Golden Box Book Publishing One Picture: Thousands of Words | Page 67

“My gift to you,” he said cradling her face. “Your conscience is
now clear. Your mother's darkness can never infect you, never posses
you, never harm you, but most of all, it will never influence you.”
She let out a deep sigh, releasing twenty-four years of pent up
fear. Then she nodded over her shoulder at her crumpled
grandmother lying passed out on the dirt floor.
“What should we do about her?”
Her father chuckled and pulled away.
“You're the guardian, it's your word that is the final word.”
She turned and faced the old woman.
“Rise. Hear your sentence.”
The old woman opened her eyes and slowly gathered herself. Then
she stood and faced the Guardian of the Watchtower of the North.
Grandmother's jaw was locked, her eyes like embers as she glared at
her only grandchild with contempt. She held out her hand and began
to summon another ball of energy.
“Enough of this!” the guardian yelled. She reached out and
snatched the ball of light from the old woman's hand. The old woman
recoiled.
“For your treachery, I will afford you the same courtesy your
daughter in law afforded your son, my father.”
“No,” her grandmother whispered. “It would be worse than death.
Please, just kill me.”
The Guardian shook her head. “We do no harm,”
“No harm?” her grandmother hissed, pointing to the grave. “Your
mother's corpse would say otherwise. I'm not surprised. She was a