They continued toward the forest edge, the path widening as they approached more frequently traveled routes.
As they emerged from the trees, Ash's eyes took a moment to adjust to the unfiltered sunlight. Before them stretched cultivated fields where early summer crops grew in neat rows.
In the near distance, perhaps half a mile away, the village of Riverend clustered around the banks of the river that had nearly claimed Ash's life.
From this distance, it appeared almost picturesque thatched roofs, a small stone bridge spanning the water, and smoke rising from chimneys.
Nothing like the grand vistas of the capital with its marble buildings and towering spires, but possessed of a simple beauty that Ash found unexpectedly appealing.
"It's named for that bend in the river," Kalen explained, pointing to where the waterway curved sharply around the village. "Natural protection on three sides. Floods occasionally, but the soil is rich because of it."
As they walked the path between fields, Ash noticed workers tending the crops. Ordinary people engaged in the essential labor that fed the empire.
As Third Prince, he had studied agricultural reports and tax revenues from farming communities, but the numbers on parchment had never fully conveyed the reality of the work involved.
A man straightened from his labor as they passed, raising a hand in greeting to Kalen. "Well! Now, the hermit emerges! Twice in one season, we're honored indeed."
Kalen returned the gesture with restrained familiarity. "Tomas. Good crop this year?"
"Can't complain," the farmer replied, his curious gaze shifting to Ash. "And who's your companion? Don't often see you with company."
Here, it was the first test of their story. Ash felt Kalen's brief glance, silently prompting him to respond as they'd practiced.
"Name's Ash," he said, deliberately roughening his voice slightly and adopting the less formal speech patterns they'd rehearsed. "Kalen's my uncle. Come down from Coldwater after my father passed."
The farmer's expression softened with immediate sympathy. "Sorry for your loss, lad. Coldwater's a long journey. You planning to stay in these parts?"
"For a while," Ash replied with a noncommittal shrug. "Still recovering from a fever that hit me on the road. Uncle's been helping me get back on my feet."
"Kalen taking care of someone?" Tomas chuckled, glancing at the older man with good-natured surprise. "Wonders never cease."
"He's family," Kalen said simply, as if that explained everything.
The farmer nodded, accepting this without further question. "Well, welcome to Riverend, Ash. Small place, but good people mostly. You'll find no trouble here."
They continued on after brief farewells, Ash releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The first encounter had gone smoothly, his disguise and story accepted without suspicion.
"Not bad," Kalen murmured as they walked. "But don't get overconfident. Tomas is a simple man who takes things at face value. Others in the village will be more curious."
As they approached the outskirts of Riverend proper, the path became a dirt road lined with small cottages.
Children played in the yards, women hung laundry on lines stretched between posts, and the sounds of daily life: conversation, laughter, the occasional bark of a dog all created a tapestry of normality that felt alien to Ash after the silence of the forest and the formality of palace life that came before.
Several people called greetings to Kalen as they passed, each clearly familiar with the reclusive former soldier despite his infrequent visits. Most eyed Ash with undisguised curiosity, though none approached directly to question him.
"They'll save their questions for the tavern," Kalen explained quietly. "Where we're headed first. Brace yourself, it'll be the center of village social life."
The tavern stood near the village center, a two-story building of weathered wood with a painted sign depicting a leaping fish. "The Silver Trout," Kalen identified it. "Owned by Marten and his wife, Elsa. Good food, decent ale, and the best place to hear all the village gossip."
As they entered, the relative dimness after the bright sunlight momentarily blinded Ash.
The interior was simple but clean wooden tables and benches, a long bar along one wall, and a hearth at the far end where something savory simmered in a large pot.
Perhaps a dozen patrons occupied the space, conversations pausing briefly as heads turned to observe the newcomers.
"Kalen Ironheart!" boomed a large man from behind the bar. "Twice in a month, the world must be ending!"
"Just might be, Marten," Kalen replied dryly, approaching the bar. "Need supplies, thought I'd introduce my nephew while I'm here."
All eyes shifted to Ash, who fought the urge to stand straighter under the collective scrutiny. Instead, he maintained his slightly slouched posture, offering a reserved nod to the room at large.
"Nephew, is it?" Marten's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. "Never mentioned family before."
"Never asked," Kalen countered. "This is Ash, my brother's boy from Coldwater. Staying with me for a time."
Marten extended a meaty hand across the bar. "Welcome to Riverend, lad. Any family of Kalen's is welcome here, rare as that seems to be."
Ash shook the offered hand, careful to use a commoner's firm grip rather than the precise, measured handshake taught to nobility. "Thanks. Nice place you got."
"It serves," Marten replied with obvious pride. "What brings you south from Coldwater? Long journey that."
The question was casual but direct, the first of many Ash expected as curious villagers sought to place him within their understanding of the world.
He gave the practiced response about his father's death and seeking new opportunities, keeping his tone matter-of-fact to discourage excessive sympathy or further questions.
Marten nodded, apparently satisfied. "Well, work's always available for those willing. Harvest season's coming, and extra hands are welcome in the fields."
He glanced at Ash's still-thin frame. "Though you look like you could use some feeding up first. Sit, both of you. Stew's fresh."
They settled at a table near the wall, positioning themselves so Kalen could observe the entire room a soldier's habit, Ash noted, that had survived decades of retirement. Marten brought bowls of rich-smelling stew and mugs of ale, waving away Kalen's attempt to pay.
"First meal's on the house for newcomers," he insisted. "Village tradition."
As they ate, various patrons approached their table, each with thinly veiled curiosity about Kalen's previously unmentioned nephew.
Ash maintained his role consistently, providing the same basic information without elaboration, showing polite interest in the village without asking too many questions himself.
Kalen occasionally steered conversations away from potentially difficult topics, his protective instinct subtle but effective.
The stew was simple but delicious root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs in a rich broth.
Ash ate slowly, savoring each bite with genuine appreciation. Palace cuisine had been elaborate and refined, but there was something deeply satisfying about this honest, unpretentious food.
"You eat like you've never tasted stew before," observed an older woman who had introduced herself as Elsa, Marten's wife.
Ash realized his mistake his evident enjoyment might seem unusual for something so common. "Not like this," he recovered smoothly. "My father couldn't cook worth a damn. Lived on bread and dried meat most days."
The explanation earned sympathetic chuckles from those nearby, the potential suspicion averted. Kalen caught his eye briefly, a slight nod acknowledging the quick thinking.