Tik… Tilaok… Bok… Bokbok… Bok…
The roosters crowed. For the first time in years, Tristan woke to their call. A sharp reminder: he was no longer in the mines.
He found nothing fresh to wear in his closet, so he walked to his grandfather's room still in the clothes he had slept in.
The people inside were startled to see him. His shirt was too large, wrinkled and stained, his trousers creased, and his boots worn past their prime.
"Grandpa… Grandpa?" Tristan ignored their stares and went straight to the bed. He leaned close and kissed the old man's cheek.
The elder's eyes opened, cloudy but warm. "You're back," he whispered. "Where have you been? You've lost so much weight."
Tristan turned slowly to face the others in the room. Judging from his grandfather's words, they had lied to him. If he had truly been told the truth, he would never have believed it anyway.
"What did they tell you, Grandpa? Where did they say I went for two years?"
Grandpa fell silent.
They had told him Tristan was studying in the city, leaving without a goodbye. How could he believe such a story? He should have known better.
His mother, Tara, stepped forward, voice trembling as she tried to change the subject. Tears filled her eyes when she saw the emptiness in Tristan's gaze. He used to be happy to see her. Now he looked at her with contempt—for letting him rot for two years without a single visit.
She reached for him, desperate to embrace her son, but Tristan pushed her hands away.
"Lady Tara. What an honor to finally see you."
He did not call her Mother. That was too much to ask.
Therese flinched at the mockery in his tone. She thought bitterly that she should have tried—should have found the courage to escape the house and visit her brother, at least once. But she hadn't. She had listened when Terry forbade her.
He told her the road to the mines was dangerous, full of bandits unfit for women to travel. He added that it would ruin the family's reputation to coddle a thief. She had believed him. And because of it, her brother stood before her now, cold and furious, restraining his anger toward everyone except Grandpa.
"Lady Therese," Tristan said, his voice flat, "thank you for keeping my violin in shape. How much do I owe you?"
"That hurts," she whispered.
Outside the manor, Terry was waiting, ready to provoke.
"You act as if you're the only aggrieved party! We suffered sleepless nights because of your deeds!"
Tristan smirked bitterly. "I've learned my lesson. I trusted the wrong people. I came back for Grandpa. Two long years of hardship. Do you see these?"
He held out his hands. Fingers split, nails broken and bleeding. Then he pulled off his shirt. His back was crisscrossed with scars from lashings, sores from filth, and the marks of countless nights on the stone floor.
And his feet—he pulled them out of his boots. The stench was foul. His nails were cracked, heels split, open wounds still raw.
"Wow," someone muttered, covering their nose.
Everyone stared in stunned silence at Tristan's battered body. Grandpa couldn't see it from his bed, but he felt it—deep in his bones.
"You're not my family," Tristan said, his voice breaking. "You left me for dead. I waited… and waited…"
Terry stood dumbfounded. Lady Arriane had promised him Tristan would be cared for at the camp. But the mana stones Tristan unearthed had gone to the cartel's coffers, smuggled through the back door.
Elves couldn't be trusted. Perhaps Arriane was simply punishing Tristan for rejecting her proposal. She had once sponsored his opera debut, but Tristan had never returned her affection. He was grateful, yes. But he could not love her.
Before blows could fall, Troy arrived, his arms full of surplus goods. He waved them in distraction, but the relief was short. Tristan's fury boiled over. He struck Terry hard across the face.
"You stole those items. I saw you! And you blamed me!" His voice thundered through the manor. Everyone heard it—even Grandpa in his room.
The household froze. Only Troy looked unsurprised.
"Father, I am also your son!" Tristan cried. "Why did you let him ruin me, when you knew he was the one who stole from you?"
Troy's face crumpled. Tears spilled down his cheeks. "I… I'm sorry, Tristan. I let you down." He couldn't meet his son's furious gaze.
The women lowered their heads, ashamed. None of them had stood for him, none had spoken the truth.
Grandpa's frail hands trembled. He could not believe such betrayal had unfolded under his own roof.
A confession.
A betrayal.
A family undone.
He wept silently, too weak to rise, but his heart breaking for the grandson he had failed to protect.
He realized now why Tristan had never received the gold coins he had faithfully set aside for him. Someone had pocketed them.
"Where did you give the gold coins meant for Tristan?" he asked the old servant.
He bowed his head. "Terry took them, my Lord. He said he would deliver them."
Grandpa closed his eyes in sorrow.
Terry had always envied Tristan—his looks, his music, his gentle nature. And now envy had turned into cruelty.
Troy admitted his role. Terry still refused. But both were guilty.
Grandpa felt a chill. Tristan was not safe here.
He remembered overhearing Troy and Tara argue weeks ago. The manor was crumbling, the coffers drained. Servants had been dismissed, including Tristan's loyal ones. The horses were sold off, even Beauty, and much of the cattle too.
"Father," Troy had begged, "the manor needs repairs. Can you give me more gold?"
"I've already given enough for upkeep," Theodore had answered firmly. "That's all you'll get."
It was only a matter of time before they turned on him. Troy had long hunted for his hidden wealth. That was why they kept him alive.
But Grandpa understood the truth now, bitter as gall:
If they could sacrifice their own child, what would stop them from discarding an old, useless man like him?