A gray haze hung over the countryside as Amara, Calen, and Drevan emerged from the wooded path. From their vantage atop a gentle rise, they could see the small village stretched out below, a cluster of wooden huts and a solitary stone well at the center. Even at a distance, something felt off—no one tended the fields, no smoke rose from cooking fires, and the once-lush farmland looked trampled and wilted, as though blasted by drought.

The trio descended the hill cautiously, glancing at one another in silent concern. The sky above was the color of tarnished steel, threatening rain. A few scattered crows cawed in the distance.

They passed the first cluster of houses, finding shuttered windows and locked doors. It wasn’t until they reached the main road that they encountered signs of life: a hunched old woman carrying a bundle of cloth hurried from one house to another. She froze on seeing them, gaze sweeping over the trio. Her eyes lingered uneasily on Drevan’s horns, then flicked away.

“Excuse us,” Amara ventured, forcing a polite tone. “Is there someone we can speak to? We heard rumors of… illness.”

The old woman’s face was etched with fatigue. “You’ll find the sick in the big barn out back,” she said, voice trembling. “Most folk are too weak for everyday chores now. Good luck.” With that, she scurried off before they could ask more.

The barn was large enough to store grain for an entire season, but its doors stood wide open to let in fresh air. Inside, villagers lay on improvised beds of straw and blankets. A pungent mix of sweat, sickness, and despair hung in the air.

Calen stepped forward first. “I—I can help,” he said softly, already reaching for the well of healing magic that he had come to rely on in tight situations. But this was different—these were no battlefield wounds or single-ailment curses. A wave of uncertainty flickered across his face.

Drevan approached a man who coughed violently, holding a rag to his mouth. “When did this start?” the tiefling asked in a low, measured tone.

“About… two weeks back,” the villager rasped. His eyes couldn’t help but wander over Drevan’s horns, though he spoke politely enough. “People started falling ill, one after another. Fevers, chills, pained coughing… We tried everything. No medicine works.”

Amara felt a knot form in her stomach. She could sense a faint tinge of dark magic in the air. It wasn’t the same as her eldritch power, but something corrupt and lingering. She exchanged a quick look with Drevan, who gave a curt nod, reading her alarm.

Calen dropped to his knees beside a frail woman whose shallow breathing rattled in her chest. “Let me try,” he whispered. He placed both hands over her forehead, summoning a soft, silvery glow. His eyes fluttered closed, lips moving in a silent chant.

At once, the woman’s ragged breath eased, her face smoothing as if relieved from pain—if only for a moment. Amara and Drevan watched as the healing light pulsed once, twice, three times. Finally, Calen lowered his hands, exhausted beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“I can manage… to alleviate symptoms,” he said between breaths. “But the root cause—whatever’s cursing this place—is still there. We need to find it.”

The villagers nearby stared in awe at Calen’s magic. Hope lit their faces for the first time in days. Some even mustered a faint cheer. One older man gripped Calen’s sleeve and mouthed a fervent thank you.

But their relief was short-lived. A sudden shout rose from the back of the barn. “A demon!” a woman cried. “He’s the cause! He brought this plague on us!”

Amara’s head snapped around to see a small group of villagers pointing directly at Drevan. Their faces brimmed with fear and anger, fanned by the desperate circumstances.

“Calm down,” she said, moving to Drevan’s side. Though her voice was even, her heartbeat surged with anger. She hated how easily people’s suspicions turned toward him. “He’s done nothing but help.”

One man, carrying a pitchfork, advanced a step. “Tiefling,” he spat. “Don’t think we don’t know your kind. We’ve heard tales—curses, demonic bargains. You bring disease and suffering wherever you go!”

Amara felt the eldritch power in her veins stir at the injustice. Her pulse hammered so loudly, she almost missed the frantic look Calen shot her way. His eyes pleaded with her to keep her powers in check. She could almost taste the snap of dark magic begging to be released.

“Stop this!” she hissed, voice tight with suppressed rage. “We’re trying to help. Look at Calen—he’s healing your people.”

The villagers’ accusing glares stayed fixed on Drevan. They want a scapegoat, she thought bitterly.

In that moment, Drevan himself stepped forward, deliberately setting a hand on Amara’s shoulder. She could feel him tremble with barely contained tension, but his posture remained calm. “I understand your fear,” he began, voice resonating with a surprising gentleness. “But I swear by my oath as a paladin—I have not brought this curse.”

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A murmur of uncertainty rippled through the onlookers. The man with the pitchfork tightened his grip, uncertain whether to believe this or not. Rage clashed with desperation on his face.

“If you harm him,” Amara said quietly, eyes burning, “you’ll lose the only help you have.”

Her words hung in the air, thick as smoke. There was no missing the warning in her tone; she was moments away from letting that eldritch energy fly. The tension coiled like a spring.

Drevan squeezed her shoulder in silent thanks, then turned back to the villagers. “Let your fear guide you to caution, not violence,” he said. “We’ll do our best to cure this plague. But we need your cooperation, not your hate.”

