The
Wish­keeper

My robes swishing and quick steps clattering on the damp shadowy cobblestones of empty backstreets.

It's been a lucrative year, standing in for the Cleric—my height and jawline all it took to pass unnoticed beneath a hood among the endless magic extraction ceremonies. Who knew I'd end up with the power to do this over time. My lack of contribution wasn't noticed in the beginning. Now, when the Cleric takes back his place, the others comment on his low power levels.

Whatever he is up to on these excursions is inhibiting his ability. I bet he's working underground and getting paid handsomely to afford my silence, casting forbidden glamours for noble ladies whilst drinking and gambling nights away.

"I wish that was me."

No, not even wish. That should be me. I have this magic ability now too, I shouldn't be his stand-in, I'm even more powerful than him.

Why should my blood matter if I can extract power?

"Clank."

Spinning about in the light rain, robes billowing out, the edge of a shadow flits between the end of a street. Out of my reverie suddenly and taking in the surroundings.

A Shadow flits past another street entrance. Then another. It's circling in.

Shaken, my legs decide we are running into a side street. Hiding behind crates, my blood pumping feels like a cacophony to my ears.

Sound rings off the alley walls of a coach passenger departing. "Clank. Tap, tap, tap." On metal steps.

Peering around the debris, the coach is bathed in darkness—its details refusing to emerge.

Standing up. "What in hell's name are you doing?" with a waver in my voice.

Gruesome gnarled flesh in a fine suit faces me. This was not among the living. His eyes transfixed my body to the spot.

"Your wish.
Granted."

The coach door swung open next to him and my body started walking to the pitch black box without my control. "Take his place, I'll take his soul," he rasped, noting it down on his scroll.

Straining and fighting against the movement I could not break free. Rain falling on the balls of my eyes, not even in control of my eyelids.

"Tap, tap, tap." I climb in.

Darkness.   Silence.   Nothing.

Street lights peek through a crack in the shutters and fall upon a bedridden sickly child of 5 or 6. Hair matted to her face. A cloth in my hand drips cool water. I'm kneeling next to her.

A woman bursts into the room. "I'm back. I've got the draught brewed again." She kneels next to me, sliding an arm across my shoulders and placing her head against mine. "I hope this one helps."

Shakingly taking the draught being pressed into my hands.

A wife whispers. "Don't turn off your power. She needs you."

These hands… calloused, worn from care I never gave. My body feels foreign. My heart—someone else's.