Rothe's Arc

Chapter 8 of 11

Rothe stood outside the cottage as Miri slept, watching the road with the focus he had learned when guarding meant everything. The crown still glowed faintly above her head through the window, and he felt the pull of it even from here — not the weight of command, but the awareness that something had changed. The figure appeared at dawn, drifting up the path like fog. It wore robes that shimmered blue and pale, embroidered with patterns that seemed to move when Rothe looked directly at them. The spirit stopped at the cottage door and did not knock. It simply stood there, waiting, and Rothe moved to block its path. He gathered flame into his hands and let it burn bright, the way he had practiced in the potter's shack. The spirit looked at him but did not retreat. It tilted its head as if confused, then reached for the door handle. Rothe pushed forward, trying to drive it back with heat and presence, but his fire passed through the robes without effect. The spirit's hand touched the wood, and frost spread across the door's surface in delicate patterns. Rothe tried again, shaping flame into a wall between the spirit and the entrance. The spirit walked through it. He tried to shove it physically, using the weight he had gained through practice, but his hands met only cold air. The spirit pressed against the door, and ice crept further along the frame. Rothe felt panic surge through him — the first time since crossing the bridge that his resolve had fractured. He could not move this thing. He could not burn it. He could not even slow it down. Inside, Miri stirred, and pale flowers began to bloom where her feet had touched the floor the night before, their petals glowing faint blue in the early light. The spirit finally turned away from the door and looked at Rothe directly. It raised one hand and pointed past him, toward the forest where the monument stood. Then it drifted back down the path and faded into the trees. Rothe remained at the door, his flames dim and flickering. He had positioned himself as a guardian, and the lost soul had walked through him as if he were nothing. The lantern Miri kept by the window had cracked during the night, water pooling in its base and mixing with the glass shards. Rothe understood now what the crown had done. It had not just given Miri power over the dead. It had opened a door he could not close, and the lost would come looking for the one who could guide them. He would have to learn to protect her from spirits that answered to her authority, not his.