Elias walked away, more confused than before.
"Taking care of people. Books and knowledge. Saving for emergencies."
Three different answers. All reasonable in their way. All completely unhelpful.
He wandered through the academy grounds, pouch in hand, no closer to a decision than when he started.
That's when he literally walked into Marlen.
"Oof—watch where you're—" Marlen steadied herself, then looked at him. "Elias. You look confused."
"I am confused."
"About?"
He held up the pouch. "This."
Marlen's expression shifted. Not to amusement—something sharper. More assessing. "Ah. Your first real payment. And you don't know what to do with it."
"I asked Kaël. He said Care for others. Dante said invest in knowledge. Marcus said prepare for hardship."
"And what do you think?"
"I... don't know. That's why I asked them."
Marlen studied him for a long moment. Then she said quietly: "Come with me."
She led him to a quiet corner of the courtyard. Sat on a stone bench. Gestured for him to sit.
"Elias. Let me ask you something. When you look at yourself—right now, in this moment—what do you see?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Humor me. What do you see?"
Elias looked down at himself. His tunic, more hole than fabric. His hands, clean now but still scarred. His—
"I see someone who survived," he said finally.
"Good. Now. When other people look at you, what do you think they see?"
Elias frowned. "I don't... I don't think about that."
"Exactly." Marlen's voice was gentle but firm. "You've spent your whole life invisible. A street rat. Someone people looked through, not at. And now you're a disciple. But you're still wearing invisibility like armor."
"I don't understand."
"Look at your clothes. Really look. How long have you been wearing that tunic?"
"Since... Ashwell. Maybe before."
"And your hair?"
Elias touched it self-consciously. "What about it?"
"When's the last time you cut it? Washed it properly? Not just dunked your head in a water basin, but actually cleaned it?"
"I... don't remember."
Marlen nodded. "And your smell. I noticed it in Ashwell. Noticed it every day since you arrived at Aspencrest. You smell like someone who's still surviving, not living."
Elias felt heat creep up his neck. "I've been busy training—"
"Stop." Marlen held up a hand. "I'm not judging you. I'm helping you see something." She leaned forward. "Elias. You're not on the streets anymore. You're not fighting to survive. You're trying to help people. Save them. Yes?"
"Yes."
"Then think about this: if someone came to you for help—someone scared, desperate, looking for hope—and you looked like this, smelled like this... what would they think?"
Elias opened his mouth. Closed it.
"They'd think," Marlen continued softly, "that you're in worse shape than they are. That you can't even help yourself. How could you possibly help them?"
The words hit like a hammer. Not because they were cruel. Because they were true.
"It's not about vanity," Marlen said. "It's not about impressing nobles or fitting into society's rules. It's about respecting yourself enough to present yourself as someone who has their life together. Because you do. You survived three years of Divine Trials. You're training with the best disciples in the academy. You're building something real."
She gestured at his clothes, his hair, his everything. "But no one can see that. All they see is someone who looks like they're one missed meal away from collapsing."
Elias sat in silence, processing.
"So," Marlen said. "What do you think you need?"
And Elias—for the first time really seeing himself through others' eyes—said quietly: "I need to look like someone worth trusting."
Marlen smiled. "There it is."
"But how?"
"Tomorrow morning, we visit the market district. Bathhouse. Barber. Tailor. We get you sorted. Not for society. For you. So when you look in a mirror, you see what you actually are—a disciple who has his shit together—instead of what you used to be."
Elias looked at the pouch in his hands. Fifty silver pieces. And suddenly, he knew exactly what to do with it.
"Thank you," he said.
Marlen stood. "Don't thank me. Just show up tomorrow at dawn. And Elias?"
"Yeah?"
"Bring soap. Good soap. We're going to need it."
She walked away, leaving Elias sitting in the courtyard, holding his money and, for the first time, actually seeing himself.
Not who he'd been.
Who he could be.
***
The next morning came too quickly and not quickly enough.
Elias met Marlen at the academy gates just as the sun painted the eastern sky in shades of copper and gold. She looked him up and down with the critical eye of a general inspecting troops before battle.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"That's the spirit." She turned and started walking. "Try to contain your enthusiasm."
The market district was already stirring to life. Bakers opened their shutters, releasing clouds of yeast and warmth into the crisp air. A fishmonger called out his wares in a voice that could wake the dead. Somewhere, a blacksmith's hammer began its rhythmic song against an anvil.
Marlen navigated the morning chaos with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Elias followed, still clutching his pouch of silver pieces like it might try to escape.
The bathhouse was tucked between a tailor's shop and what looked like a very enthusiastic cheese merchant. Steam curled from vents in the roof, carrying the scent of soap and something herbal that Elias couldn't quite identify.
