwell. Sylvie Marie Hartwell, Esquire. Employment law specialist at Blackstone & Associates.” I opened the portfolio, spreading documents across the polished surface like cards in a high-stakes game.
“I represent the United Arctic Reindeer Clans in their petition for recognition as an official labor union.”
The temperature in the room plummeted. Around the table, Santa’s advisors—elves in sharp suits, more corporate lawyer than toy maker—shifted uneasily.
“How charming,” he offered, smiling like a wolf. “A human lawyer. Tell me, Miss Hartwell, what exactly do you think you understand about our operation here?”
“I recognize exploitation when I see it.” I slid the first document forward. “Eighteen-hour shifts during peak season without overtime compensation. Hazardous working conditions with inadequate safety protocols. Housing that violates established occupancy standards. And that’s only the beginning.”
Kenai leaned forward, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. “Last year alone, we lost twelve reindeer to preventable accidents—twelve members of our clan who won’t be returning to their families.”
“Tragic, of course,” Santa said, not looking up from the documents. “But the Christmas operation requires certain…sacrifices. The children of the world depend on us.”
“The children of the world depend on employees who are treated with basic human dignity,” I countered. “Or in this case, basic reindeer dignity.”
“Now, now.” Santa’s voice took on that saccharine tone I recognized from every bad boss I’d ever faced down. “I think there’s been some misunderstanding here. You’re not employees—you’re partners in a magical tradition that spans centuries.”
I felt Taimyr tense beside me, his usually steady demeanor cracking. This was a classic move, the appeal to tradition and duty. The same tactic every exploitative employer fell back on when confronted with inconvenient truths.
“Partners,” I repeated, my voice deadly calm. “Interesting word choice. Partners typically have equity stakes, don’t they? Decision-making authority?”
Jólnir’s smile faltered slightly.
“Because what I see here,” I continued, sliding another document across the table, “is a workforce generating billions in goodwill value annually while receiving compensation that wouldn’t meet minimum wage standards in any civilized jurisdiction.”
“Magic isn’t bound by human labor laws,” one of the elf advisors interjected, his voice prissy with superiority.
“Ah, but here’s where it gets interesting.
” I pulled out my trump card—a thick folder bound with ribbon that would’ve had Martha Stewart salivating.
“The Supernatural Labor Relations Act of 1723. Ratified by the Council of Mystical Beings and signed into law by every major magical entity, including—” I flipped to a particular page, “—one Odin Alfodr, current alias—Santa Claus.”
The silence that followed was deafening. I could practically hear the wheels turning in Santa’s head as he tried to figure out how a human lawyer had gotten her hands on magical legislation supposedly beyond mortal reach.
He stood. “An interesting exhibit. However…” He flicked his fingers, and the pages of the portfolio whipped open, stopping on a single clause outlined in golden light.
“Clause 2.3.469—‘No human person shall intervene in, obstruct, modify, or otherwise interfere with the adjudication, enforcement, or administration of matters governed by the Magical Legal Code, it being acknowledged that such matters fall exclusively within the jurisdiction of the Council of Mystical Beings and are beyond the scope of mortal jurisprudence.’”
He steepled his fingers in front of a wide grin. “So, I’m afraid, Miss Hartwell, I’m going to need to have you escorted off the premises, as your being here violates—”
“Actually,” I interrupted. Men—always trying to talk over me. But I wasn’t having it, and if he thought I hadn’t done my homework, he was dead wrong. I was Sylvie Marie Hartwell, Esquire, and I wasn’t about to lose.
I held out my hand, and Aleksi produced another scroll from his bag.
I unrolled it across the table. “The Act for Human Rights and Involvement of 1878, ratified by the same council. Clause 1.123—‘Humans who have established a permanent and magical bond with members of recognized magical species shall be deemed Bonded Affiliates and accorded the rights and protections of magical beings under this Act, provided that such bond remains intact and has been physically sealed.’”
One of Santa’s associates had stood—presumably to escort me out—but I shot him a look darker than coal, and he sat back down immediately. “So as you can see, I have every right to be here, petitioning the council for the rights of my bonded mates.”
I pulled my blonde hair to the side, revealing the three mate marks that now graced the back of my neck. The frost patterns swirled together—because, like us, we no longer had to stand alone.
Santa’s face reddened as his gaze flicked between me and my mates. “You’ve bonded with them?”
“Yes. So as I was saying before”—I flipped the original document back to the pertinent page—“the moment you established a formal employment relationship with sentient magical beings, you became subject to supernatural labor law. And according to Section 15.3 of the Act, any being providing services essential to a magical operation has the right to collective bargaining representation and full benefits as befits an employee, including—”
Santa cut me off, his facade cracking—the jovial mask slipping to reveal something far crueler underneath.
“You have no idea what you’re meddling with, little human.
The Christmas operation is bigger than your mortal concepts of fairness.
The magic that powers Christmas itself flows through these agreements. ”
He rose to match my stance. “Break them, and you risk destroying the wonder and joy that children worldwide depend on.”
It was a masterful play—appeal to the greater good, make us seem selfish for demanding basic rights. I felt my mates waver slightly beside me, the weight of centuries of conditioning pressing down on them.
But I hadn’t spent years in Manhattan boardrooms to be intimidated by a magical corporate bully.
“Funny thing about that argument,” I said, my voice clear and resolute.
“I’ve heard it before—from factory owners who claimed workers demanding safety regulations would destroy American industry.
From tech companies insisting that fair usage and licensing would stifle innovation.
From every boss who ever tried to convince their workforce that asking for dignity was somehow selfish. ”
I walked around the table, my heels clicking against the floor. “But you know what I’ve learned in ten years of employment law? Companies with happy, fairly treated workers consistently outperform those that rely on exploitation. Funny how that works.”
The explosion of magical energy that followed should’ve been terrifying.
The conference room filled with golden light as Santa’s true power manifested—ancient, vast, and utterly alien to human understanding.
The windows rattled, the air seemed to thicken, and I felt the crushing weight of centuries pressing down on my mortal consciousness.
But instead of cowering, I smiled.