They settled in a small clearing just off the forest trail, the sunset turning the sky a dusky purple. The ground was still damp from the morning rain, so Amara took special care in setting up the fire—collecting enough dry kindling to ward off the chill and coaxing the first flickers of flame into a steady glow. By the time the crackling warmth spread around the clearing, Calen and Drevan had unpacked their meager supplies.
Calen crouched beside Amara, rolling up the sleeves of his robe and flexing slender fingers that glowed with a faint, soothing light. “D-does anyone else need healing?” he asked softly. His gaze skirted past Drevan’s eyes, unsure of where to look.
Drevan, leaning against a smooth boulder, shook his head with a brusque grunt. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though he did shift his shoulders with a wince. He wore his heavy plate less rigidly now, letting the straps hang loose so he could breathe. A small patch of dried blood stained the metal near his ribs.
“Are you sure?” Amara asked. Her tone held a note of gentle persistence that was quickly becoming familiar. “Calen can patch you right up. It’s, um… not a big deal for him.”
Drevan glanced down at the crusted blood. “I’ve had worse,” he said. But the paladin hesitated, then sighed and unbuckled another strap. “Fine. If you insist.”
Calen inched over, pressing a glowing hand against Drevan’s side. The tiefling grimaced, more from discomfort at being touched than from pain, then exhaled in relief as tendrils of healing magic seeped through his wounds. A moment later, the tension in his posture eased; the scabs began to fade to pink, then disappear altogether.
“Thank you,” Drevan murmured, sounding like the words were forced out by sheer will. The expression on his face was guarded, his tail twitching in what might have been embarrassment or simple uncertainty.
Calen nodded and offered a tentative half-smile. “I’m just glad I can do something useful.” Then he pulled back, hugging his staff to his chest. “I… can’t exactly fight like either of you.”
Amara, dusting off her hands, stood up. “We wouldn’t have gotten half as far in that dungeon if not for your healing. Don’t sell yourself short.”
He flushed, looking away, and fell quiet. Drevan watched them from his boulder, arms folded over his chest. He still refused to fully remove his armor, preferring the jangling weight of steel to being seen as vulnerable. Amara was learning that was just how he was—ever on guard, especially since they’d only just met.
She cleared her throat. “All right. Enough bruises for one day. Let’s get something warm in our stomachs.” She paused, eyeing the meager rations. “Drevan, you said you had… something to share?”
Wordlessly, the tiefling pushed himself up and knelt by a small pack. He rummaged inside, then produced a cloth bundle of dried meat and a few strange, spiky roots. “Won’t be winning any feasts with this,” he muttered, handing them to her. “But if you can cook, maybe you’ll make them taste halfway decent.”
“Any meal tastes good after a day like this,” she said, smiling in thanks. She took the food to the campfire and began to assemble what passed for a stew, using the tiefling’s provisions and the handful of spices she carried.
For a time, they sat in silence, listening to the wood pop and sizzle. At last, Calen ventured, “So, um… Drevan. You, uh… you’re a paladin?”
The tiefling grunted in assent. He lowered his gaze to the flames. “Trained in the order of the Sacred Guardian. Doesn’t matter much, though. The rest of the knights would rather I ‘keep my distance.’”
Amara stirred the pot, eyeing him sympathetically. “They judge you because of…?”
He tapped a curved horn with two fingers. “Because of this. Because of me.” His tone was flat, but the bitterness shone through. “They see demon blood and can’t imagine I’d protect anyone but myself. Took me years to even earn the rank of paladin, and the second I got it, they found reasons to ‘reassign’ me to the outskirts, or give me tasks no one else wanted. Eventually, I left.”
Calen’s eyes shone with a soft empathy. “That sounds… lonely.”
Drevan shrugged, an unspoken admission. “Better than false acceptance. At least I know where I stand.”
A gentle stillness passed before Amara offered each of them a steaming bowl. “That’s awful. I’ve seen prejudice before, but I’m sorry you have to live with it.” She paused. “You’re traveling alone now?”
He nodded, taking a careful sip of the stew. “Yes. Less trouble that way… until I run into swarms of undead.”
Calen braved a small smile. “We’re… kinda misfits, too, if that helps.” He looked down at his bowl. “I only know healing magic. A lot of mages say it’s weak, or boring. But I—I want to prove that it can be something more.”
“Like an arch-healer,” Amara teased gently, drawing a shy grin from him.
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He swallowed. “Y-yeah, basically… though people laugh at me for it. They think a mage is only respected if they can blow up half a battlefield.”
Amara’s gaze flicked to her own hands, recalling how her uncontrolled blasts had nearly done that very thing. Yet she kept quiet about her pact, her uncertain relationship with the eldritch god that had granted her power. Talking about it felt too raw, and she wasn’t sure if either of them would see her as a menace if they knew the truth.
She swallowed the thought and instead forced a lighter tone. “I think healing’s more impressive than destruction. Honestly. Blowing things up isn’t exactly noble—trust me.”
Drevan shifted. “At least it’s direct,” he murmured, but there was no real heat in his words.
Amara met his gaze across the fire. “Sometimes, direct isn’t what we need. We need people who’ll stand by each other, no matter what. People who see more than just a demon’s blood or the color of magic.”
For a moment, silence stretched again. Drevan’s eyes reflected the dancing flames, and Calen quietly sipped the stew. Then, with an awkward cough, the tiefling said, “Well… the stew’s not bad.”
