Seaphina, The Keeper of Santa’s Scrolls

In the depths of the the main North Pole building, is the home of Seraphina. Her silver hair, braided into intricate patterns, cascades down her back like moonlight on freshly fallen snow. Her eyes, ancient and knowing, cradle centuries of memories—the laughter of children, the twinkle of stars, and the hushed conversations of elves long gone.

Seraphina’s role is sacred: she is the Keeper of Santa’s Secrets. Her domain is a dimly lit chamber deep within the North Pole’s heart—a sanctuary where ancient scrolls unfurl like winter blooms. These scrolls bear the weight of centuries, their ink etched by elves who walked this snowy path before her. They contain spells to mend broken toys, incantations to light the darkest nights, and secrets whispered by the auroras themselves.

Her quirk—the pendant she wears—holds a tiny snowflake encased in crystal. It hangs from a silver chain, resting against her heart. To the untrained eye, it’s merely an ornament, but to Seraphina, it’s a lifeline—a connection to the North Pole’s ancient magic. When she touches it, she feels the pulse of the land—the thrum of reindeer hooves, the laughter of snow sprites, and the whispered hopes of children.

Each morning, Seraphina stands before Santa’s door. She knocks three times, the rhythm echoing through the frost-kissed corridors. Santa, his beard as white as the snow outside, opens the door. His eyes crinkle in recognition. “Seraphina,” he says, “what secrets do the scrolls reveal today?”

And so, they consult. Seraphina interprets cryptic letters—the ones that arrive with no return address, written in ink that shimmers like starlight. She deciphers their hidden meanings—the wishes that transcend toys and sweets. Perhaps it’s a plea for kindness, a longing for lost loved ones, or a hope that stretches across continents.

Santa listens, his gloved hands resting on the scrolls. “What guidance do they offer?” he asks.

“Patience,” Seraphina replies. “And a touch of wonder.”

She advises him on matters of the heart—the children who need extra magic, the elves who seek purpose, and the reindeer who dream of soaring higher. Santa nods, his eyes kind. “You are the North Pole’s compass,” he says. “Guiding us toward joy.”

And so, Seraphina continues her work. She ensures that the North Pole remains a beacon of wonder—a place where snowflakes dance, and dreams take flight. Her pendant glows, its tiny snowflake whispering secrets. And when the auroras paint the sky, she stands on the threshold, silver hair catching starlight, eyes alight with ancient wisdom.