Age 11 — One Week After the Argument
Master Dren doesn't acknowledge the tension between Kaela and Lysara. He simply assigns them joint training for the entire week.
"Partner drills," he announces on Monday morning. "Fireborn and vel'Maredan will work together on integrated combat—magical support with physical offense. All day. Every day until you learn to move as one unit instead of three separate people."
Kaela and Lysara exchange a look that's carefully neutral.
"We already work well together," Lysara says quietly.
"No," Master Dren responds. "You work adequately together. There's a difference. Adequate gets people killed. I want better."
He leaves us to it, and for the first hour, everything is stiff and formal. Kaela executes combat forms while Lysara provides magical support. They coordinate through verbal instruction—"Barrier on left," "Reinforcement weakening," "Adjust stance"—like they're reading from a tactical manual.
By midday, the tension starts to crack.
We're drilling a sequence where Kaela moves through an obstacle course while Lysara has to maintain continuous magical reinforcement without breaking the spell. It's a test of focus and endurance for both of them.
Kaela is moving faster than Lysara anticipated. The reinforcement spell begins to lag, creating gaps in protection. Kaela pushes harder, trying to compensate, but the course is designed with traps specifically to test magical support systems.
One of the traps—a pressure plate that triggers throwing blades—catches Kaela's arm when her reinforcement drops for a fraction of a second.
The blade is training-dulled, designed to hurt but not wound seriously, but it still leaves a bloody line across her forearm.
Lysara immediately stops the drill and moves to Kaela, pulling up her sleeve to assess the damage.
"I'm sorry," Lysara says, and the words come out rushed. "I lost focus. I shouldn't have lost focus. The spell should have held."
"It's fine," Kaela says, but she's watching Lysara's hands shake as she examines the cut. "It's just a training injury."
"It's not fine." Lysara is already pulling out first aid supplies from the pack Master Dren always leaves nearby. "You could have been seriously hurt. If that had been a real blade—"
"But it wasn't," Kaela says gently. "And I'm okay."
Lysara cleans the wound with focused intensity, her movements precise and clinical. But I notice her hands continue to shake slightly. When she's finished wrapping the wound, she doesn't let go of Kaela's arm immediately.
"I was scared," Lysara says quietly. "During the drill. I was scared that I'd drop the spell. That you'd get hurt. And when I got scared, I did exactly what I was afraid of. I dropped the spell."
Kaela sits down on one of the wooden benches. "Fear makes us clumsy."
"Fear makes me useless," Lysara corrects bitterly. "I can sit in the library and analyze data. I can theorize about void mechanics. But when it comes to actual application, when there's real danger, I panic."
"No, you don't," Kaela says. "You performed flawlessly during the Millbrook evacuation. Your research saved lives."
"I was also terrified during Millbrook," Lysara sits beside her. "I was just better at hiding it."
They sit in silence for a long moment.
"I said you were scared during our argument," Kaela says finally. "And you were. But I didn't acknowledge that I was scared too. I was scared that you didn't trust me to handle the missions. That you didn't think I was capable. That maybe I really am just a warrior who thinks violence solves everything."
"You're not," Lysara says immediately. "You're one of the most thoughtful people I know. You just express it through action instead of analysis."
"That's kind of you to say."
"It's not kind. It's true." Lysara turns to face Kaela fully. "I think I was projecting my own inadequacy onto you. I was scared that I wasn't smart enough, and instead of dealing with that fear, I attacked your approach as if that would validate mine."
"Your approach is valid," Kaela says. "Mine is too. We're just different people with different strengths."
"I know that intellectually," Lysara says. "But understanding something intellectually is different from accepting it emotionally."
Kaela reaches out and takes Lysara's hand—the one that had been shaking, the one now steady enough to hold her securely.
"Then accept it emotionally," Kaela says softly. "Accept that you're brilliant and scared, just like I'm strong and inadequate in my own ways. Accept that we complement each other precisely because we're different."
Lysara looks down at their intertwined hands. "Is that what we're doing? Complementing each other?"
"I think so," Kaela says. "I think that's what we've always been doing."
The conversation shifts then. We move past the argument, past the tension, into something that feels like new territory. Lysara talks about the pressure she feels to be perfect, to have all the answers. Kaela talks about the fear that drives her need to protect, to fight, to make a difference.
Hours pass. Master Dren checks on us once, sees us sitting together in conversation, and leaves without interrupting.
By evening, something fundamental has changed between them.
That Night — The Rooftop
When Kaela and Lysara find me on the rooftop, they're holding hands.
It's not unusual for us to hold hands. We've been doing it increasingly as we've grown closer. But this is different. This is deliberate. This is a statement.
"We're okay," Kaela says when they settle beside me. "Lysara and I."
"I'm glad," I respond.
"More than okay," Lysara adds. Her voice is soft in a way I rarely hear. "We talked. Really talked. And I think we understand each other better now."
Kaela squeezes Lysara's hand. "We were both scared. And we were both taking it out on each other instead of admitting we were scared."
"But now?" I ask.
"Now we're still scared," Lysara says. "But we're scared together. And that feels different."
