Rothe's Arc

Chapter 2 of 11

The man stood at the door when Miri opened it. He held his journal open to a page near the middle, turning it so she could see the sketch. Rothe drifted closer, his blue and gold wisps gathering at Miri's shoulder. The drawing showed him exactly as he was — not a blur or a trick of light, but the shape of his form rendered in careful pencil strokes. Rothe had two choices. He could retreat into the cottage, hide until the man left, preserve the secret of his presence. Or he could use this. The stranger had seen him clearly enough to draw him. That meant the man had the ability to perceive what most could not. Rothe pulled more heat from Miri's lantern, thickening his form until the wisps condensed into something almost solid. The stranger's eyes tracked the movement. His hand reached for his pencil. Miri stepped between them. She took the journal from the stranger's hand and studied the sketch. Her fingers traced the edge of the page. "You can see him," she said. Not a question. The man nodded. Rothe watched her expression shift — surprise, then calculation. She glanced back at Rothe, then at the stranger again. "What else can you see?" The man pulled a second sketch from his satchel. This one showed a weathered stone platform in the woods, moss growing between the cracks. Blue and gold light pooled around it like water. Miri invited him inside. The stranger set up his journal on the table, flipping through pages of drawings — spectral forms, unnatural flames, objects that existed between states. Rothe recognized the marks of someone who had been searching for proof. The man pointed to a small stone shelter he'd built near the forest edge, a temporary camp where he'd been watching for weeks. Rothe felt the shift happen. This was no longer a threat to hide from. This was someone who could document what Rothe was trying to learn. The stranger could see him practice with fire, record what worked and what failed. Rothe moved to the candle on the table and pulled the flame toward him until it bent sideways. The man's pencil moved across a fresh page, capturing every wisp.