Amara smirked. “I’ll take that as high praise.”
Calen let out a soft laugh, relief mingling with his shyness. “We’re quite the team, huh?”
Drevan didn’t answer right away. But after several seconds, he inclined his head in a gesture that looked suspiciously like acceptance. “I guess we are.”
They talked late into the night, voices hushed under the stars. Old wounds and unspoken fears hovered around them, but in the circle of firelight, they found a glimmer of comfort. And by the time the embers burned low, they’d forged something that felt remarkably close to trust—an unlikely kinship among the outcast tiefling, the timid healer, and the secretive warlock who had saved each other’s lives in a darkened tomb.
Amara poked at the embers, coaxing out a last bit of warmth as dusk gave way to true night. A gentle breeze swept through the clearing, rustling the tree branches overhead. She glanced at Calen, then let her gaze flick over to Drevan, who sat resting his back against a fallen log. The tiefling had relented enough to unbuckle the rest of his armor, though he still looked uncomfortable—like he never quite knew what to do with his hands unless they were gripping a sword.
Clearing her throat, Amara turned her attention back to Calen. “So,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “if it’s not too personal… what’s the story behind your hair?”
Calen stiffened, clearly taken aback by the question. His hand reflexively went to the short strands near his ear. “My… hair?” he echoed, voice tinged with uncertainty. “I—I mean… I know it’s not normal for an elf.”
Drevan cast a curious glance, the tips of his horns catching the firelight. “I was wondering about that too,” he admitted. “I’ve only seen elves with long hair, sometimes bound up to keep out of the way. Short hair is rare, unless…” He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.
Calen swallowed. He hovered a moment, gaze flicking between them. “It… wasn’t my choice,” he said softly, eyes downcast. “Some… some other elven mages. They cornered me, pinned me down. Laughed about how ‘a useless healing mage’ shouldn’t carry the proud look of an elf.” His voice trembled, shame tightening his features. “So… they cut it. Right then and there.”
Amara felt anger knot in her stomach. She clenched her fists around her blanket. “That’s… cruel,” she said, voice low. She forced herself to breathe, to remain calm rather than letting her powers flare.
Drevan lifted his chin, looking thoughtful. “In my culture, or at least the one I grew up in, warriors often wear their hair short. Makes it harder for an enemy to grab you mid-battle.” He gave Calen a small, wry nod. “It’s practical. You’d fit right in among them, in that sense.”
The elf blinked, clearly not expecting a compliment. “R-really?”
“Really,” Drevan confirmed. He didn’t smile, but there was a gentleness in his tone that hinted he meant every word.
Amara shifted on her seat, running a hand through her own hair—bleach-blond and shoulder-length, still a bit frizzy from the humidity of the dungeon. “I mean, if it bothers you,” she ventured carefully, “maybe I could… I don’t know, cut mine shorter, too? Then at least you wouldn’t feel alone in that. I’m not super attached to it.”
Calen’s eyes flew wide. “What? No! That’s—” He flushed, shaking his head vehemently. “It’s… it’s late, and we’ve had a l-long day, you shouldn’t—”
“I’m just saying,” Amara said, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. “If you want someone to relate, I can do that. It’s really no big deal to me.” She paused, studying his face. “But only if it would make you feel better. If not, pretend I never brought it up.”
Calen sighed, his cheeks pink in the firelight. He rubbed a thumb over the end of his short fringe. “That’s… that’s kind of you, really. But I… I want to think about it,” he said quietly. “Right now, I—I’m not sure I’m ready to make that decision on the spot. Maybe we could talk about it another time?”
“Of course,” Amara said, smiling gently. “No rush at all.”
Drevan gave a slight nod and stood, the embers of the campfire reflecting in his dark eyes. He carefully adjusted the straps of his armor—perhaps just to have something to do with his hands. “It doesn’t look bad on you, you know,” he remarked, sounding almost casual. “Doesn’t make you less of an elf.”
Calen blinked in surprise. “Thank you,” he whispered, glancing away. He shifted uncomfortably, not accustomed to compliments regarding the very thing that often caused him so much embarrassment.
Silence settled between them as the last sparks of the dying fire flickered against the dark sky. A cricket chirped somewhere nearby, and the forest seemed to exhale, as if relieved the day’s trials were over.
Eventually, Amara stifled a yawn. “I’d say we’ve earned some rest,” she murmured. “Who’s up for first watch?”
Drevan snorted, crossing his arms. “I’ll take it. I’m not tired yet.” But Amara swore she caught a fleeting, grateful glance he shot toward Calen, who was already curling up on his bedroll, staff resting against his shoulder.
“Thanks,” she said softly. “Wake me up when you’re done. I’ll take second.”
Nodding, the tiefling turned his attention to the perimeter, tail swishing lightly as he kept his distance—yet somehow felt a little closer than he had before. Calen’s breathing soon slowed to a gentle rhythm, his face turned away to hide the faint remnants of a blush.
Amara pulled her blanket over her legs, eyes lingering on Calen’s short hair, then flicking toward Drevan’s silhouette, half-illuminated by moonlight. The trio was still a strange patchwork of personalities and secrets, but the night’s conversation had woven them just a bit closer. She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the crackling fire lull her toward sleep.
And in the hush of that moment, she felt a spark of hope—an unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, they’d find acceptance in each other, hair length and tiefling horns be damned.