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.