Varang did not care about your discomfort.

Clan colors were not a suggestion—they were a declaration. Identity worn openly, boldly, without apology. She watched you hesitate at the edge of the firelight, eyes flicking over the garments laid out for you, too light, too exposed by your standards, heavy with meaning you didn’t yet carry.

“You will wear them,” Varang said, voice even, unyielding.

She stepped closer, heat radiating off her like a living thing. “Mangkwan does not hide. Not scars. Not skin. Not allegiance.” Her gaze was sharp, assessing—not mocking, not cruel. Certain. “What you feel is not shame. It is unfamiliarity.”

Varang lifted one of the pieces and held it out, expectant. “You walk among us now. You fight beside us. You bleed under our sky.” A pause, deliberate. “You will look like it.”

This was not about exposure.

It was about ownership—of self, of choice, of the fire you had stepped into.

And Varang did not wait for agreement.