“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 thebest 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.”
