Drevan drew a slow breath, tightening the straps of his breastplate one final notch. They’d made camp after an exhausting day of minor skirmishes—enough to leave bruises under his armor but nothing Calen’s healing couldn’t handle. The tiefling paladin kept his gaze fixed on the small, crackling fire. He knew the question was coming. He could feel Calen’s worry and Amara’s curiosity, both lingering in the air.

They’d been traveling together for a while now, sharing victories and wounds alike. Still, Drevan remained stubborn about one thing: letting them see how bad his scars truly were. The others had glimpsed bits of marred skin—Calen once caught a peek of the lines that crisscrossed Drevan’s back—but tonight, there was no hiding them anymore. Calen insisted on examining a cut near the tiefling’s ribs, where his armor had pinched and reopened old wounds.

“I’ll heal it,” Calen had said quietly, motioning for Drevan to remove the damaged plate. “If infection sets in, it’ll be worse.”

Now, under the soft glow of torchlight, Drevan inhaled again. He undid each buckle, piece by piece. Armor clattered to the ground, revealing the simple, sweat-stained tunic underneath. He hesitated, horns dipping forward, then pulled the tunic over his head. The cool air prickled his bare skin.

Amara’s eyes softened first. Across Drevan’s broad shoulders and down his spine was a network of pale ridges—some thick and jagged, others thin and precise, like whip lashes. A faint, oval-shaped brand scarred one side of his waist, its shape indiscernible but clearly intentional. The sight struck both Calen and Amara speechless.

Drevan balled the tunic in his fists, cheeks burning. He hated this. Hated how exposed he felt. He glared at the ground, unable to meet their gazes. “This is it,” he muttered, voice tight. “I’m fine. You can do your healing and be done.”

Calen knelt next to him, staff at his side. A soft emerald glow enveloped his hands—gentle warmth that brushed over the tiefling’s newly opened cut. “You’re not just fine,” Calen murmured, sounding pained. “These scars… they must’ve hurt when they were made.”

Drevan forced himself to stay still. Sweat beaded at his temples, partly from the day’s exertion, partly from the swirl of shame and anger roiling inside him. The memory of each scar threatened to resurface, and for a moment he wanted to snap at them to look away. Instead, he said nothing as Calen’s magic soothed the raw cut by his ribs.

Amara stepped closer, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’m sorry you went through that,” she said simply. No pity, just a quiet respect. “We’re not judging you. We just want to help.”

Drevan swallowed, forcing himself to nod. He shouldered aside a flash of old humiliation, letting Amara and Calen see the reality he’d carried for so long. When Calen’s healing spell finished, the tension broke. Amara handed Drevan a fresh bandage, and for once, the tiefling allowed himself to accept it without protest.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly. The words were clipped, but sincere.

He reached for his tunic, half-expecting them to pepper him with questions. Instead, Amara only squeezed his arm in solidarity, and Calen offered a small, grateful smile. In the warm hush of the campfire, Drevan realized they weren’t recoiling from him or the scars. If anything, they looked at him with deeper understanding, the same acceptance they’d shown each other time and time again.

He pulled on his tunic, the night air chilling the sweat on his skin. For the first time in ages, baring himself—physically and otherwise—didn’t feel like a betrayal of his pride. It felt like trust. And although embarrassment still burned at the back of his throat, Drevan felt a flicker of relief. These scars were part of him, and they had just taken one more step toward truly seeing each other—and standing together, no matter how jagged the past.