Amara sat on a fallen log beneath the waning moon, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the chill. She was far enough from Calen and Drevan’s makeshift camp that she could only faintly see the glow of their fire through the trees. If she listened hard, she imagined she could hear them talking, but more likely it was just the rustle of leaves and the call of night birds. Part of her wanted to go back—to slip into her bedroll and pretend nothing had happened. But the memory of her spiraling magic and that lone bandit’s final, agonizing moment weighed too heavily on her.

If I can’t control it… I might hurt them, too.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to blink away the image of Calen’s stricken expression and Drevan’s wary stance. Surely, they hated her now. Or they soon will. Her mind whispered cruel possibilities: that Drevan only traveled with her out of obligation, that Calen was too kind to leave her but secretly wondered if she was a monster.

A twig snapped.

Amara’s head jerked up, tension flooding her limbs. She stood slowly, scanning the moonlit forest. Perhaps it was Drevan or Calen, come to coax her back. She parted her lips, about to call out—and that was when the first figure emerged from behind a trunk. Then a second. And a third.

Bandits. Again. She could tell by their rough leathers, the cautious, predatory way they moved. Her mind screamed at her to use her power. But she froze. What if I lose control a second time? The memory of that cataclysmic burst of eldritch energy seized her lungs.

One of them smirked, raising a cudgel. “All alone in the middle of the woods, eh?”

Amara’s fingers twitched, crackling purple sparks dancing at her fingertips—just a flicker of reflex. The bandit’s eyes went wide as he recognized a threat. Immediately, all three charged. She panicked, reining in that lethal magic before it could surge. The moment’s hesitation cost her. The cudgel struck her arm, and she yelped in pain, collapsing to one knee. Another bandit looped rope around her shoulders, pinning her arms before she could free them.

“Keep her quiet!” the first one hissed, dragging her up. Amara struggled, but fresh bruises throbbed where they’d struck. Just cast them off… do it… a voice in her mind urged. But fear of repeating that deadly explosion paralyzed her. Instead, she bit her lip until she tasted blood, letting them bind her hands behind her back and shove a rag into her mouth.

“Let’s see if the boss wants a mage for ransom,” another bandit grumbled, though he eyed the crackle of leftover energy with wariness. “Hurry before she recovers.”

Amara wanted to scream, to let her magic burn through their rough rope and send them scattering. Instead, she felt the world swirl as one of them landed a blow to her temple. Pain exploded across her vision, darkness creeping in. Then she felt herself hoisted like a sack of grain. The forest, the stars, even the faint glimmer of Calen and Drevan’s campfire, all receded into an overwhelming haze.

Back in the camp, Calen tossed a chunk of wood onto the fire, sending a bright flurry of sparks into the air. He glanced sideways at Drevan, who sat on a flat rock, arms folded. The tiefling stared beyond the fire into the shadows, silent as stone.

“How long do we… let her be alone?” Calen asked, voice hesitant.

Drevan’s jaw tightened. “As long as she needs,” he said curtly. Then, after a pause, he added in a softer tone, “I just don’t know if she’ll come back.”

Calen fiddled with the hem of his tunic. “She… might think we’re—well, that you’re upset,” he ventured, words stumbling, “and that I… I’m afraid of her.”

“Aren’t you?” Drevan’s gaze flicked to him, expression unreadable.

Calen swallowed. “Afraid for her, maybe. Not of her. She wouldn’t hurt us on purpose. That… that matters.”

Drevan almost responded, but just then his head snapped up, ears twitching with alertness. The tiefling rose in a smooth motion, one hand moving to the hilt of his longsword. “Something’s wrong.”

Calen followed his gaze out into the darkness. “Is it—Amara?”

Drevan didn’t answer. He sprinted to the perimeter of their small camp, scanning the ground with practiced eyes. A moment later, he cursed under his breath. “Look,” he said, pointing at a patch of disturbed earth and something glinting in the moonlight—a broken piece of rope, or maybe a strip of torn cloth. A few footprints circled the area.

Calen’s heart lurched. “Someone took her,” he breathed, panic welling.

Drevan nodded sharply, the horns on his brow casting shadows in the dim glow. “We need to find her trail. Now.”

The next minutes blurred into a frantic search as they followed scuffs on the forest floor, bent branches, faint footprints. Calen, though shaken, focused his healing senses, hoping to pick up a trace of Amara’s essence—some sign that she was near. Drevan led with grim determination, ignoring the ache in his own muscles from the day’s earlier ambush.

Eventually, the tracks merged onto a narrow footpath that wound deeper into the woods. Calen paused, leaning against a tree, chest tight. “Drevan… we can’t lose her. She was upset already.”

A flicker of anguish passed over Drevan’s face. He pressed his lips into a hard line. “We won’t,” he promised, voice harsh with worry. Without another word, he stalked forward, following the path. Calen hurried after him, staff clutched in trembling fingers.

They tracked the footprints to a small clearing where a half-buried ruin stood. Ancient stone walls, cracked and overgrown with moss, hinted at some old fortress or temple. Through the darkness, they could just see a handful of torches beyond a crumbling archway.

Drevan crouched behind a fallen column, gesturing for Calen to do the same. “Bandits. Likely the same group we’ve been encountering—maybe more. I count… seven or eight.”

Calen could make out murky silhouettes within the ruin. “And Amara?”