The air in the corridor near the dungeon’s final chamber was colder than any place Amara and Calen had traversed so far. Their footsteps echoed ominously across ancient stone, the torchlight dancing over walls scratched by centuries of necromantic rituals. Both of them moved with caution—still smarting from the harrowing encounter with the lich and its collapsing ceiling trap, but more determined than ever to reach the end of this cursed stronghold.

A sudden clamor from up ahead made them both freeze. Metal clashed against bone; a voice roared with righteous fury amid the high-pitched shrieks of undead. Amara and Calen exchanged a quick glance, hearts hammering with apprehension and curiosity.

“Someone’s fighting,” Calen whispered, raising his staff, newly alert. Despite his own doubts, he pushed himself forward.

They emerged into a wide chamber, vaulted ceilings overhead and torch sconces flickering with eerie blue flames. The smell of death and decay was overpowering. At the center of the room, a tiefling paladin fought against a teeming mass of skeletal warriors.

He had curved horns spiraling from beneath a helm dented by many battles. His skin had a faint crimson hue, and his eyes glowed like embers under the flickering lights. Broad-shouldered and wielding an ornate longsword, he swung with fierce precision—each strike shattering multiple skeletons. Yet for all his skill, the sheer number of undead was taking a toll. Fresh waves of clattering bones advanced relentlessly, summoned by a hooded figure at the far side of the chamber—a lich shaman, staff raised in an incantation of unholy magic.

Amara felt her gut twist at the sight of the robed figure’s twisted grin. “That’s got to be one of the lich’s attendants,” she muttered. “We need to get closer, but—”

Before she could finish, a spear-wielding skeleton noticed them, rattling its jaw in a silent hiss. It lunged, scything a deadly arc toward Amara’s head. Calen reacted first, thrusting out his staff to redirect the blow. The spear’s blade glanced off the wood, and Amara hurled a bolt of eldritch energy that slammed the skeleton into pieces.

They advanced deeper into the melee, destroying weaker skeletons as they went. The tiefling paladin spared them a single glance—his gaze flashed wariness, as though he expected them to back away in fear. Instead, Amara and Calen rushed in to help.

Up close, the tiefling’s features were striking: a strong jaw, black hair plastered to his forehead by sweat, and faint scars crossing his cheeks. He wore battered plate armor etched with faint celestial runes—a contradiction to his demonic appearance. Despite fighting with resolute discipline, a guarded tension radiated from him. Amara could see it in his posture, the way he consistently kept half a step away from them, as though fearful they might recoil from him at any moment.

Another wave of skeletons poured from the lich shaman’s staff. They rushed forward en masse, brittle bones rattling, brandishing rusted swords and spears. The paladin—Drevan, as Amara would later learn—swore under his breath and brought his sword to bear. A flare of holy light leapt from its blade, searing half a dozen skeletons into ash.

“Leave now!” he barked, voice deep. “This is no place for novices.”

Calen clenched his jaw. He had already proven his competence—and with a flick of his staff, he conjured a healing aura around the paladin, mending a shallow gash on the tiefling’s arm. “We’re not novices,” he said, voice trembling just a little, “and we’re not leaving you alone!”

Drevan’s eyes narrowed in a mixture of caution and grudging appreciation. He didn’t argue further, turning to crash into the undead line again.

It became a chaotic dance of steel and spellfire. Amara unleashed bursts of crackling eldritch power, doing her best to keep it controlled. Calen alternated between healing minor injuries and using quick bursts of energy to distract or stagger the skeletons, while Drevan attacked with brutal efficiency. Yet even as he fought beside them, Drevan kept a careful distance—his stance never quite relaxed, and he rarely looked them in the eye, as though waiting for them to recoil from his tiefling heritage.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

A particularly large skeleton lunged for Calen’s back, its jagged sword raised high. Drevan spun, intercepting the strike with a clang of metal. With a short, savage slash, he shattered the skeleton’s skull, saving Calen from a deadly blow.

“Th-thank you,” Calen murmured breathlessly, but Drevan was already pivoting away, a guarded expression on his face.

Their true target, the lich shaman, chanted in the background, summoning reinforcements faster than they could cut them down. Its ragged robes stirred in an unseen wind, black runes glowing along its arms. Every time the trio advanced, another horde swarmed forward.

“Drevan, we need to take out that shaman!” Amara shouted.

