Vera started asking around if there were any barbers in the city. In the market, she hadn’t had much trouble—stall owners were usually willing to talk to a potential customer—but out here, away from the bustle, things were different. A couple of the people she approached turned openly hostile the moment they noticed the sigil-scars on her hands.

  Serel’s presence seemed to soften them somewhat, but the suspicion stayed sharp. One man even spat on the cobblestones in front of Vera, muttering ‘cultist bastards’ under his breath.

  Vera didn’t retaliate. She wanted to. Badly. Especially when she saw the fear flicker across Serel’s face. But she forced it down, leaned closer to reassure the girl, and whispered that the words of idiots like that weren’t worth more than the mud under their boots. Then she pulled her hood lower, grew more selective about who she approached, and quietly added gloves to her mental shopping list. In hindsight, she could have gotten that at the market.

  Eventually, she managed to get reliable directions to a barber not far from the northern waterfront. Following them, she and Serel wound their way into a district perched on a raised shelf of stone with narrow canals threading around its edges.

  She didn’t remember this part of the city from the game, though she’d gathered the barber’s shop was an old one—generations deep, once serving the wealthy houses. It took some backtracking through twisting lanes before they found it: another building of bone, this one yellow-white with a polished facade framed by ridged windows.

  Serel, still far from tired of the general bonework aesthetic, looked thrilled as they climbed the short steps and entered.

  A bell chimed overhead. From behind a low counter, an older man with wisps of white hair slicked across his scalp and a grand, curled mustache looked up, smiling warmly as his eyes landed on them.

  “Oh, customers, customers? Welcome, welcome to The Hallowed Shear!”

  “Thank you,” Vera said.

  The man sprang up from his seat, vanishing temporarily behind the counter before shuffling out to meet them. His back was bent in a hunch, but his movements carried an odd, nimble grace. He stopped in front of them, squinting up at Vera as if trying to peer beneath her hood, then nodded.

  His gaze shifted to Serel. They stood nearly eye to eye. If Vera hadn’t known better, she might have mistaken him for a gnome or some other diminutive race from a property other than Ashen Legacy.

  “Such beautiful hair, little lass! Wane-born truly are blessed. Silver-gray, so fine, with such natural sheen. And those eyes!” He leaned closer, and Serel retreated slightly, clutching Vera’s shirt. “Marvelous! Silver touched with that carmine glimmer. Ember-born father, I presume? Yes, yes, has to be.”

  He fell into muttering, stringing together terms Vera only half-recognized, seeming almost more like a scholar than a barber.

  “Uh—mind if I ask a question?” she cut in.

  The man stopped mid-mutter, turning toward her. “Why, of course not! Ask away, ask away. Old Korrin has never turned down a question, and he won’t start now.”

  “…That's… great.”

  “It is!”

  Vera eyed him. “Do you have anything like dyes here?”

  “Dyes?”

  “For the hair.”

  “Ahh! Yes, yes, certainly! But for hair and hair alone. None of that frivolous nonsense the Amber & Rose Atelier peddles. Hmph! Hair and nails in the same establishment? Preposterous!” His voice dropped to a dramatic rasp, and he spat the words like they tasted foul. “An abomination. A crime against the very craft!”

  “…Right.” Vera hesitated. “…So, do you have any that’s temporary?”

  “Temporary?”

  “That's what I said, yes.”

  “Why would you want temporary hair?” Korrin tapped the wisps clinging to his scalp. “This is what that looks like! I cannot recommend it! No, no, no. Is this what you want for your daughter to learn? For her to lose her beautiful locks?”

  He crouched lower, looking at Serel. “Don’t listen to your mother, little lassie. Never let anyone talk you into such folly! Guard your hair with your life. Your life, I tell you!”

  Vera and Serel both blinked.

  “…I meant the dye,” Vera said. “Do you have any temporary hair dye?”

  Korrin blinked. Then he grinned at Serel, revealing more gaps than teeth. “Wise child, make sure you listen to your mother. Always listen to your elders—unless they’re old piles of bones rattling nonsense. In that case, ignore them entirely!”

  Serel stared at him, then up at Vera with wide, uncertain eyes.

  Vera’s gaze moved between them. What was she supposed to say? Don’t take candy from strangers?

  After a few moments of what she felt was awkward silence, she cleared her throat. “Right. So. Hair dye?”

  “Ah, yes!” He snapped his fingers and spun, shuffling spryly toward a side room. “Temporary dye, yes, yes, I have just the thing. What color, hmm? Dark mahogany? Blue-black midnight? Ashen gray? Perhaps the ever-subtle dusk violet?”

  “I was thinking something that doesn’t stand out. Black, let’s say.”

  Korrin froze mid-step, then whipped around as though she’d blasphemed. “Black?! No, no, no! You cannot simply go with black! Maybe raven-gloss black, or moonless-deep black, but plain black? Never!”

  “Is there even that much of a difference?”

