The morning sun cut through the camp in dusty streaks, its warmth at odds with the grim work unfolding on every corner of the field. Outside, soldiers clashed wooden blades in heavy practice strikes, their boots grinding the dirt into powder. The sound of barked orders, the clash of shields, the hiss of arrows thudding into straw targets—these were the rhythms of survival, a chorus that reminded everyone in Oakhart's broken refugee camp that danger lingered close.
But inside the medical tent, those sounds softened to a dull hum, muffled by canvas walls and the heavy scent of herbs. Dried bundles of rosemary and sage hung from cords above the cots, their sharp fragrance mixing with the faint copper tang of blood. The air was cooler here, almost sacred, lit only by thin shafts of sunlight piercing through seams in the stitching.
Selene sat on a low stool at one of the cots, her sleeves rolled back as she tended to a boy whose hands trembled with pain. Enzo—one of the older children, taller than most and usually scowling—looked nothing like the sharp-tongued youth who often kept to himself. His face was blotched red with tears, and his shoulders hunched as if carrying a weight too heavy for him alone.
"I don't want to train," Enzo whispered, the words spilling out with the shame of defeat.
His hands, raw and blistered, rested in Selene's steady grip. The bowstring had eaten into his palms after just a few attempts, leaving his skin split and angry. He tried to pull away, but Selene's touch was firm, anchoring him, her presence as immovable as a stone in a river.
"It's not being forced," she told him gently, dipping a cloth into cool water. "If you want, you can help in another way. There are many ways to protect the people you care about."
Beside her stood Livy, clutching a clay bowl filled with water. The little girl who had once spat at the ground in defiance was now calm, her eyes wide and focused, eager to help. She passed Selene a clean strip of cloth, biting her lip with concentration. Her small frame seemed dwarfed by the quiet responsibility she carried.
Enzo tried to nod, but his shoulders shook, betraying him. Tears spilled faster, rolling down his face as he choked out, "I can't… my hands… they hurt too much."
The tent flap flew open, canvas snapping like a sail in the wind.
"Coward!"
Rory's voice split the space like a sword through still water. The nine-year-old stormed inside, fists balled at his sides, his small frame trembling with fury. Sunlight spilled around him like a halo of fire, casting his shadow long across the floor.
Enzo flinched, turning his face away, but Rory pressed forward, his voice cracking with raw grief.
"All our parents are taken!" he shouted, throat ragged. "My mothers are out there with those monsters, and you won't even try?" His voice broke, thin and sharp like shattering glass.
The soldiers' sounds outside seemed to vanish. Even the muffled thrum of arrows against straw targets faded away, leaving only the heavy silence of his fury.
Enzo's sobs deepened, guilt crushing him like a weight he couldn't throw off. Livy shrank back, her small fingers tightening around the rim of the bowl, water trembling at its lip. Her wide eyes darted between Rory's fire and Selene's calm, as if waiting to see which would consume the space first.
"Stop crying!" Rory shouted again, his body shaking under the weight of his grief. "Stop crying, you coward!"
But Selene did not move, did not flinch. Her hands remained steady on Enzo's palms, her eyes lifting slowly to meet Rory's storm. Her voice, when it came, was soft but unyielding.
"Rory," she said, calm as still water. "Look at his hands."
For a breath, Rory resisted. His fury held him rigid, jaw tight, eyes blazing past her words. But against his will, his gaze flicked down—and froze.
Enzo's palms were raw, the blisters swollen and torn, his fingers curled against pain that spoke louder than tears ever could. The sight knocked the breath from Rory's chest.
"He tried," Selene said, her voice carrying quiet gravity. "He fought through the pain until his body told him no more. He isn't a coward. He's brave enough to stop before he breaks himself. That is courage too."
Rory's fists clenched tighter, nails digging crescents into his skin. The words pressed against him, but his grief was too jagged to let them settle. His lips trembled, his voice brittle.
"But he got the chance!" His finger shot out, trembling as it pointed at Enzo. "Lieutenant Shawn let him train! I begged, and they said no. Even the General said no! I want to fight for my parents, I want to save them. But he—he gets to learn and throws it away!"
Every word was a wound. To Rory, Enzo's failure wasn't just personal—it was betrayal. A squandering of the one thing he wanted more than air.
Selene released Enzo's hands and reached for Rory instead. She took his fist in her own, her grip firm but gentle, and slowly pried his fingers open.
"Rory," she said softly, her gaze never wavering. "Courage is not only in lifting a blade. Sometimes courage is knowing your limits. Sometimes it is in healing instead of harming. Enzo's blisters are a badge of courage, not of cowardice."
The scent of rosemary and iron seemed to thicken in her lungs, and for the briefest moment, Selene felt a pang of déjà vu—callused hands in hers, another child crying, her own voice steadying someone long ago. The memory slipped away like water through her fingers, leaving her frowning faintly at its absence.
Her calmness was a wall, but Rory battered against it with all the desperation of a child drowning in grief. His jaw quivered, unshed tears blurring his vision.
"That's not courage," he muttered, his voice cracking. "That's giving up."
He tore free from her grasp and spun, shoving through the flap in a blaze of dust and sunlight. The canvas snapped shut behind him, the echo of his fury vibrating in the air like a struck drum.
For a long moment, no one breathed. The tent seemed smaller now, the silence heavier, as though Rory's anger had left a scar in the air itself.
Livy's shoulders sagged with relief, though her eyes lingered on the exit as if half-expecting him to burst back in. Slowly, she set the bowl down and stepped closer to Enzo, her little hand hesitating before landing on his shoulder.
"You're not a coward," she whispered, voice trembling but sure. "You tried. That's braver than most."
Enzo lifted his head, red-rimmed eyes meeting hers. For the first time, he didn't see pity there. He saw respect.
Selene finished binding his palms with steady care. Her smile was gentle but resolute. "You don't have to be a soldier to be brave," she murmured. "There are other ways to protect your people. Here, with me, you can keep them alive. You notice things others don't. That's a gift."
Her words wrapped around him like balm. Shame loosened its hold, replaced by something fragile but real. Purpose.
Enzo blinked through his tears, nodding slowly. Livy gave him a small, encouraging grin, and the corner of his mouth twitched in the faintest return. He might never wield a sword, but here—in the quiet hum of the medical tent—he had found a place where his strength mattered.
Outside, Rory's voice still echoed in Selene's mind, fierce and wounded, a storm not yet spent. His fire was the kind that could light others… or burn him alive.
For now, she turned back to Enzo, her hands steady, her voice calm, as the sounds of training outside rose once more.