That afternoon, in the same mess hall where it had started, the three soldiers were waiting again. Not deliberately, perhaps—but with the kind of expectation that comes from wanting to see the outcome of something you’ve set in motion. When Mara walked in without the patch, they noticed immediately.
“Well, look at that,” one of them said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Guess someone finally told you to take it off.”
Another laughed. “Good call. You were making people look bad.”
This time, Mara didn’t sit down right away. She placed her tray on the table, her movements steady, unhurried, and then—without raising her voice—she spoke.
“You want to know what it means?” she asked.
Something in her tone cut through the room. Conversations slowed. Heads turned.
She turned her back to them.
At first, no one understood what she was doing. Then, slowly, she reached up and pulled down the collar of her shirt.
What they saw silenced the room completely.
The Iron Wolves emblem was there—but not as a patch. It was inked into her skin, deep and permanent, the lines sharp despite the years. Beneath it were coordinates, etched with precision. And cutting through the center of it all was a scar—jagged, uneven, unmistakable. The kind of scar that doesn’t come from accidents.
