Chapter Thirty-One – The Integration

  Mareday, 20 Tamihr, Year of Folivor the Restful Sloth, 489 years AWA

  The Danrorr’s Fury, Matalis Ocean

  The following morning, after breakfast and lowering the jolly boat to check on Meri, who proved to be no worse for wear following her frantic warnings about the ooze from the night before, Kere caught Wenthe's eye and gestured toward the corridor outside Sondil's quarters.

  "Can I have a word? In private?"

  Wenthe's ears flicked back slightly—not quite flattened, but wary. "I suppose."

  They stepped into the narrow corridor, far enough from the others to avoid being overheard but close enough to the main deck that lantern light still reached them.

  Kere kept her tone measured, non-confrontational. This wasn't about anger; it was about establishing how they would work together going forward. "About yesterday with the ioun stone," Kere began. "I want to talk about how we handle items we find."

  "I was the best person for it," Wenthe said immediately, her tail beginning to lash. "I know more about arcana than Perx does—we've discussed it before. He would have agreed if you'd just asked him."

  "Because he doesn't mind, I'm not making an issue of it this time," Kere replied evenly. "But in the future, I'd appreciate it if you'd allow for a discussion before taking anything. It helps everyone understand the reasoning behind why a given item goes to a given person. It avoids the appearance of playing favorites or someone just grabbing what they want."

  Wenthe's whiskers twitched forward, her analytical mind clearly working through Kere's words. "But if the answer is obvious, isn't discussion just a waste of time? The stone improves arcane knowledge. I have the most arcane knowledge in the group aside from Perx, and he knows less than I do in that specific area. Therefore, I should have the stone. The logic is straightforward."

  "It's not about the logic," Kere said, trying a different approach. "It's about respect. When you take something without giving others a chance to speak, it suggests you don't value their input or their feelings about the matter."

  "But their feelings don't change the facts." Wenthe's tone was genuinely puzzled rather than dismissive. "Either I'm the best person for the stone or I'm not. How people feel about it doesn't alter that reality."

  Kere took a breath, recognizing the fundamental disconnect. Wenthe wasn't being intentionally rude—she genuinely didn't understand why the social process mattered when the practical outcome was clear to her.

  "Let me put it this way," Kere said. "Imagine Monoffa found a wand that you thought should obviously go to her. But before you could say anything, Neric just took it and said, 'This is clearly mine because I'm better at performance and wands are all about flair.' How would you feel?"

  Wenthe's ears flattened fully now. "That would be wrong. Monoffa is a sorcerer, and the wand would work better with her magic than with Neric's bardic abilities. He'd be ignoring the facts."

  "But he'd think he was right, just like you think you're right about the stone." Kere held Wenthe's gaze. "The discussion isn't just about coming to the correct conclusion. It's about making sure everyone feels heard and respected in the process. That matters for keeping a group working together effectively."

  Wenthe was quiet for a long moment, her tail still lashing but more slowly now—a sign she was thinking rather than just reacting. "So you're saying even when the answer is obvious, I should still wait and let people talk about it?"

  "Yes. Unless we're in immediate danger and need to act fast."

  "But that's so inefficient." Wenthe's tone held frustration, but also something like genuine distress. She didn't like being told she'd done something wrong, but she also seemed uncomfortable with the idea that she'd upset the group dynamics. "How long am I supposed to wait? What if people start arguing about it? What if someone less qualified wants the item just because it looks interesting?"

  "Then we discuss it and explain why someone else would benefit more," Kere said patiently. "Most of the time, these conversations take just a few minutes. And they help build trust within the group."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Wenthe's claws flexed against the deck, a nervous gesture. "I'm not good at this," she admitted quietly. "The social things. It was just Monoffa and me for so long, and we understood each other. We didn't need discussions because we already knew how the other person thought. This—" She gestured vaguely at the ship, at the invisible presence of their companions nearby. "—this is different. More complicated."

  Something in Kere's chest loosened. This wasn't defiance or disrespect—it was genuine confusion from someone who'd learned to survive in circumstances where efficiency mattered more than social niceties, and who was now struggling to adapt to a larger group's dynamics where the niceties mattered.

  "I know it's different," Kere said, her tone gentler. "And I'm not expecting you to be perfect at it. I'm just asking you to try. Next time we find something valuable, wait.

  Let people offer their thoughts. Even if you already know who should have it, give others the chance to participate in the decision."

