You hated your scars.

They clung to you like ghosts of the past, whispering reminders of what had been done to you—of what you had done. No matter how much time passed, they never faded completely. They were like shadows; sometimes unseen, but always there.

You had long since stopped looking into mirrors. You didn’t need the reminder. Avoidance had become your shield, but it was a brittle one. The scars didn’t need reflection to exist. They lived on your skin, in your memory, in the weight of the past you carried.

—

After a brutal fight, Phainon saw them.

You tried to turn away, to cover them before his gaze could linger. But those bright blue eyes missed nothing.

His touch was featherlight as he traced the outline of one. There was no disgust in his expression, no pity—just something quiet and unreadable.

"Heroes carry many scars," he murmured, his voice as gentle as his fingers.

His other hand continued wrapping your fresh wounds in bandages, careful and precise.

"The greater the hero, the more scars they bear."