ZARA OF INDOMITABLE SPIRIT

Zara was fifteen years old, and she had been Jailkeeper for five months. This meant that, if nothing at all had gone wrong, she might have lived to see fifty.

Something had gone very wrong.

Many people, especially those not of Bliss, don’t quite appreciate how much work goes into finding a new Jailkeeper. Because, contrary to some of the more outlandish rumours out there, the Bliss government does not, in fact, just snatch random children off the street.

No, it is a lengthy and rather arduous process that comes with its fair share of challenges.

The first, and arguably most problematic, of these challenges, is that whoever is chosen must be young. In their late teens at the most. Any older than that and their life force burns out twice as fast as it would have otherwise.

There are more than a few conjectures as to why this is the case; the prevalent being that an adult simply has less life force than a child.

Regardless of the why though, the fact remains that a child is needed for the role, and the younger they are, the longer they can last.

But this, of course, now leads to the question; how many children are intelligent enough, and brave enough, to truly understand what the position of Jailkeeper demands, and be willing to do it anyway?

Some will argue none. And maybe they’re right, considering how many Jailkeepers have ended up depressed and even resentful.

But then again, for every one who has been resentful, there have been more like Reef, Zara’s predecessor. A good, kind man who had been willing and proud to do his duty.

Zara had decided a long time ago to be more like Reef.

—❈—

KILGHARAH: HE WHO WHEN THEY MADE HIM THEY (FORTUNATELY FOR EVERYONE) BROKE THE MOULD

... she asks: “You can talk?”

Seriously? That’s what she’s interested in? I swear to God some people’s priorities are all over the fucking place.

Or maybe she’s in shock? Because, I think I remember seeing somewhere that people tend to focus on the weirdest things when they’re in shock.

Before I can sink any deeper into my idle wandering though, the old lady’s eyes widen.

“You can talk,” she says again, but it’s not a question this time, and I can’t help but quip.

‘Yes, I noticed.’

The old lady either doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t care, because she continues, eyes lighting up with fervour. “You’re awakened. You helped—” blood spurts out of her nostrils suddenly, freaking the fuck out of me and leaving her a coughing, wheezing mess.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

‘Holy shit! Are you okay?’ I ask.

I consider stepping closer to help her, but both the fact that I don’t really see how I could, and that she’d been kinda going all crazy on me before the whole blood thing, causes me to hesitate.

The old lady struggles to get her wheezing under control, then she rasps: “Why?”

‘What?’

“Why would you help him?” she asks, staring at me with big, angry, purple eyes.

And when I say her eyes are big, I don’t mean it in the way people do when they say Amanda Seyfried’s eyes are big, for example. No, when I say this lady’s eyes are big, I mean that she’s got some sort of Dobby the elf situation going on in her skull.

Good thing the rich purple colour of her eyes make them quite pretty, because otherwise that would be way too much eyeballs for anyone for look at.

Her eyes aside, her words leave me rather confused. Why would I help him? Help who?

What the fuck is she talking about?

That’s when it hits me.

‘Wait, you think I helped him?’

The old lady blinks, taken aback by my annoyed reaction, and for one second, through the wrinkles and sickly visage, she looks remarkably young.

I’m not done yet though.

‘He tricked me,’ I continue. ‘I heard him crying in the forest; “help me, help me” and when I went to look, some black hole swallowed me up and took me to him.

‘It’s not like I knew he would do any of this,’ I finish, gesturing at the battle still raging some distance away from us.

Of everything I’ve said, the old lady seems to have fixated on a single part.

“Black hole?” she asks. “Do you mean a shadow portal?”

“Well, it took me somewhere else and it was completely dark so... I guess?” I answer unsurely.

“How’s that possible?” she asks. “He shouldn’t be able to use such a spell from inside his prison.”

‘Lady, how the fuck would I know?’ I ask in return. ‘Hell, I should be asking you; you seem to actually know what’s going on.

‘Like, who the fuck the guy killing everybody is, for example.’

At my words, we both look at Evil McDickface, who, at that moment, snatches one of the butterfly people out of the air and almost casually slaps off the soldier’s head.

WHAT. THE. FUCK?!

Scariest of all, is that he does this even as some sort of magical Gatling cannon the soldiers have pulled out from somewhere unloads dozens of shots into his back.

“That’s Kopika,” the old lady says. “The Tainted One.”

Oh, great, he even has a bad guy epithet. Magnificent.

I sigh.

‘Look,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry about freeing him, but I think I can help. After all, if my fire could burst him out of his prison, then it should be strong enough to hurt the bastard.

‘So, just... I don’t know, try to find a safe place to hide in, before someone accidentally drops a meteor on your head, or something. Okay?’

The old lady stares at me intensely, and I see a hint of that youth again.

Finally, she says: “You’re right. I think you can help. Come.”

She tries to rise, only to collapse back to the ground with a pained grunt.

‘Yeah, I don’t think you’re going anywhere, lady,’ I say.

A furious gaze slams into me, and I can’t help but draw back at the intensity of it.

‘What? It’s true,’ I say defensively. ‘You’re fucked up right now; blood just came out of your nose like two minutes ago.

‘Your eye is even still bleeding.’

The lady draws a deep breath, calming herself.

“Fine,” she says finally, “bring me the Jewel.”

The jewel that I assume she’s talking about (seeing as it’s the only one anywhere near us), is the one on the pedestal close by.

It’s big, about the size of a grown man’s fist, and it has a wide, deep crack running through it.

Without really thinking about it, I fly over and snatch it up in one taloned foot and deposit it in the hands of the old lady.

She holds the jewel gently in her shaking hands, looking like she might cry, and it only now hits me: ‘Wait, that’s the prison?’

The old woman nods. “The Jewel of Tereema,” she says.

I look closer at the small object. I’d been inside that? Huh. Small world.

“It’s dying,” the woman says next.

It is?

I look again at the jewel. Besides the size and the big crack in it, it looks like any other jewel I’ve ever seen.

Then again, this lady seems to be the expert here, which is why my next question is: ‘Uh, can we fix it? Or, save it, or whatever?’

“We might be able to,” she says. “But I’ll need your help.”

‘Sure, what do I need to do?’

The old lady moves the jewel to her left hand, then holds out the right to me.

“Take my hand,” she says.

Okay.

I reach forward and put one of my wings in her hand, and the world turns white.