Ron left a few months later, after he turned fifteen. They both partnered up and together started doing low-tier quests.
They came back bruised, bleeding, laughing—boasting about goblins that weren't goblins and plants that had "teeth."
I always patched them up.
Ron would sit silently while I cleaned his wounds, and Aron would complain about how potions taste like rotten apples. But even then, he'd smile and say, "Thanks, nurse. I owe you one."
He said that a lot.
---
Now, it's just me.
I'm twelve. Too young. Too small. Too elven.
Three more years before I can join. Three more years of waiting.
The house is too quiet now. Ron doesn't leave behind crumbs on the table, and Aron isn't here to argue with chickens or fall off ladders or beg me to let him "practice parrying" with a broomstick.
I walk past the training post Aron built behind the house every day. It's crooked, leaning a little, with one of his wooden swords still stuck in it.
I haven't touched it.
---
Some days, they return. Just for a night.
They stumble in around dusk, covered in dirt and wild stories.
A troll who turned out to be a sheep. A haunted house that was actually just full of angry cats. A quest to find rare mushrooms that ended with Ron allergic and Aron falling off a cliff—again.
I laugh. I patch them up. I listen.
But every time they leave, something in me feels smaller.
Like I'm falling behind.
---
I'm stronger than both of them. I always have been.
Ron says it's the elven blood. I think it's the rage.
I train every morning now. I swing a sword in the forest behind the house, where no one can see me. I practice healing spells until my fingers are numb and my mana runs dry. I carry buckets of water just to get stronger.
One day, I'll be strong enough to walk beside them.
One day, I won't be left behind.
---
That night, I dream of Aron again.
He's laughing, chasing a butterfly with that stupid wooden sword of his, yelling something about destiny. And I'm chasing after him, just barely catching up, trying not to trip on the roots under my feet.
He turns back, smiling, hand outstretched.
"I'm glad you're here," he says.
I reach out—but he vanishes.
And I wake up.