The attendant at the front desk took one look at Elias and visibly recoiled.
"Five copper pieces," she said, her nose wrinkling. "And he goes in the far bath. The very far bath. No offense."
"None taken," Elias said cheerfully.
Marlen paid, then fixed him with a look. "Don't come out until you're actually clean. Not 'rinsed off.' Clean. If I can still smell you from five paces, you're going back in."
"How will I know when—"
"Trust me. You'll know."
The bathhouse interior was all steam and echoing tiles. The attendants led him to what he suspected was usually used for especially dirty horses. They handed him a brush that looked like it had seen military service and a bar of soap that smelled like pine trees had a fight with a lemon.
"Strip," one attendant said. "Everything. Burn the clothes if you want. We won't judge."
Elias stripped. The attendants circled him like predators assessing prey.
"Sweet Sanctus," one muttered. "When's the last time you bathed?"
"Define 'bathed.'"
"That answers that."
They attacked with the efficiency of people who'd done this before. The brushes were not gentle. The soap was not kind. The water, initially cold enough to make Elias yelp, gradually warmed until it was almost pleasant.
Almost.
By the time they were done, Elias's skin was pink and raw but actually visible. The water in the bath had turned a color that probably violated several natural laws.
"Again," the lead attendant said.
"Again?"
"Did I stutter?"
The second bath was marginally less violent. By the third, Elias thought he could see actual skin color that wasn't gray or brown.
"Right," the lead attendant finally said, squinting at him critically. "You'll do. Here." She tossed him a towel and some clean underclothes. "The soap is complimentary. By which I mean, please take it. Use it. Daily."
Elias emerged from the bathhouse feeling oddly light. Like he'd left several pounds of accumulated grime behind. Which, he supposed, he had.
Marlen was waiting outside, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She straightened as he approached, then walked around him in a slow circle.
"Better. Much better." She flicked his still-wet hair. "But we're not done. Come on."
The barber's shop was three doors down. A faded sign showed scissors and what might have been a comb, though it was hard to tell through decades of weather damage.
Inside, an elderly man with remarkably steady hands looked up from sharpening his scissors. His eyebrows—magnificent white things that could have nested small birds—rose as Elias entered.
"Marlen," he said. "What have you brought me?"
"A project, Master Corwin."
"I can see that." Corwin gestured to the chair. "Sit, boy. Let's see what we're working with."
Elias sat. Corwin lifted a strand of his hair between two fingers, examined it like it might contain secrets, then let it fall.
"How long has it been?"
"Since...?"
"Since anyone cut this properly?"
"Years. Maybe never properly."
Corwin grunted. "Honest, at least. Right. I'm going to need my good scissors for this. Marlen, my dear, would you mind putting the 'closed' sign up? This will take time."
It did take time. Corwin worked with the focused intensity of a sculptor, snipping and combing and occasionally muttering to himself. Long strands of dark hair fell to the floor like autumn leaves.
"You have good hair," Corwin said at one point. "Thick. Strong. Just... criminally neglected."
"I've been busy."
"So is everyone. But even knights need haircuts, boy. Remember that."
When Corwin finally stepped back, Elias almost didn't recognize himself in the mirror. His hair was still dark, still fell across his forehead, but now it looked intentional. Mid-length on top, shorter on the sides. Clean. Styled.
"Well?" Corwin asked.
Elias touched his head tentatively. "I look like a person."
"You are a person. Now you look like one who owns a comb." Corwin accepted the silver piece Marlen handed him. "Come back in six weeks. Don't make me hunt you down."
The tailor's shop was last. A neat storefront with actual glass windows displaying tunics, trousers, and leather goods that didn't look like they'd survived a war.
The tailor—a brisk woman named Hestia—took one look at Elias and smiled.
"Disciple wear?"
"Please," Marlen said.
"New student?"
"Recent. But learning quickly."
Hestia measured Elias with quick, practiced movements. "Standard cut will do. You're thin, but you'll fill out with proper training and feeding. I'll account for that."
She returned with arms full of clothing. Two tunics—one dark gray, one deep blue. Two pairs of trousers. A leather vest that actually fit. Boots that didn't have holes.
Elias changed behind a screen. When he emerged, even he had to admit the difference was startling.
"Now that," Hestia said approvingly, "is a proper disciple. You wear it well, young man."
Marlen paid, counted the remaining silver pieces, and handed the pouch back to Elias. "Twenty-five left. Don't spend it all in one place."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And don't call me ma'am. I'm not that old."
They walked back through the market, now fully alive with mid-morning commerce. Elias caught sight of his reflection in a shop window and stopped.
He looked... different. Clean. Put together. Like someone who had their life sorted.
"Come on," Marlen said. "Don't get vain on me now."