Heavy clouds hung low in the sky as Amara, Calen, and Drevan approached the bustling headquarters of the Golden Route Trading Company on the outskirts of the city. Wagons, oxen, and shouting workers crowded the cobblestone courtyard, all moving with hurried purpose. The trio paused at the open gate, taking it all in—this felt far more organized, and far more profitable, than their usual work.

  Calen clutched his staff with a nervous grip. “It’s just a routine caravan job,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “We ride along, protect them from bandits, and get paid. Easy, right?”

  Amara, looking somewhat relieved after their recent harrowing encounters, managed a small smile. “I could use a break from, you know, curses and undead. Bandits, I can handle.” She glanced at Drevan, who had been silent since dawn.

  The tiefling paladin’s horns gleamed dully beneath the overcast sky. He shrugged, posture stiff. “Let’s not assume it’ll be easy.”

  Though the merchant had requested experienced escorts, no one had known it was this merchant—nor did Amara or Calen suspect that Drevan had a complicated history with him. As they ventured deeper into the courtyard, a short, portly man in lavish silks spotted them and rushed forward.

  “Ah, the mercenaries!” he boomed, with a too-toothy grin. “We leave at midday! Are you prepared for a week’s travel? My name is Marvey Filgrain—proprietor of this fine caravan.”

  Drevan’s eyes narrowed upon seeing the man, though he said nothing. Calen noticed the tiefling’s knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword. “Drevan?” the elf whispered. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine,” Drevan replied tersely.

  Marvey Filgrain’s gaze swept over the group, catching on Drevan’s horns. The jovial smile faded for a half-second, then returned, forced and plastic. “Yes, well, hurry with your preparations. Some merchants are… nervous about your, ah, appearance.” He turned pointedly back to Drevan. “But I’m sure you’ll be on your best behavior, yes?”

  The tiefling inclined his head, shadows flickering in his ember-colored eyes. “Of course.”

  They set off just past noon, rolling along the main trade route in a procession of wagons. Brightly dyed canvas tops protected crates of spices, fabrics, and other valuables from the drizzling rain. The horses whinnied, hooves striking wet gravel. Amara, Calen, and Drevan were assigned to ride near the rear wagon, occasionally scouting ahead if needed.

  Though Amara and Calen tried to keep conversation light, Drevan remained uncharacteristically curt. She shot him a concerned glance, but each time their eyes met, he turned away. The tiefling seemed lost in thought, scanning the merchant caravan with a tension in his jaw that suggested a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior.

  Early on the second day of travel, they stopped at a muddy roadside clearing. The merchants lit small fires to cook and rest, while stable-hands tended to horses. Amara wandered off to gather water, and Calen insisted on helping a wagon driver with an injury. That left Drevan alone, leaning against a supply crate, sword balanced across his knees.

  Marvey Filgrain happened by, accompanied by two bodyguards. He offered the tiefling a sneer of undisguised dislike. “You’ve done… well enough so far. But don’t get too comfortable, devil’s son,” he muttered, loud enough for Drevan to hear. “Don’t want a repeat of old times, do we?”

  Drevan’s grip on his sword tightened. Old times. Memories rose unbidden: a younger him, half-starved, sleeping among bales of hay in the back of a wagon. The same merchant refusing him scraps of food for days, beating him for any perceived ‘insubordination.’ All because a tiefling orphan wasn’t worth the trouble.

  He forced his voice into a controlled monotone. “I’m here to do a job.”

  Marvey snorted, turning away. “Do it, then,” he called back over his shoulder.

  Rain hammered the caravan later that day, transforming the road into thick mud. Progress slowed to a crawl. Merchants grumbled about missed deadlines, huddling under dripping canvas for shelter. Now and then, Drevan could hear them complain in hushed voices: “…did we really have to hire that monster?” or “…hope he doesn’t curse us in our sleep.”

  Amara and Calen picked up on the tension swiftly. They caught the way travelers and merchants skirted around Drevan, how the tiefling always found himself excluded from casual conversation around the campfire. A gnawing frustration grew in Amara’s chest each time she witnessed someone give Drevan a wide berth, or spit in the dirt after speaking with him. They’re not even hiding it.

