"Some scars don't fade because they were never meant to be forgotten."
---
The next morning, the village was quiet.
Maybe it was the weight of the Trial, or maybe it was me — changed, raw, awake in a way I hadn't been before.
I found Nysa outside the training grounds, polishing her blades like nothing had happened. Her movements were calm, almost ceremonial — every stroke of the cloth purposeful.
But when she saw me, she paused.
"You didn't sleep," she said.
"Neither did you."
A faint smile curved her lips. "Fair."
I sat beside her. Silence stretched between us — not awkward, but heavy, like something waiting to be said.
"You saw her, didn't you?" Nysa asked quietly. "The other you."
"I think I am her," I whispered. "Or I'm trying to be."
She nodded — the kind of nod that said she understood without needing to ask more.
Then, without a word, Nysa reached for her sleeve.
She pushed the fabric back slowly, as if she had done it a thousand times but still felt the weight of it each time.
That's when I saw it.
A scar — long and jagged — running from her shoulder down past her elbow. The skin was uneven, half-faded in some places, still raw in others. It didn't just mark her arm. It claimed it.
For a moment, I didn't breathe.
"Who did that to you?" I asked.
Nysa's gaze didn't waver. Her fingers brushed the edge of the scar, almost tenderly.
"I did," she said.
The words hit harder than I expected. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… I chose it. Not the pain. But what came after."
She stood and walked toward the stream's edge. I followed, my eyes still caught on that jagged line.
"I was sixteen when the mirror chose me," she said. "But I didn't come from your world. Not exactly."
That stopped me. "There are other worlds?"
"There are other prisons," she replied.
Her voice was low, but every word was edged with something sharp.
"I was raised in a place where softness was weakness. Where women had to fight just to exist. And being different meant becoming invisible — or dead."
She didn't look at me when she said it.
"They caught me," she continued. "With a girl. My sister's best friend. We weren't doing anything — just talking, holding hands. But someone saw."
And suddenly, it wasn't a story — it was a memory laid bare before me.
Sixteen-year-old Nysa sat beneath a tree with a girl whose laughter was like summer, whose eyes caught sunlight in ways that made the world pause. Their fingers met — shy at first, then interlaced.
No kiss. No confession. Just warmth.
But the world didn't see that.
Shouts. Footsteps. A mother's face twisted with horror. Elders dragging the girl away like she was poison.
"Just for holding hands…" Nysa said softly, almost to herself. "What would've happened if it had been more?"
My stomach turned.
"They said I brought shame to the clan. That I had infected her." She paused, swallowing. "But I didn't do anything wrong — all I did was love. And still, they cursed me like a murderer, like a traitor, like something unworthy of forgiveness. Just because I was different from what society forced us to abide."
"I was given a choice: Denounce her publicly and let them mark her… or take the punishment myself."
I already knew what she chose.
"And so they cut you," I said.
"No," she replied. "I did it."
Her eyes met mine then, and I understood — this wasn't shame. This was defiance made flesh.
"If I let them do it, it would've meant silence. But if I marked myself… it meant survival on my terms."
---
We stood there for a while, the stream whispering between us.
"I'm sorry," I said at last. It felt small, but it was all I had.
She shook her head. "Don't be. That scar saved me. It reminded me who I am — even when I tried to forget."
I hesitated, then reached out. My fingertips brushed the edge of her scar.
It was warm. Alive.
"I don't know if I'm brave like that," I murmured.
Nysa studied me for a moment.
"You went into the fire and came back changed," she said. "That's more than brave, Amara."
I didn't flinch when she said my name this time. I let it sit between us like something earned.
"But I'm still scared," I whispered. "And confused. I don't know how to accept this change — not fully."
Her gaze softened.
"Then let the fear walk beside you," she said. "But don't let it lead."
---
As we walked back toward the village, the red ribbon on my wrist caught the light.
It wasn't just a bond. It was a promise — to myself, to this strange world, and maybe… to Nysa.
Even if I still feared my heart, I was no longer running from it.
Nysa was quiet beside me, her fingers grazing the old scar as if it still whispered secrets only she could hear.
A crow flew overhead, black wings slicing the sky. It circled once… then vanished into the trees.
Nysa stopped walking.
"That's not a good sign," she murmured.
And for a moment, I wasn't sure which one of us she was talking to.