"Get up. You're leaving."
The Steward's voice was firm, almost impatient.
Tristan blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. The stone wall bore two years' worth of markings—his only way of keeping time. And now they were letting him go?
"Don't speak of what happened here. No one needs to know," the Steward warned. "You're free to go."
Free. The word felt foreign.
He had nothing to pack. He had come with nothing when he was thrown into the mines. For two years, he had survived on hand-me-downs given by older miners who had taken pity on him.
A few of those miners pressed closer, offering quiet support. One gave him a faint smile.
"Good for you, boy."
"Here, take my bowl," Tristan whispered, slipping it into the hand of a new inmate. "The hole is smaller."
He gave the mine one last look before limping toward the exit. If those who had locked him up changed their minds, he wouldn't escape a second time.
The magical owners of the camp were rarely seen. The Steward and his guards enforced the quotas with whips and silence. Meals were stale, sometimes spoiled, and water so tightly rationed that a full wash was a luxury. Other inhumane lessons you learned along the way.
Some older miners had been released over the years. They returned home mute, their tongues cut out in exchange for freedom.
Tristan had often wondered if he would survive long enough to see daylight again. Now that he was finally free, a different fear gnawed at him.
What future was left?
Should he return to the manor that had cast him aside, or wander the streets to beg for scraps and a place to sleep?
He longed for something familiar, something that was his alone. An anchor that proved he still belonged somewhere.
His violin.
Once, it had been his entire world. At first, he had a tutor—an old musician, strict and short-tempered. By twelve, Tristan had dismissed him, choosing to study alone. He cleaned a neighbor's lawn in exchange for the use of a battered violin. To hone his skills, he played at street corners and family gatherings, collecting coins from passersby until he saved enough to buy one of his own.
Would he ever play again?
He remembered the opera house, the standing ovation, the flowers thrown at his feet. That was before the mines, before his hands had been broken by endless digging. His fingers were stiff now, his grip clumsy. He wasn't sure he could even hold a bow.
"Tristan?"
The voice startled him. He looked up—and froze.
"Terry?" His brother stood at the entrance, reins of a horse in hand. Tristan's throat tightened. "You came. Where's Father?"
"They're at the manor. Waiting for the prodigal son," Terry said, his expression unreadable.
He stared at his brother's sunken eyes, at the face so gaunt it was nearly unrecognizable. Only the voice was familiar.
Tristan bit his lip until it bled. This was the same brother who had accused him of theft. The one who had signed the papers that sent him here.
He wouldn't have come at all if not for Lord Shannon's insistence. Terry didn't know why the Alpha cared, but when Shannon pressed, Terry dared not refuse.
"You're lucky," Terry said as they walked. "The stolen coins were insured with mana stones. The land titles were reconstructed. We had to pull strings." He smirked. "Of course, you owe us. We'll name the price later."
Tristan stared at him in disbelief. Two years of forced labor—and he still owed them? He had never touched the vault, never seen the gold, the jewels, the titles. He had been framed, and no one lifted a finger to clear his name.
For two years, the Steward and his rogue miners had tried to break him. Lady Arriane had made certain of it. The elf he once rejected had thrown him into the mines without trial, her overseers ensuring he suffered.
No food. No water. No breaks until he found mana stones.
And whenever he found a deposit, it was stolen from his ledger, credited under another name.
If not for kind-hearted miners who slipped him scraps of food and water, he would have been long dead.
He remembered his first day. He had been gagged, punched, and kicked to the ground. He thought he would stay a week. The weeks turned into months. The months into years.
They had the wrong person. I was framed.
And as if to remind him, his back tingled with the memory of the whip—punishment for resting.
At first, he had resisted. He had shouted, fought, and clawed for dignity. But hunger, thirst, and sleepless nights had broken him.
"Change into these," Terry said curtly, throwing him oversized clothes and a pair of ill-fitting shoes. "Hurry up."
Tristan obeyed in silence.
"Take the reins!" Terry barked, shaking him from his stupor.
The trip back was long. Silence hung between them, heavier than the clouds. Terry rode ahead, never hearing Tristan's ragged, painful breaths.
Tristan thought of his old horse, his best friend, the one Troy sold to cover Terry's debts. The loss still ached.
By the time they reached the manor house, rain had begun to pour. No one came to greet him—only servants with dry towels and hot soup.
So this was what it meant to welcome the prodigal son.
"Escort him to his new quarters," Terry ordered. "Clean him up before he is presented to Grandfather and the rest of the family."
They led him not to his old room, but to a hastily built cottage on the grounds. Inside was a small bed, a square table with four stools. A roof, four walls, but little else.
He asked quietly, "Who is in my room? Where are my servants?"
"Terry uses your room now," one servant explained. "Your staff were dismissed."
"I am Andrew, your servant," said one.
"I am Randell, from Altruiz," said the other.
Tristan only nodded. "Find my violin."
Back in the manor, Therese overheard the request. "It's with me," she said softly. "I kept it in my room for safekeeping."
The servants were relieved and bowed before leaving.
Later, they returned with food—meat, fish, vegetables, fruit. Tristan's eyes widened. He ate with his hands, shoving food down too quickly. For two years, every meal had been scraps. The taste of real food overwhelmed him.
"Young master, slow down," one servant pleaded.
Tristan paused, breathing hard. The servant was right. He no longer had to fight for crumbs. He could eat slowly. He could breathe.
"Bring more dessert," he said softly.
When the violin was finally placed before him, carefully wrapped and unharmed, Tristan's throat tightened. The wood was smooth, unwarped. Someone had cared for it.
He touched it gently, afraid his scarred fingers might mar it.
Could he still play? Could he still lift a bow? Would his grandfather ever hear him again?
The questions echoed in his chest, heavier than chains.