The tailor's place wasn't much to see.
Off the road, there was only a tight entrance wedged next to a bread shop and a stall dealing in broken ceramics. Above, an old sign sagged - letters chipped away: MERA'S THREADS. Garments swung on a wire outside, their shades washed out by soot and time.
Rowan frowned at it. "This is where we get a 'stable identity'?"
"Not here," Aiden said. "Behind here."
He shoved the door wide. Inside, a small bell rang - soft, like nobody had used it in ages.
Inside, the place reeked of stale air mixed with worn-out clothes. Rolls of fabric stood propped along the walls. A woman around forty, her hair held by way too many clips, glanced up from a shirt she hadn't finished. She checked out Aiden's gear first, then eyed Rowan briefly before returning her stare.
"Soldier," she said, voice flat. "We're paid up on taxes."
"I'm not here for that," Aiden replied.
"Then I don't owe you anything." She jabbed her needle into the cloth. "State your business."
"Your brother still works down by the river?" he asked. "The one who 'finds' things that fall off carts?"
Her hands froze. Just for a second, everything in the store went silent.
Rowan glanced between them. "You two… know each other?"
"Not personally," Aiden said. "But I used to run patrols past this street. Heard enough to know whose family does what."
The woman's gaze sharpened. "You remember a lot for a man who never looked twice at my door before."
"I wasn't looking for what you sold before," he said. "Now I am."
"And what's that?"
"Papers," Aiden said. "Names. Something that looks official enough no one bothers to check too hard."
She laughed once, short and humorless. "You think I do that? You think I'm stupid enough to put ink to lies while wearing my own face?"
"No," Aiden said. "I think you know who does. And I think you like it when your brother comes home with coin instead of broken ribs."
Her jaw clenched. A second passed - she stared at him like she'd jab that needle right into his eyeball. After that, she just exhaled hard.
"You soldiers," she muttered. "You always know just where to prod."
She put down the tunic, then got up. "Alright. Stay right here."
She slipped behind a hanging cloth toward the rear. From the other side came whispers - quiet, uneasy tones. Rowan rocked slightly between his feet, staring at some coats like they could lunge any second.
"Is this… safe?" he whispered.
"No," Aiden said. "That's why it's useful."
The curtain twitched. Out stepped a thin guy - sharp-eyed, fingers marked with ink. From his left ear down to the chin, an old scar traced its path. His smile looked friendly, though his eyes stayed cold.
"You've caused my sister trouble," he said lightly. "I don't appreciate that."
"I only asked a question," Aiden replied.
"In this city, questions are trouble." The man's gaze flicked to Aiden's crest. "Thirteenth Company, huh? Heard your captain's been in a foul mood. Shouldn't you be making his life easier instead of wandering my doorstep?"
"I am making his life easier," Aiden said. "He doesn't know it yet."
The man snorted. "You talk like someone who thinks too much and sleeps too little."
Rowan muttered, "He doesn't sleep at all."
The guy's gaze tightened a bit just then - "So what're you after?"
"Papers," Aiden said. "A name. Something that puts me in the city as more than a passing blade."
"Why?"
"So when I start moving," Aiden said, "people think they know who I am. And when they look back, the trail leads to a man who never existed."
That caught his attention. He drummed his stained fingertips on his hand. "So you've got some kind of move coming up."
"Yes."
"And noisy."
"Eventually," Aiden said. "Right now, I'm planning something invisible."
Quiet hung in the air for a while. After that, he grinned - this one felt slightly truer.
"I like invisible plans," he said. "They pay well."
He nodded toward a worn chair. "Sit. Tell me who you used to be, so I know what not to write."
Aiden didn't move. "You don't need who I was. You need who I am now."
"And who's that?"
"A minor clerk," Aiden said. "Attached to the outer barracks. Too low to notice, too useful to question when he walks in and out of doors with papers in hand."
The guy's brows lifted. "Bold... coming from someone nobody knows."
"Safe," Aiden corrected. "No one pays attention to the man carrying orders. They read the words, not the hands."
The man considered it, then nodded slowly. "All right. A clerk. You'll need a name. Something common enough to blend."
Rowan blurted, "What about Jor? That guard we—"
Aiden gave him a glance. Yet Rowan closed his mouth fast.
The forger tilted his head. "Jor, huh? Good, but I already know three of them. Too many chances for someone to say 'I know that man' and be right."
He looked Aiden over. "You look like an Elias."
"I don't feel like one."
"Good," the man said. "That means no one else will, either. Elias Grant. Clerk. Outer barracks."
He moved to a small desk near the back, pulling out parchment and a box of seals. "I can give you a work assignment note, a barracks entry mark, and a basic citizen token. The last one costs extra."
"How much?"
The guy set a cost.
Rowan gasped - "You've gotta be kidding me!"
"That's risk," the forger said calmly. "You want cheap, go scratch your name on a wall and hope a guard reads it as permission."
Aiden grabbed the bag one more time. Then he checked each coin inside. That'll do for today. Off they flew - plopped on the table.
The guy grabbed a bite, chewed, then gave a nod. "Stay put - don't blow air on the ink."
"I barely breathe at all," Aiden muttered.
While he was working, the System started moving.
[Sub-Quest: Mask of the Living – In Progress.]
Creating a fake ID might make people less suspicious while letting you reach locked zones
Caution: Being seen as undead in town could bring serious trouble
Top-tier. Which pointed to captains. Or commanders instead. Could've been Kael - hard to tell.
Aiden stared at the forger's hand - fast, smooth - as it turned empty paper into something real. People trusted words on a page way more than what they saw themselves.
Rowan moved in a bit. "Elias Grant," he said low, like trying the name on. Could you actually live with being called that?
"If it gets me where I'm going," Aiden said, "I'll answer to anything."
The fake artist added the final line, tossed sand onto the damp letters before brushing it away. As he dabbed melted wax near the edge, a tiny stamp left its shape behind. A crimson lion glared out from the page.
"Here," he said, passing Aiden the papers along with a tiny clay piece marked with an imprint. "Keep them out of sight unless needed - acting sure beats showing paperwork any day."
Aiden held them gently. Then, out of nowhere, he pictured how they viewed him - just some worn-out guy doing grunt work for the crown, hauling messages from big shots to nobodies.
Perfect.
"If someone asks who sent you," the forger added, "you say nothing about me."
Aiden stood. "If someone asks who sent me," he said, tucking the papers under his armor, "I'll make sure they don't get the chance to ask again."
The man chuckled. "I hope your plan is worth the trouble you're dragging toward my door, Elias."
Aiden stopped right there. "This one's mine," he said
Out on the sidewalk again, Rowan walked next to him. "Huh... so you go by Elias Grant now."
"On paper," Aiden remarked.
"And in the barracks?"
"Soon."
Rowan clutched the bag tight against him. The little cat stuck its head up, yellow eyes wide from the light. "So you're returning to their place - just to end things."
Aiden's lips pulled back - just slightly - a hard grin forming. His eyes stayed sharp, unblinking. Not warm at all. Like ice settling under skin.
"No," he said. "I'm going to walk through their doors, listen to their orders, and watch them smile at the man they think serves them."
He glanced toward the city, then over to where the inner zone's barriers climbed into view.
"And then," he murmured, "I'm going to make sure the kingdom learns exactly what kind of mistake it made when it let a dead man back inside."