The stew was simple but nourishing root vegetables and rabbit meat in a savory broth. Ash ate slowly, still adjusting to regular food after days of broth and tea.
Each bite required conscious effort, a reminder of how far he had fallen from the prince who had taken palace feasts for granted.
After the meal, Kalen prepared the dye which was a pungent mixture that filled the cabin with a chemical odor. He positioned Ash on a stool near the hearth where the light was strongest.
"This will stain your skin if we're not careful," Kalen warned, draping a cloth around Ash's shoulders. "Hold still."
The process was uncomfortable, the dye burning slightly against his scalp. Ash endured it silently, focusing on the necessity rather than the discomfort. As Kalen worked the dark mixture through his hair, Ash felt another piece of his former identity dissolving away.
"You should consider a beard too," Kalen suggested as he worked. "Changes a man's appearance significantly. Harder to recognize someone behind facial hair."
Ash nodded slightly, careful not to disrupt the application. "I've never grown one before."
"All the more reason to start," Kalen replied. "The less you resemble your former self, the better."
When the dye was fully applied, Kalen wrapped Ash's head in a cloth to prevent staining and left it to set. The waiting gave them time to continue the discussion of his new identity.
"Where are you from?" Kalen asked abruptly.
"The capital," Ash answered automatically.
Kalen shook his head. "Too vague, too central. Pick somewhere distant but not foreign. Somewhere you could reasonably know about, but others wouldn't question deeply."
Ash considered the empire's geography. "The northern provinces? Coldwater, perhaps."
"Good choice," Kalen approved. "Remote enough that specific questions are unlikely, but still within the empire. What did your father do?"
"He was a mer... " Ash began, then stopped himself. "No, that's too close to my previous lie. A... carpenter?"
"Can you tell the difference between oak and pine? Describe basic woodworking tools?" Kalen challenged.
"No," Ash admitted.
"Then not a carpenter," Kalen said firmly. "Your background needs to be something you can speak about convincingly if questioned. Something that explains any unusual knowledge or skills you might accidentally reveal."
Ash thought carefully. What occupation would align with his actual experiences while remaining suitably common?
"A scribe," he said finally. "My father was a scribe for a minor lord in Coldwater. It explains my literacy, my formal speech patterns if they slip through, and my knowledge of politics from overhearing my father's work."
Kalen nodded approvingly. "Better. And your mother?"
"Died when I was young," Ash said, the fiction coming more easily now. "Fever took her during a harsh winter."
"Why did you leave Coldwater?"
"My father died last year. The lord he served had no need for another scribe, so I traveled south seeking employment."
The fabricated history flowed more naturally as Ash warmed to the creation process. "I was in the capital when the coup happened, caught in the wrong place during the fighting."
"And the sword wound?" Kalen pressed.
Ash hesitated. "I... was mistaken for someone else. A soldier attacked me before I could explain."
"Weak," Kalen critiqued. "Too convenient, raises more questions than it answers. Better to avoid mentioning the wound entirely. If someone sees it and asks, say it was a childhood accident. Old wounds draw less attention than recent ones."
The lesson continued as the dye set, Kalen poking holes in Ash's story and helping him refine it. By the time they were ready to rinse the dye, Ash had constructed a complete background for "Ash the scribe's son" detailed enough to be convincing but vague enough to avoid specific questions.
Kalen helped him to the basin where they rinsed the excess dye from his hair. The water ran dark, carrying away the last visible connection to his royal heritage. When they finished, Kalen handed him the small mirror.
The transformation was startling. The rich dark brown color changed his appearance dramatically, making his blue eyes seem more intense by contrast. With his face still thin from illness and his cheekbones more prominent, he barely recognized himself.
"It's good," Kalen said, studying the effect. "Different enough that casual acquaintances wouldn't connect you to... whoever you were before."
Ash stared at his reflection, feeling a strange mixture of loss and possibility. The person looking back at him was neither Prince Aedan nor fully this new creation called Ash. He existed in between a blank slate waiting to be defined.
"Now for the harder part," Kalen continued, returning to his chair. "Mannerisms. The way you hold yourself, the way you eat, the way you speak all of it needs to change."
"What do you mean?" Ash asked, setting down the mirror.
"Watch how you're sitting right now," Kalen pointed out. "Back straight, shoulders squared, chin slightly raised. Royal posture. Commoners slouch, especially when tired or injured. They take up less space, make themselves smaller in the presence of authority."
Ash consciously tried to adjust his posture, letting his shoulders drop and his spine curve slightly. It felt unnatural after years of etiquette instructors rapping his knuckles for the slightest slouch.
"Your speech... too," Kalen continued. "Too precise, too formal. Drop word endings occasionally. Use simpler terms. 'Can't' instead of 'cannot.' 'Don't know' instead of 'I'm not certain.'"
"I don't..." Ash began, then corrected himself. "I don't know if I can change how I talk."
"You can and you will," Kalen insisted. "Your life depends on it. The moment you open your mouth in a village tavern, everyone will know you're not what you claim to be."
The reality of his situation settled heavily on Ash. Survival meant more than just physical recovery or even a disguised appearance. It required becoming someone else entirely adopting mannerisms and habits foreign to everything he had known.
"It's a lot," he admitted, genuine weariness creeping into his voice.
Kalen's expression softened slightly. "One step at a time, lad. We'll work on it daily. For now, rest. You've done enough for today."
Ash returned to the bed, his brief period of activity having drained his limited reserves of energy.
As he settled against the pillows, his hand went again to the sword fragment in his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, he could feel its slight warmth, its connection to whatever strange power now resided within him.
"Kalen," he said as the older man banked the fire for the night. "Thank you. For all of this."
Kalen glanced at him, something unreadable in his expression. "Don't thank me yet. We've a long road ahead, and no guarantee where it leads."
"Still," Ash persisted. "You didn't have to help me. You could have left me in the river, or turned me away once I was stable enough."
"Perhaps," Kalen acknowledged. "Or perhaps some choices aren't really choices at all, but obligations we can't ignore."
He adjusted the blanket covering Ash with unexpected gentleness. "Sleep. Tomorrow we continue your training both in movement and in becoming someone new."
As Kalen extinguished the lamps, leaving only the faint glow of embers in the hearth, Ash closed his eyes and tried to embrace the identity he was creating.
Ash from Coldwater. A scribe's son. A common youth caught in events beyond his control.
But in the darkness behind his eyelids, the constellation of broken sword fragments appeared again clearer now, more defined. The blue light pulsed gently, a reminder that whatever name he adopted, whatever past he fabricated, something within him was changing in ways he couldn't yet comprehend.
Identity parameters adjusting, the soundless voice informed him.
Host designation updated.
Ash drifted toward sleep, wondering which was the greater fiction: the identity he was creating for the world, or the belief that he could ever truly escape what he had been.
In the quiet cabin, as night deepened around them, the sword fragment in his chest glowed faintly beneath his shirt, casting subtle blue patterns across the ceiling a private aurora that only he and Kalen could see.
Outside, an owl called three times, its cry echoing through the forest. A harbinger of change, according to old superstitions.
For once, the omens spoke true.