Chapter 2 - Devon Ashborn
Devon Ashborn had always stood out. Not by choice, but by design.
As a tiefling child in the calm, middle-class district of Northedge in Sharn, he was hard to miss. His horns and eyes marked him long before anyone knew his name. And while his neighbours were polite — even kind, sometimes — there was always an edge to their smiles. A pause in their greetings. A sidelong glance when they thought no one noticed.
But Devon’s family never flinched.
He had been adopted by a human and half-elf couple, Corwin and Mariel Ashborn, who treated him not as an outsider, but as a gift. Corwin ran a small shop that sold magical supplies and study materials to university students and novice spellcasters, while Mariel worked quietly as a scribe and counsellor in a local temple. Their home was filled with books, ink, quiet laughter, and the comforting aroma of tea and parchment. Magic was a presence in the Ashborn household, not just spells or artifacts, but the quieter kind, woven through love and patience.
Devon grew up as the middle child, the only tiefling in a household of warmth and wit. His older sister, Mira, was sharp, clever, and socially fearless. The kind of person who always knew what to say and where to stand. She eventually took a position as a liaison and advisor for minor nobles in Upper Central, helping smooth over disputes and navigate delicate social politics. She wore her charm like armour and wielded it like a blade, and Devon adored her for it.
His younger brother, Luca, was different. Four years younger than Mira, he had grown up in the shadow of his siblings’ academic and social successes. Where Devon excelled in school and Mira moved effortlessly through society, Luca struggled to find his footing. He often pushed back against their parents’ guidance, determined to do things his own way. As an adult, he took up manual labour, working odd construction contracts in the towers. Honest, hard work that required no schooling and no approval. But while Luca never said it outright, his pride came wrapped in resentment. Somewhere along the line, it started to feel like success had skipped him.
The rift hurt. Quietly. Daily. But Devon learned to smile through it.
It became a habit, the gentle charm, the warm laugh, the light in his voice that always made people feel at ease. Not because he had nothing to carry, but because he knew what it felt like to be treated like you didn’t belong. He had heard the neighbourhood gossip, endured the occasional whispers about his adoption, and weathered the ill-conceived jokes about infernal bloodlines. The pain had never hardened him. It had just taught him how to recognize it in others, and how to offer kindness in its place.
When he was accepted into Morgrave University, it was no surprise to anyone but himself.
Morgrave was supposed to be a place of learning and openness. And in many ways, it was. But even among scholars and spellcasters, old habits lingered.
The professors never said anything outright. But he noticed the subtle pauses when he introduced himself in class. The way one lecturer would always triple-check Devon's spell notations but barely glance at anyone else’s. Or how, when group work was assigned, he was too often the last picked, if picked at all.
There were students who tried to corner him with sly jokes, poking at his heritage or his adoption, laughing as if their words were clever instead of tired. Devon smiled through it. Not because it didn’t sting, but because he refused to let them decide who he was. He studied harder. Spoke with warmth, even when it wasn’t returned. When no one invited him to join their study group, he made his own and welcomed anyone who’d been left out.
That’s when he started seeing the patterns.
Not in people, though he was always good at that, but in time. In change. In choices and outcomes, small moments that rippled into bigger ones. It began subtly: noticing when a professor was about to call on someone, or when a spell was likely to misfire. A wrong step on a staircase that he warned a student about, seconds before it cracked.
It wasn’t clairvoyance. It was possibility. Potential. A sense that the world was threads, not stone, and if you could learn how to read those threads, maybe you could understand people better. Maybe you could help them avoid pain. Or choose something kinder than what fate had offered them. That’s when he found his path. Not evocation, not transmutation, not flashy prestige magic.
Divination.
The professors didn’t respect it much. At least, not the traditional ones. They called it "uncertain" or "overly abstract." One even joked it was a “soft” school of magic. But Devon didn’t care. He saw what they didn’t. He saw how much people hurt when they felt lost or overlooked. And if he could know the turning points, if he could help people see what could be, wasn’t that worth more than fire and force?
He graduated with quiet honours and a subtle reputation for being the one who knew things without being told. Who gave guidance without pushing. Who read people the way others read spellbooks.
But not everyone cheered when he succeeded. His younger brother, Luca, had already begun to pull away by then. Devon had tried — gods, he’d tried — to include him, to lift him up. But the more Devon succeeded, the more Luca seemed to believe he was being left behind. Like success only had room for two, and Devon had taken a seat that wasn’t meant for him.
Devon never stopped loving him. But he stopped trying to explain himself.
That part of his life became quiet. A bruise beneath the surface, hidden behind easy smiles.
And so, when an offer came — an opportunity from a rising officer named Caelan Thorne, who needed a civilian diviner to consult on a sensitive House Deneith matter — Devon accepted.
Not because he needed the money.
But because sometimes, a change of scenery is the only way to stop apologizing for growing.