  “Difference?” His voice cracked. “Lassie, the difference is as night to shadow, as ink to pitch! No, no, no. As long as you are a patron of The Hallowed Shear, I will not allow that beautiful hair of yours to be drowned in… black. I have spent my life studying this sacred art, and I will not see it sullied under my roof! Do I come into your home and tell you how to slay half-gods and tribulations? No! Then I would ask you not to tell me how to dye!”

  Vera stilled. “…Excuse me?”

  “It's fine, you're excused. Now come, come. We’ll find you something that truly works. Yes!”

  He disappeared through the doorway, then returned, peering back at her. “Hmm? Something troubling you, lassie?”

  Vera hadn’t moved. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know who I am?”

  Korrin watched her, then laughed. “Of course! Do you think this old fool is so far gone he wouldn’t recognize the Ashborn Ascendant walking into his shop? No, no, no. Now, come, come.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And with that, he vanished again.

  Vera stood still for a few beats, then glanced down. Serel met her eyes.

  “Mommy… he’s weird,” the girl whispered.

  “…He is, yeah.”

  After another moment’s hesitation, Vera sighed and stepped forward, bringing Serel with her as they crossed into the next room.

  It was larger than the entry, presumably the barber’s main workspace. The walls were ribbed bone polished to a pale gleam, the ceiling arched with carved struts. Three heavy chairs stood in a row before a wide mirror panel mounted on the wall, each one padded in dark leather stitched with ivory-thread seams. A long wood counter stretched beneath the mirror, scattered with combs, scissors, straight razors, and jars of oils and powders.

  “Have a seat, have a seat,” Korrin’s voice called from a side doorway, accompanied by the clatter of drawers and rattling bottles.

  Vera eyed the chairs, then moved to sit, finding the cushioning surprisingly soft. Serel hovered a step behind, uncertain, glancing around like she wasn’t sure where to go. Vera was about to motion her forward when Korrin returned, arms full of stoppered flasks filled with powders and pigments.

  “Little lassie, take a chair as well,” he said, gesturing with his elbow while nearly dropping a flask of silvery dust.

  Serel peeked at Vera for permission. Vera nodded.

  With some effort, Serel scrambled up onto the chair beside her. It was a little too tall, and she gave a tiny grunt as she hauled herself up, using both hands on the armrest before wriggling around and plopping down with her legs sticking straight out. She shifted, pressing a curious finger into the smooth leather cushion, then smiled faintly.

  Korrin set his flasks on the counter with a clink and rustle. Then, slipping a hand into his pocket, he brought it out toward Serel. “Here, little lassie. Your hand.”

  Serel blinked at him, then hesitantly held out her palm.

  He dropped a small wax-wrapped sweet into it.

  Serel’s eyes flicked to Vera.

  For a second, Vera wondered if she really should have warned the girl about taking candy from strangers. But Korrin didn’t strike her as dangerous, so she gave another small nod.

  Serel’s face brightened. She tore open the wrapping with clumsy fingers, revealing a pale green candy shaped like a lozenge. She sniffed it, then popped it into her mouth. Immediately, her eyes went wide, and a delighted squeak slipped out.

  Korrin chuckled. “Don’t fret, little lassie. Old Korrin’s got more where that came from. But first—business!”

  He turned to Vera, raising a bony finger toward the line of flasks. “Here we have rose madder, ironweld verdigris, tinshade argent, hemlock violet, raven-gloss and moonless-deep black, as well as a brighter fistle fustic and bone gamboge. All acceptable. So, which shall it be?”

  Vera studied the jars. “Before we get to that, I’ve got questions.”

  “More questions, hmm? Very well. Go ahead. Ask on.”

  She reached up and pulled her hood back, letting her silver-gray hair spill across her shoulders. “How did you recognize me?”

  “How?” A puzzled frown creased his face. “I may be addled, lass, but I’m not blind. You think I’d forget that face so easily?”

  “…Have we met before?”

  She didn’t get the sense that they had—not the way she had with the matron at The Bleeding Chalice. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  Korrin shook his head firmly. “No, no. Had the Ashborn Ascendant graced my shop before, I’d remember without a doubt!”

  “That’s not what I meant. Have we met anywhere else?”

  His brow furrowed as he considered. “…No. I don’t think we have.”

  “Then how do you recognize me?”

  “Why, I’ve seen you, of course!”

  “When?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Bah, who can say? There have been festivals, ceremonies, celebrations of the Marked Ones’ conquests. Don’t ask an old man in his eighty-seventh summer to pin down which one, lassie. The years blur.”

  Vera regarded him closely. “So, just to be clear… you’re not sure when exactly you’ve seen me?”

  This was the first person besides Caldrin or Serel who knew who she was and might have interacted with the other Veralyth. And unlike them, he wasn’t one of her housing NPCs. That made her wonder what such an interaction would have looked like. Another case of a possibly fabricated memory or manufactured event stitched into the world the way it seemed to have been with Caldrin? Or had there actually been a real, physical encounter here?

  “If you must ask,” Korrin said, “I’m sure it’s written down somewhere in my old calendars up in the attic. My late love insisted I keep them—said I was too scatterbrained, forced me to write down what I’d otherwise forget. Not that I need them, mind you. But it’s always best to keep the missus happy.”

