Scars of the Past

It was while I redressed his wounds that I first noticed it.

The gash was jagged, angry, and ancient in appearance. It slashed diagonally across his chest, cutting through the sculpted planes of muscle like a scar etched in defiance of time. Unlike the claw marks that had already begun to fade, or the fresh tears of flesh I had stitched with shaking hands, this wound was different-older, unnatural, deliberate. It seemed almost alive beneath my fingers separated by gloves, ridged and raw in a way that made my skin prickle.

"This one," I whispered, my voice barely audible, as if speaking louder would summon something dark into the room. My hand hovered, then, despite every rational instinct, brushed lightly over the ridged flesh. The warmth of his skin beneath was startling. I froze, caught between awe and fear, my pulse hammering like a drum in my ears. "What caused it?"

Zevrael's body stilled beneath my touch. And in his breathing I could hear the faintest hitch that made my stomach c