He nodded gruffly, leading the charge. Calen tried to stay close, funneling healing magic into the paladin to keep him upright as he battered through the undead ranks. As they reached the dais where the shaman stood, it let out a screech of fury and sent a wave of greenish fire rolling toward them.

Drevan raised his sword in a defensive cross, holy light erupting around him. It dulled the worst of the attack, but still they were flung back. Calen’s barrier kept Amara from cracking her head on the stone floor, though she still felt the impact in her bones.

“Together!” she rasped, pushing to her feet.

Drevan grunted in acknowledgment. With deft coordination, they cornered the lich shaman. Calen’s healing aura strengthened Drevan’s sword arm, Amara’s eldritch blasts forced the shaman to stay on the defensive, and Drevan delivered the final blow with an echoing clang of steel. The shaman dissolved into a cloud of black mist, scattering dark sparks across the dais.

In the sudden silence, the last of the skeletons collapsed in a pile of limp bones. Amara and Calen staggered, catching their breath, while Drevan pulled off his dented helm, revealing a pair of curved horns fully. His eyes flicked from Amara to Calen, then away, a faint scowl on his face as if bracing for their disgust.

Calen gulped and offered a reassuring smile instead. “I… uh… t-thank you for saving me back there.”

Amara nodded. “We owe you,” she said. Her heart still pounded with adrenaline, but she mustered the calm politeness she used so often. “If you hadn’t stepped in—”

Drevan cut her off, voice gruff. “I don’t need your thanks. You two took out that lich’s lieutenant. I just made sure you survived.” There was a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression—relief, maybe, that they weren’t recoiling from his tiefling nature.

Still, he half-turned away, refusing to meet their eyes for more than a moment. It was a defensive posture that Amara recognized from her own attempts at hiding her warlock power. He looked ready to bolt at the slightest rejection.

A clatter of shifting rubble announced the corridor they needed to proceed through. Beyond it, they could see the faint glimmer of treasure—a stone altar at the far side of a shadowy chamber. Drevan muttered something about finishing what they started and strode forward. Amara and Calen exchanged glances, then followed.

As they walked, the tiefling paladin kept several paces ahead, never letting them draw too close. Eventually, Calen asked, “Do—do you travel alone?”

Drevan’s back stiffened. “Everyone prefers it that way once they see… what I am,” he said bluntly. “Doesn’t matter what I do. They just see a demonspawn.”

Calen opened his mouth to protest, stuttered, and fell quiet. Amara felt the same sting—an uneasy reminder that they, too, had judged people in ways they later regretted.

“So you’re an outcast,” she said gently, stepping over a broken relic on the floor. “It’s not fair. People… jump to conclusions.”

He shot a look over his shoulder, surprised by her even tone. His tail twitched, a betraying gesture of nerves. “It’s just how it is,” he replied quietly.

Reaching the final treasure room, they confirmed the area was free of additional traps—though the fight had cost them time and energy. The trio collected what relics remained intact and took a moment to breathe, leaning against the mossy walls.

“You could, um, join us,” Calen ventured at last, clearly uneasy about approaching the tiefling but compelled by sympathy for his isolation. “W-we’re not exactly popular ourselves… we could watch each other’s backs.”

Amara gave a small nod. Her warlock power made her an oddity, and Calen’s healing focus often got him mocked. “I know the feeling of not fitting in,” she admitted softly, recalling her own secrets and the mistrust people showed toward an apparently ‘useless’ healer.

Drevan’s expression flickered from skepticism to an almost painful hope. He quickly hid it behind a scowl. “I don’t need your pity.”

“We’re not pitying you,” Amara said. “We’re just saying… maybe we could all help each other. If you want.”

For a long moment, Drevan was silent, his gaze lingering on the battered blade in his hand. Finally, with a terse nod, he wiped sweat from his brow. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

His words sounded prickly, but Amara heard the relief in his tone. Calen exhaled in relief too, offering him a tentative smile. For the first time since they’d met him, Drevan’s stance seemed to relax—if only by the slightest margin.

Together, the three adventurers navigated back through the hushed corridors, battered from the final battles but newly united. And in the flickering torchlight, with curses and cracked bones left behind, a fragile bond began to form among the outcast warlock, the timid healer, and the tiefling paladin who fought like the heavens themselves but had nowhere to call home.