Tristan cleared his throat. "Hmm."
Eira didn't even glance up from his arm. "You're not dying. Just say it."
"Can I ask something?"
"Too late. You already did." She smirked, her fingers still kneading the tension from his forearm.
Tristan made a face. "I mean… about Lord Shannon."
That earned a pause. Her hands stilled mid-press. "Go ahead," she said cautiously. "Ask. I'll see if I have an answer."
"How did you meet him?"
Her fingers slowed, and her expression turned unreadable. "I was ten when my village was raided. Wolf-born, not yet transformed, living in human territory."
Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it again.
"Shannon found me bleeding under a collapsed roof," she continued. "Didn't even know my name. Just handed me to his pack and said, 'Fix her. Then give her a choice.'"
Tristan blinked. "And you chose this?"
"I chose safety. A future. And yes… loyalty." She met his gaze steadily. "He doesn't force people. He offers doors. If you walk through them, that's your choice."
Tristan looked down at his bandaged palm. "So… he saves people."
"He saves those he thinks are worth the trouble."
A beat passed before Tristan asked, softly, "What do you think he expects from me?"
Eira didn't answer right away. She moved to his other arm, pressing along the ridge just below his elbow. The silence stretched.
"He's not a man who wastes effort," she said at last. "Not sentimental, but he remembers faces. Yours, clearly. That means something."
"That I was a good violinist?" Tristan joked half-heartedly.
"Maybe. But Shannon doesn't risk attention for talent alone. He came for someone with fire."
Tristan blushed, uncertain whether to feel proud or anxious that such fire burned in him at all.
"Well, I just don't know what he wants in return," he admitted. "He hasn't said anything. Actually, he said he wanted nothing."
Eira nodded. "Then maybe he expects you to heal. To survive. Maybe that's it."
"And if it's not?"
"Then ask him yourself."
She looked at him seriously. "No one controls what you do with your second chance. But if Shannon does want something more… I doubt it's gold. Or favors."
"Then what?"
"Maybe music," she said softly. "Maybe the kind of beauty the world forgets it needs—until someone bleeds to bring it back."
Tristan looked away, mumbling, "That's a lot of pressure for someone who hasn't played in years."
"Then start with one note," Eira whispered.
They capped the evening with mugs of warm tea. Tristan's thoughts drifted, as they always did, to the mine. To the small, dented bowl he'd left behind—the one with a hole at the bottom. A ridiculous thing to miss, but it had been his. A scrap of control in a place where everything else was stolen.
The scent of lavender and mint from the treatment room filled the air. He breathed deeply, trying to let it replace the memory of stone dust and iron.
"What do you do when no one like me is around?" he asked.
"Tend the garden. Brew tea. Heal the occasional guest. And sometimes," she added with a grin, "I sleep past sunrise."
Tristan chuckled. "Living the dream."
She raised her mug in a lazy toast. "You bet."
"If you ever need help, I volunteer. I can sweep floors, fetch firewood, and perform dramatic musical interpretations of chores."
Eira raised an eyebrow. "Musical interpretations?"
Tristan stood, picked up the porch broom, and held it like a violin. He tucked the handle under his chin, positioned his hand like a bow, and closed his eyes as though about to perform for a full house.
He drew out an exaggerated solo, head tilted, face full of passion.
Eira burst out laughing.
"Don't forget to actually sweep the floor on your way out, young master," she teased.
"Of course. As you wish." Tristan gave a mock bow.
"That broom's seen more muddy boots than your violin ever did," she said. "Play it again and it might snap from shame."
He spread his arms theatrically. "Thank you, thank you."
Eira shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You're not a burden, Tristan. But I might take you up on the firewood offer."
"I work for warm baths and moral support."
"You drive a hard bargain."
He leaned against the porch rail, more relaxed than he'd felt in weeks. "Who else visits this place?"
"Not many. A few soldiers. Wanderers. Children who stray too close to corruption zones. Shannon brings the ones he thinks matter."
"Are you stuck here?"
"Not stuck. I chose to stay. Out there, I'm not exactly welcome either."
Tristan hesitated before asking, "Have you ever treated Shannon himself?"
"Once. A shoulder wound. He didn't rest, obviously. He tried to leave halfway through treatment."
Tristan smiled faintly. "Figures."
"How old is he?"
"Old enough to carry weight. Young enough to still be dangerous."
"Was he a soldier?"
"Not by title. But he's fought more than enough battles to count."
Tristan traced the railing with his finger. "What makes him angry? I'd rather not find out the hard way."
"Cruelty. Betrayal. Dishonesty. He doesn't explode, but if he ever goes quiet… run."
Tristan raised his brows. "Noted."
"What about his favorites? Food? Drink? Cloaks?"
"Dark cloaks. Bitter coffee. Roasted root vegetables. And silence."
Tristan grinned. "So… brooding woodsman aesthetic."
Eira chuckled. "He manages three businesses, too. Two of them inherited."
Tristan blinked. "Really?"
"Mm-hm. A timber company, a wilderness trade network, and a chain of safehouses, this one included. It gives wolf-born, hybrids, and exiles a place to breathe."
"And he runs all that?"
"He funds it. Keeps it clean. Works with the Alpha Council when rogue packs need keeping in line. They say he's the one you call when things get too messy for diplomacy."
Tristan whistled softly. "So… fixer, founder, forest king. No pressure."
Eira snorted. "You forgot reluctant hero."
"He sounds like a myth," Tristan said, shaking his head.
"He'd hate that."
Silence settled, companionable this time. Crickets sang in the distance, the safehouse lanterns flickered against the ivy walls.
"You're healing more than your hands, Tristan," Eira said at last. "You're remembering how to live."
He looked at her, something warm stirring behind his ribs. "Thank you. For reminding me."
"Tomorrow," she said, rising and stretching her arms, "we start again. Hands in warm water. Then pressure points. Then controlled suffering."
"Ah yes, my favorite schedule. Soothing, stabbing, sobbing."
"You're doing better," she said, amused.
"You say that every day."
"And I mean it. Every day."
He tilted his head. "One note at a time?"
"One note at a time," she echoed.