The pitchfork wavered, the villager’s knuckles going white. Finally, he let out a frustrated hiss and lowered the tool. “Fine,” he ground out. “But if things get worse, we’ll know who’s to blame.”

Amara exhaled, releasing a fraction of the dark magic simmering inside her. That was too close.

Calen returned to treating the sick, moving from one makeshift cot to another. Each healing session left him more and more drained, circles darkening under his purple eyes. Still, he forced a polite smile for each villager, offering them comfort. Meanwhile, Drevan quietly organized the makeshift sickbay, directing those who could walk to assist the bedridden and coaxing them to drink water from the well, to keep fevers down.

Amara accompanied him, urging the more skeptical villagers to let the tiefling help. A few glared, but the paladin’s calm efficiency and unwavering courtesy began to win them over, despite their prejudices.

“He’s… not as frightening as he looks,” one elderly woman muttered to Amara, eyeing Drevan as he propped a pillow under an ailing child’s head. “He must be from some devilish order, though, to be so strong.”

Amara bit her tongue. At least they’re not chasing him with pitchforks anymore.

Calen soon stumbled back to them, face ashen with fatigue. Amara caught him by the arm before he could collapse. “You need to rest. You can’t heal everyone in one go.”

He shook his head vehemently. “These people will die if we don’t keep trying. Let me just—” He attempted to move to the next cot, but Amara held him firmly.

“I got it,” she whispered, forcing him to look at her. “You’ve done so much already. Sit. Even if it’s just for a moment.”

Reluctantly, he let her guide him to a stool. His hands trembled. “They said I’d never be a real mage,” he murmured, voice tight with emotion. “If I can’t do this, then maybe they’re right…”

Drevan, having overheard, turned. “Don’t be foolish,” he said, though his voice held an unexpected warmth. “If it weren’t for you, we’d have more casualties already. No matter what the others say, we know what you’re capable of.”

Calen’s face colored at the praise. Before he could respond, the shrill cry of a young woman tore through the barn. “He’s stopped breathing!” she wailed.

Without hesitation, Calen forced himself to his feet and ran to the cot. Amara moved to follow, but Drevan touched her shoulder, signaling to give Calen space. The young healer placed his hands on the man’s chest, sending a radiant glow that lit the barn’s shadows. Moments later, the man coughed violently, drawing in a ragged breath. Whispers of awe rippled among the onlookers.

Finally, Calen sagged, letting the last of his healing magic flicker out. His exhaustion was painfully obvious. The villagers, however, now stared at him with something akin to reverence. He’s proven them all wrong, Amara thought, relief swelling inside her.

Night arrived, and the village elders insisted the travelers stay in an empty hut on the outskirts to rest. Too many people still needed help, but Calen was close to collapsing, and Amara felt it would do more harm than good if he worked through the night.

As soon as they were alone, Drevan ventured outside, posture tense. Amara followed, hugging her arms against the chilly breeze. She found him standing near a gnarled oak tree, staring down at the tiny clusters of wildflowers around its roots.

“You did well today,” she told him, gentle but firm. “They might not have listened if you hadn’t spoken up. You were a leader back there.”

He let out a dry laugh that held no mirth. “Leader? They just needed someone who’s used to fighting. I’m not sure either of you really follow me out of trust. Maybe you fear me,” he said, teeth gritting slightly, “or see me as a convenient shield.”

Amara felt a pang of sympathy. “Drevan, that’s—”

He held up a hand. “Let me finish. Where I come from, no one ever believed I was worthy of a paladin’s rank. Maybe now, being with you two…” His eyes flicked away. “I don’t know if you trust me. Or if you just need the muscle.”

She stepped closer, though not so close as to crowd him. “I can’t speak for Calen, but I trust you. If it were just about strength, there are plenty of mercenaries out there. We choose you because you stand for something.”

His gaze flicked over her shoulder, into the darkness. “And you? You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” she said. “When the villagers blamed you for the curse, you didn’t lash out. You stayed calm and compassionate. That tells me more than any creed or insignia could.”

He let out a long breath, tension easing from his broad shoulders. “I appreciate it. I just… don’t want either of you stuck with me out of obligation.”

Amara’s lips quirked in a small, wry smile. “Trust me—Calen’s stubborn enough that if he didn’t want you here, you’d know.”

Drevan actually snorted at that. “He can be surprisingly tenacious.”

They stood in companionable silence, the night pressing close. A soft moonlit glow fell over the village, eerily still but for the low moans of the sick in the barn. Though sorrow and uncertainty loomed, there was a fragile hope that tomorrow might bring progress—a cure, a solution, or at least some respite.

Finally, Amara rubbed her arms to ward off the chill. “We should get some rest. Calen’s practically asleep on his feet.”

Drevan nodded, turning back toward the hut. “Right,” he said, voice quieter now, yet threaded with renewed resolve. “Tomorrow, we keep searching for a way to lift this curse.”

Together, they walked back, stepping carefully around the uneven dirt roads. Even though doubt simmered in Drevan’s heart, he led the way into the hut—a fitting, if unspoken, symbol that yes, he was part of them now. And with every step he took, he felt just a little more certain that their acceptance was real, and not born merely of necessity or fear.