Rothe's Arc

Chapter 1 of 11

Rothe drifted closer to the candle on the table beside Miri's bed. The flame stretched toward him, brightening as his blue and gold wisps passed through it. He had practiced this each night since Artur brought her back — keeping one flame always burning near her, using it to hold himself steady in the mortal world. It worked. The constant heat anchored him better than stillness ever had. Miri carried the flame with her everywhere now. She'd transferred it to a small lantern that morning, cupping her hands around the glass as she walked through the cottage. Rothe followed, watching the fire pulse brighter when he drew near. This was progress. Fire responded when stone and wood did not. If he could learn to shape it, to direct it, he could intervene the next time someone moved toward her with threat in their eyes. But someone had noticed. Rothe saw him three times now — a man in worn traveling clothes, always at a distance, always watching. The stranger carried a leather journal with diagrams on the cover. He'd been sketching near the cottage that afternoon, his pencil moving across the pages while his eyes tracked Miri's lantern. The flame never dimmed, never flickered, even when wind should have snuffed it out. Unnatural. Observable. Dangerous. Rothe positioned himself between the stranger and the cottage window. His blue and gold form thickened in the space, condensing until the mist caught the firelight. The man looked up from his journal and stopped sketching. His eyes fixed on the exact spot where Rothe hovered. For the first time since following Miri from death, Rothe felt seen — not by her, but by someone who might understand what it meant that the flame refused to die.