  “Would it be possible for me to see that calendar?” Vera asked.

  The old man paused, giving her a long, appraising look. “…Suppose so, yes. But later. For now, we’ve hair to fashion!” He jabbed a finger at the line of flasks again. “So. Which shall it be?”

  Vera glanced over the colors. Honestly, she didn’t care much either way. She’d never been one to fuss over her appearance and only went to a salon to lop her hair shorter, never for anything else. Her interest in cosmetics had been limited to the game and the game only. Even then, she’d barely experimented with Veralyth’s hair.

  “…Which one would make me hardest to recognize without standing out?”

  “Hmm…” Korrin pressed his palms together, index fingers tapping as his eyes swept over her with exaggerated scrutiny. “Raven gloss,” he declared at last, solemn as a priest. “Deep, dark, with just enough sheen to fool the light. Yes. Raven gloss.”

  “Then that works.”

  “Good, good! Excellent!”

  He scooped up the other flasks and shuffled them onto a small table in the corner before returning with the chosen one.

  “This was temporary dye, right?” Vera asked, eyeing the faintly iridescent powder inside.

  “Of course! You asked for temporary dye, and temporary dye you shall have.”

  “Then how long does it last? And how do I clean it out?”

  “Clean?” Korrin stared at her like she’d just confessed to murder. “Why would you clean it away? You Marked Ones, always thinking of battles and endings. Hair is life, lassie. It must be lived in, not scrubbed out.”

  He seized the flask in both hands and wrestled with the cork. For a moment it looked like the stopper would win, but then it popped free with a sharp plop. The old man nearly toppled backward before catching himself against the counter.

  A soft giggle slipped from Serel, which the girl quickly smothered with both hands over her mouth.

  Korrin winked at her, tapping a knuckle against his temple. “Don’t fret, little lassie. These old bones have quite some fight left in them. Might not match your mother’s strength, but underestimate us bone-rattlers at your peril.”

  Serel lowered her hands, a cautious smile forming.

  Korrin turned back to Vera, blinked, then frowned. “Where was I?”

  “Cleaning,” Vera reminded him.

  “Ah! Yes, yes.” He nodded, then fixed her with a strange look. “There is no cleaning. What would be the point of dyeing if you just wash it away, hmm?”

  Vera fought down the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. “What if I don’t want my hair to stay black forever?”

  “Why would that be a problem?”

  She gave him a flat stare. “…Because we’re dyeing my hair.”

  “Yes?”

  “…Okay. Just tell me how this dyeing actually works.”

  “Ah, now that I can do.”

  He leaned down, tugging open a narrow drawer beneath the counter. Out came a carved bone mortar and pestle, which he set out without ceremony. Beside it, he placed a squat vial filled with pearlescent liquid that shimmered faintly in the lamplight. With practiced hands, he scooped a spoonful of the liquid and a matching scoop of powdered dye, tipping both into the mortar. From a pouch at his hip he sprinkled several grains of differently colored salts, then set to grinding with the pestle.

  “Now listen close, lassie, for haircraft is an art,” he said, the pestle scraping in steady circles. “Each brew is its own beast. For you, you asked for temporary, yes? That means Echo Oil as the Resonance medium. Rare, precious, cantankerous stuff. Binds color to the hair, yes, but not to the roots. No, no. It latches to your Resonance instead! That means the shade will hold as long as you allow, and when you’ve had enough, you give it a push and poof, your natural color shines through again. If you’d want proper permanent mixes, those exist. Grips the shaft of the hair itself—right down to the follicle—and won’t fade until the strand grows out or’s cut away. This one here’s gentler, more forgiving. Suits travelers, dabblers, and people who don’t fancy just one look.”

  Vera watched the blend darken into a glossy black as he worked. It wasn’t what she’d been expecting, but it made a certain kind of sense. In the game, changing hair color had always been an effortless option at the barber’s chair. Maybe this was just the world’s way of dressing that same system up in alchemical logic.

  “Another question,” she said. “Do you also have a way to make hair grow faster?”

  In the game, after all, you could swap all hairstyles as easily as colors.

  Korrin paused with the pestle, slowly turning to her.

  “…Lassie,” he said gravely. “Would I look like this if such a panacea existed?” He pointed a finger at the wisps clinging stubbornly to his scalp.

  Vera eyed them. “…Right. Sorry. Stupid question.”

  “Stupid indeed! But forgiven. Curiosity is the whetstone of wisdom, as they say.”

  He gave the mixture one final grind, then set the pestle aside. The paste inside gleamed slightly, now black as midnight with just a faint touch of blue. Korrin looked positively pleased.

  “Now,” he said, voice dropping into a craftsman’s seriousness, “the canvas must be prepared.”

  Before Vera could respond, he reached—she wasn’t even sure where—and produced a gleaming pair of bone-handled scissors. With a fluid motion, he kicked a stool behind her chair and stepped up, his hunched back reflected in the wide mirror.

  “Tell me, lassie.” The scissors rested lightly against his palm as his eyes met hers in the glass. “What shall we do with the cut?”

  For some reason, Vera suddenly felt nerves prickling at the back of her neck.