  That evening, the caravan halted for the night at a roadside inn. Amid the bustle of setting up lodging and stabling the horses, Marvey Filgrain insisted that Drevan “take watch outside”—ostensibly to protect the wagons, but more likely to keep him away from the paying customers inside. Calen and Amara, seeing the blatant discrimination, bristled.

  “We can all share watch duty,” Calen offered mildly, trying to stay polite. “We’re the hired escorts, after all.”

  Marvey waved a hand dismissively. “He can handle it alone. No sense putting all of you out in the cold.”

  Amara’s temper flared. She glanced at Drevan, who stood quietly, shoulders rigid. “He’s part of our group,” she said firmly. “We won’t stand for him being singled out like this.”

  Marvey’s beady eyes flashed. “And I won’t stand for a tiefling scaring my customers! If you want your coin, keep him in line!”

  The inn courtyard fell silent, half the caravan now watching the exchange. Calen’s cheeks turned red with anger. “If you cared at all about your so-called customers,” he said, voice trembling, “you wouldn’t treat your own guards like criminals.”

  Drevan said nothing. He was strangely calm, almost detached, as if letting the words bounce off him. Silently, he turned and walked outside toward the wagons, leaving the others to stare after him. A moment later, Amara and Calen followed.

  A dreary dawn saw them on the road once again. Tempers in the caravan were simmering. The merchants viewed Drevan with open hostility; Amara and Calen did what they could to shield him from the worst of it, but the tension grew heavier by the hour.

  On the third day, they stopped at a natural hot spring near the foot of a wooded mountain—the only solace amid the grim weather. The caravan intended to camp for the night, with travelers hoping for a warm, cleansing dip. Drevan, preferring to avoid the crowd, found a more secluded spot down-river.

  Calen, having finished tending a minor ankle sprain for one of the drivers, wandered off in search of Drevan. Maybe I can talk to him, he thought, make sure he’s okay. He followed the path along the hot spring’s edge, steam rising in swirls. Eventually, he spotted the tiefling’s broad shoulders rising from the water. Drevan’s horns glinted in the pale sunlight, and his back was turned to the shore.

  “Drevan?” Calen ventured softly. “Are you—?”

  He froze. Lines crisscrossed Drevan’s back—dozens of scars, old wounds, some jagged, others neat, as if from whips or blades. Calen had seen battle wounds before, but this tapestry of brutality made his stomach lurch. Some scars looked too uniform to be from random fights; they spoke of systematic abuse. Beat him… starved him…

  The tiefling stiffened, realizing he was being watched. He turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

  Calen felt a rush of guilt for intruding. “I—I’m sorry, I just wanted to check on— I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, gaze still riveted on the deep, pale ridges scarring Drevan’s maroon skin.

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  Drevan’s expression hardened, as though building a wall around himself. “Go back,” he ordered, voice low. “Now.”

  “Please,” Calen said, voice trembling. “Let me help you. I can heal the old scars, fade them—”

  The tiefling whirled around in the water, furious. “You think I want pity?!” His tone cracked with something raw and wounded. “These scars are mine. I earned them. I live with them.”

  Calen raised both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not pitying you,” he insisted, voice plaintive. “It’s just… it hurts me to see you like this. I can help ease the pain—”

  “There is no pain!” Drevan snapped, though his trembling fists suggested otherwise. “They’re just scars. Stay out of my life, elf!”

  Hurt flickered across Calen’s face. He took a breath, bracing against the tiefling’s anger. “We’re a team. I care about you. I don’t want you shouldering everything alone.”

  Drevan snarled, stepping out of the water. “You can’t fix everything with your magic, Calen. Not every wound goes away so easily. You don’t understand a damn thing about what I’ve been through.” Water dripped from his horns and shoulders, but his voice burned with bitterness.

  Calen’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “Then tell me,” he pleaded. “Tell me, so you’re not alone!”

  His words seemed to trigger a deeper fury. Drevan tossed aside the rag he’d been using, grabbing his cloak off a nearby rock. “I said get out!”

  Startled by the sheer force of Drevan’s voice, Calen stepped back, stumbling in the mud. A moment later, they both heard rushed footsteps—Amara appeared, panting, having followed the heated shouting. She took in the scene—Calen on the ground, tears in his eyes, Drevan half-dressed with rage etched on his face—and her heart seized.

