Krampus dragged his chains across the frozen cavern floor, the bells clanging with each heavy step. Deep beneath North Peak, his lair spread through tunnels of ice and stone. He needed more space. More cells. More chains hanging from the walls. The naughty children were getting harder to catch each year, and when he did snare them, he had nowhere proper to keep them. His dream burned hot in his chest: a vast underground kingdom of punishment, with endless corridors and perfect acoustics for screams. He stopped at the main chamber and surveyed what he had built so far. The Crag of Krampus, he would call it. Silver coins and stolen treasures lined the walls, glinting in the torchlight. Wooden signs carved with Germanic warnings hung above each passage. One tunnel led to his workshop where he made switches from birch branches. Another opened into a storage room for his burlap sacks. But it wasn't enough. He traced a claw along the rock wall, imagining dozens more passages branching out like veins. Each one would hold cells for the wicked. Each cell would echo with the sounds of justice. This crag would become the heart of his operation, a proper home for his sacred work. His Krumps scurried into the chamber pulling their latest creation. The drill cart rattled on small wheels, its coal engine puffing black smoke. At the front, a drill bit made from smelted fruitcake and silver spun with a grinding whine. Krampus circled the compact machine, his yellow eyes gleaming. The Krumps chittered and pointed at the solid rock walls. With this, they could carve new tunnels in half the time. They could dig passages beneath the town itself, creating secret entrances wherever they needed. The drill bit screeched as it bit into stone, sending chips flying across the floor. Krampus watched the wall crack and crumble. His kingdom would grow. The Crag of Krampus would spread like roots beneath North Peak, and no naughty child would escape his reach. But catching them was only half the work. Krampus needed the townspeople to see what happened to the wicked. Fear worked better than chains. He climbed back up through the tunnels, his claws scraping ice. In the town square above, he began his final piece. He wove wicker into a cage, tall enough to hang above the crowd. Chains wrapped around the frame, and coal dust blackened the bars. The Krumps helped him hoist it up on iron posts. Krampus stood back and admired the Wicker Cage of Wrongdoing. When he caught the next naughty child, everyone would watch. They would see justice hanging above their heads. His operation was growing, piece by piece. The underground kingdom and the public display would work together. His dream was taking shape, and soon all of North Peak would know his sacred purpose.