Tyrion Scar Novels & Stories

My eyes traveled lower, to his nose, slightly parted lips, chin, and the scar on his body. His scar was terrifying—as if someone had dug a sword deep into his side, trying to dismember his whole arm. It was a battle mark, one he seemed to wear proudly. I didn’t even realize it and I was etching his features in my mind. I shook my head and crawled to the bed. As I neared him, my heart only started beating faster. He was a Lycan. There was nothing werewolfish about him. He would be brutal if he caught me stealing or trying to escape—I did not doubt it.

“You were the last one to see your cousin, Ava, correct?” His brow furrowed. “Yes, but that was years ago,” he said with his gravelly voice. An injury he sustained when he was younger had left him with severe scars along his neck, making his voice sound muted and strained whenever he spoke. It was jarring for many to see. It was hard to leave those kinds of scars on a lycan. We heal too quickly. Typically, only a lycan could scar a lycan to such a degree. “Where was that? I need to know anything you have on her possible whereabouts.”

I might have nothing but I will still stand like a pillar. I still don't understand one thing. Why couldn't he kill me that day? He said something is holding him back. Is that even possible? A tattoo on the leader's chest. I don't have tattoos. I have scars. Tears blurred my eyes as I put my hand on my chest. My scars define how strong I am. They might not allure anyone. I might be ugly in the world's eye but I know how these scars have made me strong. If they are powerful so do I am.

He held his phone and watched the video all night long. The next morning, when he looked in the mirror, he saw a man who looked like a vagrant—unshaven, haggard, and lifeless. He stared at his own reflection and muttered bitterly, "You deserve this." … On the day of my wedding, all my college classmates showed up, including Tristan. At first, I was worried he would cause trouble again. I didn't want to be disturbed by him anymore. Even with my good temper, I couldn't stand being constantly tangled up in his drama.

This man almost doubled his muscle mass. His dark brown hair had subtle streaks of red throughout. His eyes were green with hints of gold. They were the most amazing things I had ever seen. Looking at him made my heart pound. His eyes were focused on mine as he held my gaze. The scar on the left side of his neck was faded, the sight of it enraged me. I didn’t know why I was so upset about him being hurt. I felt myself begin to get lost in his eyes when my mind snapped me out of it.

I guess that’s why I have my scar, a reminder of the fact that I’ll never be as strong as I need to be. As strong as I want to be. Maybe I deserve the scar…. I-i know I deserve my scar it’s all my fault. I… I need to search the body. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, collected the supplies and got to my feet, stumbling backwards as my backpack settled on my shoulders.

"Don, the knife work was lethal. If you'd truly meant to kill me, I wouldn't be here breathing." A flicker of madness in Wade's eyes froze for a split second before he erupted into a wild laugh. His laughter twisted the scars on his face into something even more sinister. Out of nowhere, he lunged and clamped down on my wrist. His grip was so strong I thought my bones might snap as he tried to shake me off. However, the moment his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist, he froze. There, an ugly burn scar marred my skin. It was an old wound, shaped like a scorched butterfly.

It was an enchanting presentation of 'food. “Oh, right! She made me lose focus!” James pointed out, making Jay slightly uncomfortable because he suddenly leaned over his desk. “Crystal Zetaruby.” Jay read the name as if he was considering it. “As beautiful as the person, right? But look… at the scar.” Jay followed James' index finger. A streak of scars, shaped like dry, red leaves, adorned the middle of his nose's bridge. “She has an eternal disease. Prurigo, sweet blood, means he probably has a lot of scars. Are you okay?"

The night stretched long and cold, the air thick with the scent of blood and damp earth. The battle had ended, but the war was far from over. Scar emerged from the shadows, his towering frame moving with deadly grace. His fur, a deep shade of charcoal, gleamed under the moonlight. Scars littered his body, marks of past battles, proof of his dominance. His golden eyes flickered with something unreadable as he stopped in front of the crumpled figure on the ground.

“I read it in the news. How did it go? Did you later have the transplant?” “I did.” “Really?” “Yes.” “Then you must have a scar.” She whipped her head up, her eyes narrowed into fiery slits. “What are you doing, Arya?” Apparently puzzled, I blinked, wrapping my fingers around the glass of wine. “Bonding. I have a few scars of my own. I’m not proud of them, because I got them while fighting for my life, but I don't plan to get them removed soon. I thought we could get a little closer if we talk about our scars.”