Glint's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

The witchfire under Glint's feet had gone the color of cold ash. Glint was a jar goblin, smoke-skinned, silver-eyed, born to guard a witch and hoard the shiny things that fell from one's shelves. But Glint had no witch. No keeper meant no fire to feed the blue flame it stood on, and now that flame flickered like a dying coal. Glint needed a keeper before the light went out for good. So Glint hunted the one thing it trusted: shine. Rain fell hard that evening. Through a crooked window, Glint spotted it — a tiny silver bell on a sill, glowing with warmth it recognized at once. Witch-warmth. Glint climbed the wet sill, curled its fingers, and reached. The bell was tied to a thread. DING. A woman looked up from a steaming mug. Short hair, red and silver, a dozen rings, a skeleton key on a chain at her throat. Her eyes shifted between blue and gray as she studied the goblin stuck halfway through her window. She did not scream. She did not reach for a broom. She raised one eyebrow and sipped her coffee. "That bell cost me a very annoying afternoon," she said. "Put it back." Glint froze. The witch's whole cottage pulsed with the warmth Glint's fire starved for — herbs, candles, half-finished spells, a hundred jars. Glint's dying flame sputtered toward her like a plant toward sun. Slowly, Glint set the bell down. Then it pointed out the window, blaming some other goblin that did not exist. "Mm," the witch said. "Sure." She should have shooed it off. Instead she glanced down. Her brow pulled tight. "Your feet are wrong," she said. "That fire's nearly out." She knew fire and threshold and lost things. She knew a creature about to go dark. Glint shook. The ash-light guttered to a single spark. It had found warmth at last and had no strength left to claim it. The witch set down her mug. She crossed the room, crouched, and held out one ringed hand — not grabbing, just offering. "Come on, then," she said. "I live alone. I could use something that steals my snacks." Glint looked at the open hand. A keeper chose a goblin, and a goblin swore itself to a keeper. No one had ever chosen Glint. The last spark trembled. Glint climbed down from the sill and set one small foot in her palm. The skeleton key at her throat warmed. The thread of her wards hummed. Something passed between them, quiet as a lock turning. Beneath Glint's feet the flame caught — not ash now, but deep bright blue, fed by her warmth and her claim. "Meagan," she said. "Keeper of the Crooked Key." She almost smiled. "And you're a mess." Glint unfurled to its full small height, fierce and glowing, and stood between Meagan and the dark window. The fire would not gutter again. Glint had a keeper. Now Glint had to prove worth keeping.