  “What’s going on?!” she asked, alarmed.

  Drevan rounded on her, eyes flashing. “Nothing. Go away!”

  Amara squared her shoulders. “Not until you tell me what happened.” She helped Calen to his feet, her posture protective, though her voice shook with worry. “You’re both my friends. I’m not letting you tear each other apart.”

  Drevan shot Calen a withering glare, then turned on Amara. “Don’t you get it? I have my burdens. I don’t need you to fix me. I don’t need anyone.”

  “We’re family,” Amara countered, stepping between them, her own fear and concern swirling. “We look after each other. That’s not negotiable.”

  “Family?” Drevan repeated, with a hollow laugh. “We barely know each other’s secrets. We don’t even know where your power comes from—who you serve! And yet you think we’re some perfect little group?”

  Amara paled. Calen stared at Drevan in disbelief, recognizing the cruelty in his words as a defense mechanism—he was lashing out to keep them at a distance.

  But Amara, swallowing hard, forced herself to stand firm. “You’re right. I haven’t told you everything. Maybe I’ve been too afraid.” She reached out, gingerly laying a hand on Drevan’s arm. He flinched but didn’t pull away entirely. “Let me. Tonight.”

  Drevan’s lip curled, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. The tension hung thick, broken only by the gurgling of the hot springs. Finally, he shook her off and turned away. “Fine,” he muttered, pulling his cloak over his still-damp body. He stalked off, leaving Amara and Calen to stare at each other in the chilly dawn air.

  Night fell with oppressive slowness. The caravan had circled the wagons in a small meadow, and the merchants kept their distance from the “devil guard” and his companions. A single campfire crackled near the outskirts, where Amara and Calen waited. Drevan returned from patrolling the perimeter, eyes downcast, saying nothing.

  Amara inhaled, steeling herself. If we’re going to stay together, if we’re truly a family, I have to stop hiding. She cast a glance at Calen, who nodded encouragement. Drevan took a seat on a log across from them, arms folded defensively.

  “I come from another world,” Amara began quietly, voice tense with emotion. She felt Drevan’s eyes on her, unwavering. “Not just another land, but another… dimension. Another realm. I used to live a normal life—no magic, no monsters, no tieflings. Then I… got hurt, badly. I was dying.”

  Calen leaned forward, breath catching. He’d known bits and pieces, but never the full truth.

  Amara continued, gaze flicking to the flame. “An eldritch being, a god—dying itself—offered me a deal: my life, in exchange for becoming its vessel. I said yes. That’s how I ended up here. That’s why my power is so destructive— because it’s not from this world.”

  The campfire crackled, sending sparks swirling into the night sky. Drevan’s face remained impassive, but tension radiated from him. “You… serve it?” he asked at last, voice gravelly.

  “I don’t know,” Amara admitted, a trembling note in her words. “It’s weak now—like it’s sleeping inside me. But it can still stir, especially when I lose control. And that’s why I’ve been… terrified. Of hurting you. Of being a monster.”

  Calen’s eyes misted over with tears. “Amara, you should have told us sooner. That’s a lot to carry alone.”

  She swallowed. “I was afraid. And… I didn’t want either of you to look at me the way people look at Drevan, or how they treat you, Calen, because you’re ‘not good enough’ at destruction spells. I thought, if you knew, you’d… see me differently.”

  Drevan’s gaze dropped to the flames. “Then you know how it feels,” he murmured, “to be branded as ‘other.’” A long silence followed. Finally, he exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he said, though his voice was quiet, almost reluctant. “For throwing it in your face. I was… trying to push you away.”

  Amara reached out, and after a moment, Drevan allowed his hand to slip into hers. “I get it,” she whispered. “But it won’t work. We’ve come too far.”

  Calen cast them both a fragile smile. “I’m sorry, too, for prying into your past,” he said to Drevan, voice soft. “I just wanted to help, but I should have respected your boundaries.”

  The tiefling nodded once, not quite meeting Calen’s eyes. “I know. It’s just that… you can’t heal everything. Some scars I need to keep.”