  Wenthe's ears slowly came forward again, though they remained half-flattened—a compromise position that suggested she was still uncertain but willing to consider. "And if I forget? If we're in a situation and I just... act, because that's what I'm used to doing?"

  "Then I'll remind you," Kere said. "Not with anger, just a reminder. But Wenthe—" She waited until the Catfolk met her eyes. "I need you to actually try. I can't have someone in this group who takes what they want and justifies it by saying they know better than everyone else. That destroys trust, and without trust, we can't function as a team."

  "I understand." Wenthe's voice was small, her tail finally going still. "I'll try. I really will. I just... I need you to be patient with me when I mess up. Because I probably will mess up. The social rules don't always make sense to me, even when I know they're important."

  "I can be patient," Kere assured her. "As long as I can see you're genuinely trying."

  They stood in awkward silence for a moment, the conversation feeling both resolved and unresolved at the same time. Wenthe shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional weight of the discussion.

  "Can I go now?" she asked. "I think I need to... process this. Maybe talk to Monoffa about it."

  "Of course. And Wenthe?" Kere waited until the alchemist looked at her. "Thank you for listening. I know this wasn't easy."

  Wenthe's whiskers twitched in what might have been acknowledgment, and she made her way back toward the main deck with quick, precise movements that suggested she wanted to be anywhere but in this conversation.

  Kere remained in the corridor for a moment longer, hoping she'd struck the right balance. Too harsh, and she'd alienate someone who was clearly trying to fit in despite genuine social difficulties. Too lenient, and she'd set a precedent that would cause problems later.

  Time would tell if Wenthe took the conversation to heart. For now, at least, they'd established a boundary and an expectation. That was progress, even if it didn't feel entirely satisfying.

  She made her way back to the main deck, where the morning watch was in full swing and the ship cut steadily through calmer waters toward their destination. Whatever challenges awaited them on Takatari, she hoped the group would be united enough to face them together.

  Later that afternoon, Wenthe found Monoffa coiled on a section of rigging, taking a break from her sail-adjustment duties. The sorcerer's tail hung down in a lazy spiral, swaying with the ship's motion.

  "Kere talked to me about the ioun stone," Wenthe said without preamble, climbing up to settle beside her friend.

  Monoffa's pupils dilated with interest. "And?"

  "She said I should have waited for a discussion before taking it. That it's about respect and making people feel heard, not just about who's most qualified." Wenthe's ears flattened slightly. "I don't understand why that matters if the answer is obvious."

  "Because people aren't just logic puzzles," Monoffa said, her voice taking on that dreamy quality it sometimes held when she was working through complex ideas. "They taste like... like recipes that need all the ingredients even if one ingredient is the most important. You can't just have the main flavor without the supporting ones, or the whole dish tastes wrong."

  Wenthe considered this. "So even though I was right about being the best person for the stone..."

  "You made the dish taste wrong by leaving out the other ingredients." Monoffa's tail curled around Wenthe's shoulders in a gesture of affection. "The 'making people feel included' ingredient."

  "That's a terrible metaphor."

  "But do you understand it?"

  Wenthe sighed, her tail lashing once before going still. "Yes. I think so. I don't like it, but I understand it."

  "Good." Monoffa's expression was warm. "Because I like traveling with these people, and I want them to like traveling with us. That means sometimes doing things that don't make logical sense but make social sense."

  "Social sense is exhausting."

  "It is," Monoffa agreed cheerfully. "But it's better than being alone again. Or worse, being back in the dark under the monastery."

  That sobered Wenthe immediately. Monoffa rarely mentioned their time enslaved, and when she did, it was with purpose—a reminder of what they'd escaped and why the small frustrations of freedom were worth enduring.

  "You're right," Wenthe said quietly. "I'll try to do better. Even if it feels inefficient."

  "That's all anyone can ask." Monoffa bumped her head against Wenthe's affectionately. "Now come on. I think they're about to start afternoon knot practice, and I want to see if Neric's musical mnemonics work for the sheet bend."

  They climbed down together, and Wenthe tried to push the morning's uncomfortable conversation to the back of her mind. She'd try to remember. She'd try to wait and let people talk even when the answer seemed obvious.

  But a small part of her—the part that had learned efficiency meant survival, that had been praised for quick thinking and immediate action—still insisted that sometimes, knowing the right answer should be enough.

  She'd work on that part. She'd try.

  She hoped it would be enough.