But that knock—that imagined knock, I only thought it was a knock—did not sound wet, like a piece of earth. My heart bucks and a fear I recognize all too well comes over me.
I do not move, other than my pounding heart. It was nothing. It was nothing, and I have nothing to fear.
Another knock comes.
This one is undeniable. Despite the rain, so loud on the roof that I can hardly hear my own breathing, and despite the wind, which howls past the cottage, that is unmistakably someone’s fist pounding at the door. My throat dries and tightens. Did I not cast the spell to not be seen?
I imagine the size of the fist it would take to make that sound, audible over the rain, and the strength someone would need to possess. Even to reach the cottage in the first place cannot have been easy.
Dread fills me, chilling me from head to toe. I wave a hand at the shutters out of an old habit, but they are firmly shut and latched so tight that even my panicked magic does not budge them.
Whoever is outside cannot get in…unless they have the strength to break down the door or punch through my protection spells and the walls itself.
More questions flood my mind, carrying on the wave of my dread. Who would come here in the middle of a terrible storm? Who in all the lands would think to knock on my door? I know the rumors that are said about me in every village I have ever visited, because I have had a hand in starting those rumors. On the few occasions that I’ve left the cottage and spent time in cities and villages since I lost my coven, I have made a point of asking a quiet question or two to someone in a tavern who looks like they are fond of travel.
I do not exaggerate much. I am true to the extent of my powers, which are considerable in comparison to someone who cannot wield magic. I am also true to my desire to be left alone.
I have heard there is a witch in Athica who lives by herself, I will say, keeping my voice low and checking over my shoulder as if I expect to be overheard. I have heard she is powerful and angry. Have you heard of this witch? She requires many miles of space around her cottage or else… I let the person I am talking to fill in the blank of what or else might mean.
Gossip is a tried and true way to put information into the world. Travelers need some form of payment for their presence at an inn, and a neat piece of gossip is a way to form quick bonds with other people. I know these travelers.
And yet someone is here. In all the years no one has dared. Perhaps they know not where they are or who I am. A lost wanderer in the storm. Empathy overwhelms me but still I am wise to keep my guard up.
Cautiously, I finish standing up, shaking myself out of my frozen, indecisive state.
It is only a few steps to the kitchen, where the athame hangs from a hook, cradled in a leather sheath. I swing the sheath over my head and pull it into place on my shoulder, then draw the athame.
I am more grounded the moment my fingers close around the silver hilt. The blade is sharp and well-maintained, and I have practiced with it for years.
A deep exhale steadies me as I wave a hand at the grate. A roaring fire springs up, filling the cottage with flickering orange light. The flames leap higher and higher, throwing heat out of the grate as well, and the power settles me even more.
There. Armed with a blade and with my powers, I face the door as a third knock forces the wooden door to tremble.
With a few deep breaths, I approach the door, leaving a foot or two of space between myself and the thick wood. On the other side is a stranger.
Still, I wait for a few more seconds, half of me praying that this strange visitor will disappear back into the rain and half of me praying that they will knock again. It is such an odd sensation that I feel almost dizzy with it. Or is that another shift in the magic? I cannot tell. A person at my door is so out of the ordinary that I can do nothing but face each second as it comes.
“Who goes there?” I call out. My voice does not waver. Strength finds me even still. I imagine my coven at my back, waiting with their chins held high, armed with their own powers and their faith in me.
That is always how they were. That is why they decided to go and fight in the war.
“I am alone,” a voice says through the door, rumbling and gruff. Strong, even through solid wood. “And my portal has failed me. My commander”—a peal of thunder drowns out a few words—“come to you. He said you may be able to help.” My first reaction is one of shock. I am stunned. There is a man outside my door. With a voice that brings a certain feeling to the depths of me that I haven’t felt in so long.
I push aside the delicious sound of the being’s voice and focus on his words.
“Your commander?” I question. What reason would a commander have for sending a soldier here? To my lands, where I am the only person for miles? What business would an army have? “Why are you here?” The thinly veiled anger is deliberate. “This is my property,” I call out.
“I came to collect flowers for a wedding,” he says, his voice seeming carefully tense. I wish I could hear him better, but I would have to open the door to do that, and I will not be reckless about opening the door. Instead I stare at the intricately carved doorknob. The metal holds a spell within it. No one shall pass who wishes me harm. I remind myself of that spell as I soak in the stranger’s tale.
Flowers for a wedding? Who sends a soldier to collect flowers for a wedding?
“Show them to me,” I tell him. “Bring them to the window.” I’m lifting my hand to open a pair of the shutters when he makes a sound.
“I sent them through my portal before it failed. I don’t have them any longer.”
A sarcastic laugh leaves me. How utterly ridiculous a lie. “Then how can I trust you?”
There is another long pause. My heart flutters, and it is not the flutter that warns me of danger. It is the flutter of curiosity. Who is this man? And what has truly brought him?
