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.