The manor fell into silence as Lord Shannon's carriage pulled away, carrying Tristan with it.
Inside the moving carriage, Tristan clenched his fists against his knees. Part of him wanted to scream, to unleash every ounce of rage and grief he had bottled up. The truth had finally come out, but not completely. He had longed to hear them admit it all—every betrayal, every lie—and though fragments had spilled, it was unfinished. The interruption had come swiftly.
A welcome interruption.
He stared out the window, the Mendez manor shrinking in the distance. His voice was little more than a whisper. "They were about to tear each other apart."
"Then I arrived just in time," Shannon said.
Tristan turned, brow furrowed at the remark.
"You don't belong there," Shannon said, his voice low but steady.
A pause stretched between them. The carriage wheels thudded against uneven stones, filling the silence with a steady rhythm.
"They broke you," Shannon continued. "And now… we heal."
Tristan didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He studied the man across from him. This Lord Shannon—was he a savior, or a reaper? He couldn't tell. Skepticism gnawed at him. He had trusted once before, when Lady Arriane sponsored his debut at the opera house. He had believed her generosity genuine, only to find himself later cast into a mana mining pit as punishment for rejecting her advances.
Too good to be true, he thought bitterly. I will not fall for it again.
To ground himself, he slapped his cheek softly. Yes, he was awake.
"My Lord," he asked quietly, "have we met before? In person, I mean. I keep trying to place you."
"No," Shannon said. "We've never spoken. But I was there that night. One of the nameless faces in the audience, listening to you play."
"Did you… pay to get in?" Tristan asked cautiously.
"Yes," Shannon replied without hesitation.
Tristan's brows knitted. "I thought it was a charity performance. I wasn't paid a coin. I didn't know they charged tickets."
"They did. The opera house was full to capacity. And you carried the stage alone."
There was a faint smile in Shannon's eyes. "Well done."
Tristan sat quietly after that, staring at his scarred hands. The carriage rocked gently, carrying him farther from the house that had never truly been home. His chest ached as he tried to reconcile the applause of the past with the jeers that had followed him into the mines.
That night, they reached the secluded safehouse. Lanterns glowed faintly, casting soft circles of light against stone walls covered with ivy. Protective wards shimmered like faint silver threads, stitched into the night.
As Shannon walked beside him, Tristan's doubts spilled again. "My Lord, not to sound ungrateful, but… do I owe you something for this?"
Shannon's reply was calm. "No. You owe me nothing."
Tristan pressed. "I'm sorry. I just don't know if I can trust you. Or anyone. My own family betrayed me. I've lost the ability to tell the truth from lies."
Shannon studied him. "I don't blame you. But there are no strings attached to helping you."
His tone shifted, quieter. "Years ago, before I was named Alpha, my clan fought a border skirmish. Among the prisoners was a boy—half-human, an omega—who carried nothing but a battered flute and scars on his back. He played every night, softly, until the guards took the flute away. The look on his face when it was taken… I still remember it. He died a week later, of wounds and despair."
Shannon's eyes darkened. "I swore I'd never forget. And years later, in a crowded opera house, I heard another boy. A violinist. His music told stories even without words. It moved me beyond measure."
His gaze held Tristan's. "That boy was you."
Tristan's throat tightened. His vision blurred.
"When you vanished," Shannon went on, "there were no posters. No search. Silence. So I began asking questions. I used my people, my wealth, my time. I pressed stewards of every camp until I found the truth. With help from elven rivals of Lady Arriane, I secured your release and your pardon. Your contract was destroyed. Your records erased. The Steward removed from his post. That is how I found you."
Tristan stared at him, stunned. The words didn't feel real, yet the weight of them pressed heavily against his chest. Someone had searched. Someone had cared.
Shannon's voice softened. "The decision is yours now."
The safehouse was smaller than the manor, but safer. A thin wall of enchanted ivy encircled the orchard, humming with protective wards. No guards were visible, but Tristan sensed watchful eyes in the quiet.
At the entrance, a woman stood waiting. Long hair braided down her back, arms crossed, expression sharp.
"Is this the boy?" she asked without preamble.
Tristan's jaw tightened. "I'm not a boy."
Her eyes flicked over him. "Not yet a man either. But we'll work on it."
She stepped closer, inspecting him with the precision of a soldier. "Hands. Show me."
Hesitant, Tristan lifted his scarred fingers.
She took them gently, turning them palm up. "A musician?"
He nodded.
"Then we start tomorrow," she said. She glanced at Shannon. "He'll need food. And sleep. A soul too, if you've got a spare."
"He has one," Shannon said. "It's just buried."
Her expression softened. "Then we dig."
Later that night, Tristan was shown to his guest room. He had not slept in such comfort in years. A stone fireplace glowed warmly, the fire crackling softly against the hush of the night. The bed was piled with soft linens and stuffed with feathers, its weight sinking under his touch. A lantern flickered gently on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the walls.
It was not luxurious, only practical. No paintings, no needless ornament. Just what was needed. Through the window, moonlit hills stretched endlessly into the distance. For the first time in years, Tristan felt he could breathe without fear of someone snuffing it out.
Then he saw it.
On the table in the corner sat a violin case. His heart leapt violently.
He walked to it slowly, almost afraid it would vanish if he touched it. But when his trembling fingers brushed against the familiar wood, he knew. It was his. The same violin Therese had kept.
Beside it lay a folded note.
For the music you've yet to write and play… —S
Tristan sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the case as though it anchored him to the present. His throat ached as he closed his eyes.
For the first time in two years, he dared to hope. For the first time, he allowed himself to dream.