  Another hush settled, but this time it felt cleansing rather than tense. The faint rustle of the caravan behind them reminded them there was still a job to do, still a world out there that disliked them. But in that small circle of warmth, they had each other. Shared pain, shared secrets.

  Come dawn, the caravan pressed on. Rain had let up, giving way to a thin morning fog. The fields rolled in gentle hills, dotted by low stone walls and grazing cattle. All the while, Marvey Filgrain eyed Drevan and company with open disdain, muttering about “ungrateful mercenaries.”

  Word of bandits in the region had set everyone on edge. Sure enough, close to midday, a ragged ambush party emerged from a copse of trees. Arrows whistled through the air, striking one of the lead wagons. The startled horses bolted, splintering their harness.

  Drevan barked a warning, raising his shield. Calen darted forward to shield the panicked drivers with a healing barrier, while Amara summoned a controlled, purple-tinged force to deflect arrows from the rear wagons. The bandits, clearly outmatched, retreated after a brief skirmish, though not before hurling insults at the “demon” protecting the caravan.

  The merchants, hearts pounding, stared at Drevan. He’d saved them. Yet their thanks were half-formed, muttered grudgingly. Marvey Filgrain, looking sour, tried to claim credit for having “hired capable muscle.” The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  By late afternoon, they reached the walled town that was the caravan’s destination. Guards at the gate welcomed them, and workers guided the wagons to storage barns. Marvey Filgrain strode up to Amara, Calen, and Drevan, purse in hand.

  “Well, I suppose you’ve done your job,” he said, tossing the pouch of coins at Amara’s feet. The clinking metal hit the dirt. “Take your pay and be gone.”

  Amara looked at the purse, jaw tightening. She glanced at Calen, who nodded, face grim. Then she stooped, picked it up, and hurled it back at Marvey, coins scattering across the road. The merchant spluttered in indignation.

  “We don’t want your money,” Amara said icily. “We only accepted this job to protect people, not to take ‘dirty’ coin from someone who treats my friend like a monster.”

  Marvey’s face reddened with fury, but Calen and Drevan had already turned away. A small crowd of curious onlookers watched from the open gate, murmuring about the scene. Drevan’s horns and tail flicked in agitation, but he kept silent. As they left, the merchant’s sputtering could be heard behind them, cursing tieflings and ungrateful guards.

  They walked away from the caravan with only their packs and each other, hearts pounding from the confrontation. Rain began anew, a steady drizzle that soaked the dirt road underfoot, but none of them complained. They were simply relieved to be rid of that toxic environment.

  Amara studied Drevan’s profile, trying to gauge his mood. He met her gaze and offered the faintest hint of a smile—a far cry from the hostility he’d shown earlier. She took that as a sign that, while the scars he bore would never vanish overnight, maybe there was a step toward healing in letting them be seen, acknowledged, and respected.

  Calen, quiet and thoughtful, reached out to rest a hand on Drevan’s armored shoulder. “You okay?”

  The tiefling didn’t reply for a moment. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I will be.” It was an honest answer, at least.

  Amara nodded. “We’re here,” she reminded him gently. “Always. Even if it’s messy.”

  Drevan exhaled, shifting his shoulders under the weight of his plate. “Thank you,” he said at last, barely audible under the rain. His eyes slid to Amara. “And… I’m sorry for what I said about your power.”

  She shook her head. “It’s fine. I—I needed to talk about it anyway.”

  They kept walking, muddy boots squelching in the dirt. The road wound gently toward the next town, offering fresh horizons and, hopefully, more hospitable quests. None of them knew what the future held—Amara with her eldritch god, Calen with his shy aspirations of being a recognized healer-mage, and Drevan haunted by scars that told stories of a past he couldn’t fully leave behind.

  But at least, for now, they had a tentative peace, and a new depth of understanding. Between the echo of distant thunder and the shuffle of their footsteps, they carried with them the hard-won knowledge that belonging isn’t found in a job or a caravan—it’s forged in trust, acceptance, and the willingness to stand by one another despite the harsh judgments of the world.

  And with each stride along the muddy road, they bound themselves more strongly to that cause, the three of them—an unlikely family learning to shoulder each other’s burdens, scars and all.