A Stranger in the Mirror

Thea woke before dawn, long before the birds had stirred. The sky outside was the color of old steel, heavy and unmoving. A strange stillness blanketed the world, as if even time had slowed in anticipation. For a brief moment, she forgot who she was—or who she was pretending to be.

Then she saw the reflection in the window.

Short, uneven hair framed a face smudged with ash and herbal powder. Her once-delicate features were dulled to look like a tired, forgettable boy. Her cheeks had been subtly darkened to suggest time spent on the road. The collar of her rough linen shirt scratched against her neck, a size too big on purpose, hanging in folds to make her frame appear lanky and malnourished.

Tallen.

Her new name echoed in her mind like a hammer striking iron.

The transformation wasn't just physical. It had to run bone-deep.

Meghan stood by the doorway, arms crossed, her face unreadable. "Time to get to work."

That first day, Meghan began with the basics.

"You walk like a noblewoman," she said curtly, circling Thea. "Too graceful. Too poised. You need to unlearn everything."

For hours, Thea walked back and forth across the room, a bag of flour balanced on her head, a coil of rope under one foot to force her gait into uneven rhythm. She had to stoop her shoulders, let her arms swing loose like a boy with no discipline. She tripped, stumbled, caught herself, and tried again.

When she started to get it right, Meghan tied small stones to her wrists and ankles to exaggerate her movements. "The weight will teach your body how to move even when tired."

By afternoon, Thea's limbs ached and her back was soaked in sweat. Her hands trembled as she reached for the water cup.

"No," Meghan said, voice calm but firm. "Hold the cup like he would. Not you."

Thea hesitated, then tried again—gripping it with both hands, fingers curled tight, like someone unused to finesse. Meghan gave a subtle nod.

The next morning, the second day, was for the eyes and silence.

Since Tallen would be mute, Meghan emphasized non-verbal communication.

"You'll need to speak with your body," she explained. "People trust those who look humble. Harmless. You must be both."

They spent hours in front of the mirror. Meghan would flash a look—suspicion, pain, hesitation—and Thea had to mirror it with her own expression.

Then came gestures: two fingers to the chest to say "I," a half circle to signal hunger, two taps on the forearm for danger. They created a whole vocabulary of motion, subtle enough to be dismissed but functional enough to pass under pressure.

Next came eye contact—or rather, the lack of it.

"Don't look people in the eye," Meghan warned. "It draws attention. Mute boys with no family don't hold their heads up."

She taught her how to flinch when spoken to, to keep her chin tucked, to pretend not to hear unless directly confronted. Meghan even brought out a stick, not to hurt her, but to tap on the table or wall suddenly to test her reaction.

"You flinch like a noble," she said. "Too clean. Let the fear look familiar."

By dusk, Thea was drained. Not from exertion—but from holding herself in unnatural shapes, from suppressing the instincts she'd been raised with.

She curled up that night on the floor with a thin blanket and tried to sleep. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw herself walking through the southern gate... and being stopped. Dragged away. Watched her mother scream behind iron bars. Watched herself disappear.

The third day dawned colder.

"You're not Thea anymore," Meghan said. "You're Tallen. And you're going to live his life now."

They sat at the kitchen table, candlelight flickering between them, as Meghan laid out the details.

"You're from Willow's Edge, three days west of here. Your father was a grain merchant, humble and kind. Died in a warehouse fire last year. You never knew your mother. You were taken in by Beric, a trader who owed your father a debt. You're loyal to him and you don't question orders. He treats you like a burden—but you're too afraid to leave. You're mute because of a childhood illness. The fever stole your voice. But your hearing is perfect."

Thea repeated every detail. Again. And again. Meghan would interrupt, test her, toss in questions at random.

"What did your father trade in?"

"Wheat. And barley during spring."

"What illness left you mute?"

"A fever that struck when I was seven. I almost died."

"Why did Beric take you in?"

"He knew my father. They fought together in a border skirmish once. He owed him."

By the end of the day, Thea didn't even need to think. The answers came like breath.

On the fourth day, Meghan pushed harder.

She staged a scenario.

She dressed up as a trader and brought in one of the old housemaids, Linna, to act as a gate guard.

They recreated an inspection scene. Meghan barked questions. Linna demanded gestures. Thea, playing Tallen, had to stay silent, follow instructions, lift a sack of dried beans, and look as unremarkable as possible.

When she stumbled, Meghan made her run laps in the yard, then do it again. Exhaustion was no excuse.

"You need to pass at your worst," she said. "Not your best."

The final test was a mock interrogation. Linna grew aggressive. Demanded Thea's papers. Grabbed her wrist. Thea froze.

"Start again!" Meghan snapped.

This time, Thea didn't break character. She flinched, nodded nervously, and held out her letter of passage. Silent. Shaking. Exactly as a frightened, voiceless boy might.

Linna let out a soft "huh," and looked at Meghan. "She's ready."

Meghan didn't smile. But she did place a gentle hand on Thea's shoulder. "You passed."

That night, Thea cried silently into her blanket—not from fear this time, but release. The worst wasn't over, but she had taken a step.

Day five came with frost on the windowpanes.

They met Beric.

The candle shop was tucked behind a row of decaying warehouses. Beric was thick-bodied and scowling, his gray beard matted like old rope. Two fingers missing. A dark tattoo across the back of his neck. The kind of man who could disappear in a crowd—or slit a throat without hesitation.

"This the boy?" he asked, giving Thea a long, dubious look.

"Yes," Meghan replied firmly. "His name is Tallen."

Beric grunted. "Looks scared."

"He is."

"Good. Stupid ones get bold. Bold ones get dead."

He looked Thea in the eye. "You get in my way, I leave you. You speak when you shouldn't, I cut your tongue out. You run, and I'll hand you to the guards myself."

Thea didn't flinch. She nodded—barely, just enough.

Beric's eyes narrowed. "He'll do."

They agreed to meet again before dawn on the seventh day. The gates would open at sunrise. There would be inspections. But Beric's caravan had cleared the southern gate dozens of times. If anyone could smuggle someone out, it was him.

"He's your burden now," Meghan said, low. "And if he dies, I will find you."

Beric didn't reply. But his smirk vanished.

That night, Thea stood at the window, watching the stars.

She remembered watching them as a child, dreaming of dances, dresses, maybe even a throne.

Now all of that was dust.

Now there was only the road, a sealed letter in her coat, and a stranger in the mirror named Tallen.

She whispered, "Don't let me fail."

Behind her, Meghan placed the letter into her hands, sealed with black wax.

"Whatever happens," her mother said softly, "remember this: you are not alone. Even if we're apart... I'm with you."

Thea nodded, a single tear sliding down her cheek.

Tomorrow, she would leave everything behind.

Tomorrow, the lie would begin.