"Lavender," she said. "For your drawer or your pocket. Something to remind you to breathe."
Eira pressed the small pouch into his hand.
"Thank you," Tristan whispered, his voice tight.
"Until we meet again." She pulled him into a brief hug, careful yet warm.
Tristan carried his few belongings and three violins to the carriage. Before stepping inside, he turned and looked back one last time.
The safehouse had been more than a place of recovery. It had been a shelter, comfort, and—quietly—friendship.
Tears pricked at his eyes. They weren't the heavy kind of grief, but the softer ache of leaving behind something meaningful while stepping toward the unknown.
He climbed into the carriage, tucking the lavender pouch into his pocket. "For luck," he murmured.
The horseman led the way, guiding the carriage down familiar forest trails. They crossed a gentle stream, rolled along a well-worn dirt road, and eventually reached the open grasslands. The air shifted—the scent of pine fading, replaced by the rich smell of earth and hay.
"Welcome to Hearthstead," read the wooden signboard above the gate.
The estate stretched wide and fenced along its perimeter. The massive wooden gate stood open, as though awaiting him. Even at a glance, the land promised plenty—pastures for cattle and horses, coops scattered near cottages for geese and chickens, and a diverted stream supplying water for gardens, pens, and laundry.
Women were hanging fresh laundry while men brushed down horses. Children, first seen chasing chickens, now dashed after the approaching carriage. A little girl waved. Tristan hesitated, then raised his hand in return. The gesture felt strange, almost fragile. To be seen again was… unsettling.
The carriage rumbled toward the far end of the ranch. There stood his destination: a freshly painted cottage, modest in size but with a welcoming air. A low fence framed the property, shrubs lined the walkway, and a flat stone path led to a small porch. Smoke curled from the chimney.
Tristan's breath caught. It was simple. Clean. Cared for. Cozy.
The door opened before he could gather himself.
Lord Shannon stepped out.
"My Lord," Tristan said quickly, standing as if to salute. "I wasn't expecting you."
"I thought I'd welcome you myself." Shannon's voice was calm, almost warm. "And I knew you'd follow the horseman's instructions…"
Even as he spoke, the horseman was unloading Tristan's belongings: his luggage and the three violin cases—one charred survivor, one from his debut, and one that had been Shannon's quiet gift.
"…or the housekeeper's."
A broad-shouldered woman in a wide apron appeared at the carriage. She had strong arms, laugh lines around her eyes, and the kind of presence that immediately filled a space.
"Name's Marla," she said cheerfully. "Come now, let's get your things inside before the sun starts nagging."
Tristan stepped down from the carriage, clutching his breath, as if even exhaling too quickly might break the moment.
The cottage's exterior was coated in earthy brown paint with lighter undertones. Inside, polished wooden planks lined the floor, and large windows opened wide for sunlight and air. A chimney stood against one wall with a modest mantle above it. Two armchairs sat neatly nearby, joined by a movable bench and a folding table.
"Living space by morning," Marla explained, "and with a few changes, a classroom by afternoon."
Tristan blinked. "Classroom?"
"For your students. If you decide to teach. There's space for four, maybe six."
Extra chairs were stacked in the corner. A few music stands leaned against the wall. Movable cabinets held parchment, ink quills, chalks, and cloths.
The kitchen was compact but well equipped. A clay cold box stood beside a sturdy counter. An iron stove rested with firewood stacked below it, and a kettle with matching cups sat ready. Shelves bore neat rows of china and porcelain dishes. A small pantry, tucked behind a door, revealed labeled jars of herbs, dried goods, and fermented vegetables.
Two doors branched from the main room.
The first opened into Tristan's bedroom. A solid bed stood ready, fresh linen folded at its foot. A dresser held clothes—tailored to his size, including undergarments he sorely needed. A polished mirror hung from the dresser door. A small table and stool by the window suggested mornings of writing or sipping tea.
The second door revealed a guest room with softer-colored walls. A folded robe rested inside the dresser along with a basket of soap and pillows.
"Eira's room?" Tristan asked softly.
Marla nodded. "Or any guest. But yes. For her, if she visits."
The bathing room was tiled with soft gray stone. It had a hand-pump basin, a wooden tub, and a shelf stacked with clean towels. A frosted window admitted light while keeping privacy.
"Lock it from the inside when you're in," Marla reminded him.
"This is… where I'll stay?" Tristan asked, still overwhelmed.
"Courtesy of the Alpha Pack," Shannon answered. "You'll live here until you choose otherwise. No rent. No obligations."
Marla had already set his violin cases near the hearth. "You're not alone," she added. "I'll be in the smaller quarters behind the cottage. You won't see me unless you need me."
Shannon added, "We thought you'd prefer space of your own, with support nearby, not inside your walls."
Tristan hesitated. "Do I… need to pay for your services?"
"No," Marla said briskly. "My services are already covered by Lord Shannon's pack. But if you ask me to climb a tree for apples, that'll cost you plenty."
Tristan almost smiled. "Thank you."
Shannon led him to the back garden. A neat vegetable patch was already produced. A chicken coop held a few hens. A bench faced the stream that ran quietly behind the cottage.
"For fishing, I suppose," Tristan thought aloud.
Just then, Marla shouted, "Oops—the chickens escaped!" She hurried after them, much to Shannon's and Tristan's amusement.
Shannon's tone grew practical again. "The nearest town is two hours by carriage. Supplies will be delivered weekly unless you request otherwise. There's a courier who can carry messages. And Marla can help with anything in between."
Tristan ran his hand along the porch railing, tracing the fresh wood grain. "You thought of everything."
"No," Shannon corrected gently. "Eira did."
That pulled a smile from Tristan.
As Shannon turned to leave, Tristan stopped him. Words weren't enough. Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped Shannon in a tight embrace. The kind reserved for someone who had given more than shelter—for someone who had restored dignity.
"Thank you," Tristan whispered fiercely. "Thank you for everything."
Shannon did not speak, but his hand rested briefly on Tristan's shoulder before he stepped away.
Tristan watched the carriage leave, waving until it disappeared past the gates.
When he entered the cottage again, the silence that greeted him was not oppressive. He was alone, but not abandoned. Quiet, but not lost.
He reached into his pocket and touched the lavender pouch. Yes, this was real. Not a dream.
He did not know what the future held, but here, at Chordlight Cottage, he had been given something rare. A beginning.
In a soft prayer, he whispered into the stillness:
"Thank you, Lord Shannon. Thank you, Eira. Thank you, councilors."