We sit together under the stars, the three of us, but I notice something has shifted in the dynamic. Kaela and Lysara are still connected to me, still my companions, but they're also connected to each other in a way that feels more intimate than before.
It's not romantic, exactly. But it's more than friendship.
"I've been thinking about something," Lysara says after a while. "About what it means to care about someone. About the vulnerability that comes with it."
"That's very scholarly of you," Kaela teases gently.
"I'm serious." Lysara's voice is firm but not defensive. "When I was scared I'd drop the spell and you'd get hurt, I realized something. I don't care about you just as a fellow scout or a training partner. I care about you. The person. And that scares me because caring about someone means they have power over you. They can hurt you."
"We can all hurt each other," I say carefully. "That's the risk of being close to anyone."
"I know that now," Lysara says. She looks at Kaela. "And I choose it. I choose to be close to you despite the risk. Despite the fear."
Kaela leans over and rests her forehead against Lysara's. It's a gesture of profound intimacy—not quite a kiss, but more than a simple touch.
"I choose it too," Kaela says quietly. "Even though it terrifies me."
I watch them, and I realize that my two closest friends are finding something with each other that's separate from me. That's independent of me. And instead of feeling excluded, I feel grateful.
Kaela and Lysara shouldn't exist only in relation to me. They should exist for each other too. They should have their own bond, their own connection, their own reasons to be close.
"What about you?" Lysara asks, turning to look at me. "What do you choose?"
"I choose to support both of you," I say. "To make space for what you're building. To understand that you don't need me to validate whatever this is between you."
Kaela takes my hand with her free hand, so now we're all connected—Lysara holding Kaela, Kaela holding me, and all of us sitting under stars that pulse with ancient power.
"I think," Kaela says softly, "that the three of us are going to be okay."
"I think so too," Lysara agrees.
I don't speak. But I hold their hands a little tighter, and that feels like enough of an answer.
The Next Week
With the tension between Kaela and Lysara resolved, the scout corps feels the shift immediately.
Morale improves. The factions that were forming dissolve. Training sessions are more focused. Missions feel coordinated and strategic instead of desperate.
Master Dren observes the change and seems satisfied.
"You've learned something important," he tells the three of us after a particularly successful training day. "You've learned that disagreement doesn't have to mean dissolution. That conflict can strengthen bonds if you navigate it correctly."
"We also learned that we were both right and both wrong," Kaela adds. "That different perspectives aren't threats—they're strengths."
"Exactly," Master Dren says. "Most people never learn that lesson. Most people let disagreement become division. You've chosen differently. That will serve you well."
Elder Stoneheart pulls me aside during the next council meeting.
"Your trio is stronger now," he observes. "The argument tested you, and you emerged more cohesive. That's rare among young people."
"We hurt each other," I say quietly.
"Yes. And you recovered. That's the part that matters." He pauses. "The void will test you in ways that are far worse than argument. You'll face decisions where no option is good. You'll have to make sacrifices. You'll carry losses that will reshape who you are. An argument over strategy is relatively minor in the scope of what's coming."
"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" I ask.
"No," Elder Stoneheart says. "It's supposed to prepare you. The argument was a rehearsal for larger conflicts. You learned that you can navigate disagreement and still function as a unit. That's knowledge you're going to need."
Age 11 — One Month After the Argument
Life settles into a new rhythm.
The missions continue, now guided by collaborative strategy between Lysara's analysis and Kaela's tactical thinking, with my curse power providing the magical force to back up their planning.
The scout corps grows more skilled. The void corruption continues to spread, but at least now we understand its patterns. We're not winning, exactly, but we're no longer just reacting helplessly.
And Kaela and Lysara move through the world with a comfort between them that speaks to something deeper than friendship.
They don't discuss it. Ren and I don't push them to define what they are to each other. But everyone in Verdwood can see that something has changed between them—a connection that's both romantic and more than romantic, intimate and also practical, emotional and grounded in genuine understanding.
On the rooftop one evening, with the three of us watching ley lines pulse overhead, Kaela says something that feels important.
"Thank you for not making the argument into a problem," she says. "Thank you for letting us work through it."
"Thank you for not taking sides," Lysara adds. "For holding space for both of us to be scared and wrong and learning."
"That's what being close to someone means," I say. "Being present through the messy parts, not just the good parts."
Lysara reaches over and takes both our hands.
"I think I'm in love with you both," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
Kaela's breath catches. "Like... romantically?"
"I don't know how to categorize it," Lysara admits. "I know I care about you in ways I've never cared about anyone else. I know I want to protect you and be protected by you. I know I want to build a life with you both, whatever form that takes."
Kaela pulls Lysara close. "I feel the same way."
I look at the two of them, and then at myself, and I realize something that should probably scare me but doesn't.
"So do I," I say quietly. "I love you both. Not in exactly the same way, maybe. But I do."
The three of us sit under the stars, holding each other, and I feel something settle into place.
This is what we are. Not just a team. Not just friends. Something more complex and more real than simple categories can capture.
We are bound to each other in ways that will probably change and evolve as we grow older. But the core of it—the fundamental commitment to each other's survival and happiness—that feels permanent.
That feels like home.