"It's been over a month and a half since I left the Mendez manor unceremoniously," Tristan whispered while standing by the safehouse window. The words felt strange out loud, like he was testing whether freedom was still real.
"Where do I go from here?" he asked himself. The question lingered with the morning air. The treatment sessions were nearly finished. Soon there would be no excuse to stay.
Where would he live? Would Lord Shannon still offer him shelter? And if so—under what terms?
"We need to talk," he murmured, pressing his palm against the glass. "Work out a plan. I can't be a guest forever."
Eira appeared at the doorway carrying a folded set of clothes and polished shoes. "You have a guest of honor attending your performance tonight. Best not to look like a forest spirit."
Tristan turned, startled, then accepted the clothes with a grateful smile. "Courtesy of Lord Shannon?"
Eira nodded. "He left them with a note. Said you'd know when to wear them."
Tristan let out a nervous laugh. "That's cryptic."
"You'll do fine," she assured him. "He's not here to judge. Just… to listen."
He dressed with trembling fingers. The tunic and trousers fit him perfectly, as if tailored to his frame. Even the leather shoes and socks were snug, not borrowed or loose like everything else he'd worn since his release. For the first time in years, he felt less like a survivor and more like himself.
When he stepped into the main room, he froze. A small stage had been arranged near the hearth. Platters of food and drink sat neatly on a long table. Several of Lord Shannon's trusted council members were already seated, speaking in low tones until they noticed him.
The room fell into silence as Shannon entered. He motioned for the guests to sit, then inclined his head toward Tristan.
Tristan bowed. "Thank you, my Lord, for everything. Before the night ends, may I ask for a private audience? I'd like to work out a plan to earn my keep."
Shannon's brow lifted slightly. "You think I'd let someone with your soul fade back into the margins? We'll speak after your performance."
Relief loosened Tristan's shoulders. He nodded and moved to the stage. With another bow to Shannon and the guests, he lifted his violin.
Eira dimmed the oil lamps and left only a few candles flickering. Their soft glow threw gentle shadows across the room, creating an intimacy that made the air hum with anticipation.
The moment Tristan's bow touched the strings, the world narrowed. His nerves disappeared. He was back at the opera house, cloaked in velvet sound. Each stroke carried grief, gratitude, and hope.
Halfway through, disaster struck. A sharp twang split the air as a string snapped. Gasps rippled through the room.
Tristan didn't flinch. He set the broken violin aside and reached for another—the one he had played at his debut, the same one Shannon had left in his room with a simple note tucked inside.
He began again.
This time, he played not only for the people in the room but for the boy he had been, for the miners who never came home, for the betrayal that had nearly ended him, for the healer who rebuilt him, and for the Alpha who had pulled him back into the light.
The first piece gave way to a second, faster and brighter, alive with frills and daring runs. The council members leaned forward, entranced.
When the final note lingered in the air, Tristan opened his eyes and found the room watching him—not with pity, not with doubt, but with respect. This time, he didn't look away.
After the guests departed and the last round of applause faded, Shannon remained seated, his gaze steady. "You did well," he said. "A remarkable comeback."
Tristan bowed his head. "I'm glad you enjoyed it—even with the hiccup. Sorry about the chord."
Shannon's lips curved faintly. "Not your fault. A true artist is one who can improvise when things go wrong. Tonight you proved that."
He leaned forward. "Shall we discuss your next steps?"
"Yes, please." Tristan's voice steadied. "I'd like to continue under your protection. I can help around the house, maybe even assist Eira. And… if possible, repay you in some way."
Shannon's smile was faint but kind. "I admire your integrity, but repayment isn't necessary. Still, I believe in choices. So here they are."
He raised his hand, counting off each option.
"One—you may stay here at the safehouse permanently. It's quiet, secluded, and Eira enjoys the company.
"Two—you can live in a cottage near the city. Closer to culture, but still removed from your family."
Tristan hesitated. "What about protection? If I'm near the city… won't I be more vulnerable?"
"I've taken care of that," Shannon replied. "You are under my custody, as I've already stated. But now I've filed a territorial bond with the council. No member of your family or their partners can approach you within thirty paces without facing legal retaliation. That includes your grandfather."
Tristan exhaled slowly. "I miss him. But I can't go back."
"You don't have to," Shannon said softly.
Tristan lowered his gaze. "And employment?"
Shannon leaned back. "Three paths. First, you can return to performance under my banner. I'll sponsor recitals—opera houses, salons, charity halls. You'll be paid well and guarded."
Tristan tilted his head. "That's… grand. But intimidating."
"Second," Shannon continued, "smaller venues. Town gatherings, festivals, private events. A slower, steadier return."
"And the third?"
"Teach," Shannon said. "I'll establish a school for you, or help you join one already running. Let others learn from your journey."
Tristan blinked, stunned. "I didn't think I had that many options."
"You've earned them," Shannon replied simply.
Silence stretched between them until Tristan finally said, "I think… I'd like to live near the city. The idea of performing again excites me, but starting small feels right. And teaching… yes, if I can teach a few students, that would be meaningful."
"Done," Shannon said. "We'll arrange it." He paused. "And Tristan?"
Tristan looked up.
"You don't need to repay me in gold. But when you're ready, play me the piece that comes next."
Eira cleared the table, her steps quiet. Tristan noticed a package resting near Shannon's vacated chair.
"A gift for the young master," Eira said, her tone carrying a trace of pride.
Tristan froze, staring at the shape beneath the wrapping. He didn't need to open it to know. The size, the weight, the curve—it was unmistakably a violin.
"How can I repay such kindness?" he whispered.
Eira met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "You already know the answer. You always did."
Tristan's throat tightened. He set his hand over the package, feeling the promise of strings beneath. For the first time, his crossroads did not feel like an end, but a beginning.