Morning light filtered through the narrow windows of the village’s humble meeting hall. Outside, weary townsfolk continued caring for the sick, praying that Calen’s healing would hold out long enough for a true cure to be found. Amara, Calen, and Drevan huddled around a simple wooden table, pouring over scraps of records they had gathered.

A page smudged with ink caught Calen’s eye. “It says the well water tested positive for… draconic properties?” He blinked, scanning the text. “I think that might mean it’s been poisoned with dragon’s blood.”

Amara blew out a breath, rubbing her temple. “That would explain why no ordinary herbs are working. Dragon’s blood is potent—caustic, even.”

“And if the poison is in the water supply,” Drevan said, scowling, “this entire region could be at risk.”

They had one clear course of action: find the dragon rumored to live in the mountains looming on the horizon. If the creature was bleeding—perhaps injured or diseased—its blood might have tainted the river that fed the village’s well.

They set out before noon, each lost in thought as they hiked up winding trails. Thick pines dotted the mountainside, and the air grew cooler with every step. Occasional gusts of wind carried the faint tang of sulfur and stone, reminding them they were drawing closer to a possible dragon’s lair.

To their surprise, the path wasn’t entirely barren. Green moss and delicate wildflowers clung to rocks, and the breeze smelled fresh, a stark contrast to the gloom of the cursed village. Calen’s gaze flicked toward Amara, noticing her pensive frown. Since nearly unleashing her eldritch magic on those villagers, she’d been quieter, as though afraid of what might happen if her temper slipped again.

“Hey, are you okay?” Calen asked softly, carefully picking his way over a tangle of roots.

“I’m fine,” she replied, then forced a half-smile. “Just… worried about what we might find.”

Drevan, leading a few paces ahead, paused and held up a gauntleted hand. “Look there.”

Something small and lithe rustled in the underbrush—soft fur glinting under a stray beam of sun. Amara caught a flash of spindly legs and two curling horns. A fox-deer. Her heart seized.

She stopped in her tracks. Memories of that moment of panic, that reflexive burst of lethal magic, crashed over her. She flinched, moving almost automatically to hide behind Drevan’s broad frame. The tiefling gave her a surprised sidelong glance.

Calen frowned in confusion. “Amara?”

She swallowed hard. “I… I can’t… I don’t want to hurt it again.”

The fox-deer peered at them warily, large eyes reflecting equal parts curiosity and fear. Calen slowly crouched, extending a hand. “It’s all right,” he coaxed. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

Despite its skittishness, the creature took a tentative step forward, drawn by Calen’s gentle aura. His healing magic, though intangible to most, seemed to calm animals. Amara watched, body tense, as he scooped the fox-deer up and tucked it against his chest.

“It’s okay,” Calen told her, voice gentle. “Do you want to… pet it? It’s not scared of you right now.”

Amara’s breath shook. She knew her fear seemed bizarre—she could face down liches and undead hordes, yet the memory of one small, defenseless creature disintegrating by her own hands haunted her. But with Drevan’s watchful presence behind her and Calen’s careful reassurance, she inched forward. Heart pounding, she let her fingertips brush the fox-deer’s silky fur. It tensed, then blinked up at her with warm, dark eyes.

A rush of relief swept through her. The animal was real, alive, unharmed. Gently, she stroked behind its small antlers. “There we go,” she breathed, smiling shakily.

Drevan’s voice rumbled, a note of amusement coloring it. “Funny how you’ll hide behind a fully armed tiefling with horns, but this adorable thing turns your legs to jelly.”

Amara cast him a narrow-eyed look, though her lips quirked in a grin. “You’re not exactly adorable,” she shot back, but the tension had lightened. Even so, she carefully withdrew her hand, letting Calen set the fox-deer down. It scampered off into the brush, pausing only to glance back before darting away up the hillside.

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They continued climbing, conversation sporadic as the altitude took its toll. The pines grew sparser, the air thinner, and the rocky ground turned treacherous underfoot. Then they saw it: a colossal cave mouth carved into the mountainside. The scorched rock around the entrance bore the telltale sign of dragonfire. Smoke curled from within, faint but pungent.

A handful of bodies, all wearing battered armor, lay strewn across the approach—failed adventurers. The harsh mountain wind tugged at their cloaks, whispering silent warnings to the newcomers. Drevan set his jaw and gently nudged one corpse with his boot, verifying no signs of life remained. Calen lowered his eyes, lips pressed tight in sorrow.

Amara inhaled, steeling herself. “Let’s be careful.”

They ventured inside. Echoes magnified each step, and an unsettling warmth emanated from deeper within the cavern. Twists and turns in the stone tunnel led them at last to a grand chamber. In the flickering gloom, they saw the dragon: scales the color of molten metal, chipped and worn along its massive flank. A deep gash across its chest slowly oozed viscous blackish-red blood onto the stony floor.

The creature’s head snapped up, golden eyes blazing with fury. It roared, the sound reverberating through the chamber like an avalanche. Drevan raised his shield, Amara prepared a spell, and Calen, trembling, readied to weave a protective barrier.

With a thunderous heave, the dragon lunged, ignoring whatever pain wracked its body. Claws scraped the ground, teeth snapping. A wave of scorching breath roiled toward them, forcing them to dive behind jagged rocks. The world blurred with heat and furious roars.

In a desperate counter, Amara unleashed a crackling eldritch bolt that glanced off the dragon’s wounded side. It howled, battered wings flailing. Drevan dashed forward, sword glancing harmlessly off thicker scales. Calen conjured swirling motes of healing magic around Drevan, fortifying him as flames licked at the paladin’s boots.

The dragon’s eyes flickered with something beyond rage—pain. Through the chaos, Calen spotted the deep, festering wound near its heart. “It’s… infected,” he gasped. “That’s the source of the blood poisoning the water!”

Drevan blocked another slam of claws. “We have to subdue it or it’ll kill us all!”

Amara’s mind raced. If they killed the dragon, the source of poison might remain, seeping from its corpse. But if they could cure it… Her heart hammered. “Calen,” she shouted. “Can you do it? Heal it?”

He paled but nodded shakily. “I can try. Keep it busy!”

Drevan risked a step closer, raising his sword and calling upon a faint glimmer of holy magic—just enough to distract the dragon. It lashed out in agony, leaving scorching claw marks across his shield. Meanwhile, Amara flung bursts of eldritch force at the far side of the cave, drawing the beast’s focus away from Calen, who darted between boulders toward the dragon’s flank.

As the creature turned, roaring, Calen pressed both palms against a patch of wounded scales. Silvery light blossomed around his fingers. He poured healing magic into the festering gash, ignoring the near-deafening roar that threatened to shatter his concentration.

At first, the dragon only grew more enraged, thrashing violently. A flailing wing cracked the cavern floor near Calen, almost crushing him. Drevan sprinted in, hooking his arm around Calen’s waist and dragging him back a few crucial feet. Still, the healing aura persisted—Calen’s magic sinking through scale and flesh, slowly cleansing the noxious infection.

The dragon’s roars became labored, then turned to ragged wheezes. Finally, the beast collapsed, its great golden eyes fluttering shut. The wound no longer bled, the deep laceration now sealed over with fresh scarring.

Amara’s chest heaved as she struggled to breathe, heart pounding at the spectacle. “Let’s get out of here,” she gasped. “Before it wakes.”

They backed away from the sleeping form. Even in slumber, the dragon’s presence was overwhelming—coiled power waiting to stir. Navigating around debris and shattered stalagmites, they reached the tunnel. Only once they were in the open air again did they dare let out a collective breath of relief.

The three of them staggered down the mountainside, half-limping from bruises and burns. Steam still rose off Drevan’s singed armor, and Calen clutched his throbbing hands to his chest. But they were alive. The dragon, presumably, would recover and leave this region—its blood no longer poisoning the well.

Amara glanced over her shoulder at the distant mouth of the cave, adrenaline still coursing through her veins. “We did the right thing,” she murmured, as if reassuring herself.

Drevan nodded, though his expression was grim. “Better to let it live, far from here, than leave its corpse to rot. Our job isn’t always about killing.”

Calen managed a weary smile, though sweat and soot streaked his face. “We’ll have to tell the villagers. They might not believe it at first, but… the well should be safe again.”

They paused near a rocky outcrop, the valley spread out below in a patchwork of green and brown. The journey back would be long, but hope infused each battered step. They had not only survived a dragon’s fury; they had spared its life, effectively sparing the region from further suffering.

“We go together,” Amara said, shoulders squaring with renewed determination, “as always.”

Drevan nodded once more. This time, his expression softened. “Right,” he agreed, and despite the stiffness in his voice, it was clear he meant it.

Their figures dwindled on the winding trail, heading for the horizon—and perhaps, at last, a cure for the cursed village they had vowed to save.