The morning after the recital, Lord Shannon's letters went out with military precision.
One was addressed to Lady Arriane, the elf who owned the camp. Another to the camp clerk.
He kept them polite on the surface—his seal pressed in crisp black wax, his words civil—but there was no mistaking the iron underneath: Either tell me the truth, or be ready to explain it before a magistrate.
The clerk's reply came first, written in a hurried hand and smudged at the edges as though tea had spilled over it. He confirmed there was no such "ledger" in the camp's official inventory. The last audit reported only one missing item: a cracked teapot from the steward's quarters.
Lady Arriane's response, however, was sharper. She insisted that there had never been a ledger containing "sensitive" information in the steward's keeping.
Her words grew colder with each line, culminating in a promise to "speak to him personally, to cut this tiresome business short."
If necessary, she would ensure his next disciplinary hearing used magical measures rather than mundane ones.
When Shannon read that part, he thought grimly that the steward deserved nothing less—for tolerating, or perhaps instigating, atrocities that had unfolded under his watch.
That evening, he arrived at the cottage to deliver the news.
Tristan was outside, fastening a line of tin pans and empty bottles along the fence posts. A length of snapped violin string had been stretched taut between two stakes, forming a tripwire.
Shannon slowed his horse, taking in the curious sight. "Should I even ask?"
Marla emerged from the side of the cottage, wiping her hands on her apron. "It's our new alarm system. We improvised."
Clang… clang… clang!
As if on cue, a runaway chicken nudged one of the strings. The bird squawked indignantly and, before fluttering off, managed to set off a second pan with its wings.
Tristan straightened, looking faintly proud. "Crude, but effective. Anyone trying to sneak in will wake the entire yard."
"And tonight," Marla added with satisfaction, "it already caught someone nosing around."
Shannon's expression cooled. "Who?"
"A stranger who claimed he was 'just passing through,'" Tristan said, voice dry. "We made sure he stayed on the path and kept walking."
Shannon made a mental note to post a plain-clothes guard nearby. For now, he dismounted and handed his reins to Marla.
"Give the horse water, please, while I speak with Tristan."
The cheerful caretaker nodded, patting the animal. "I missed you," she told the horse warmly.
Shannon motioned Tristan inside. "I have good news."
Once they were settled at the table, he summarized the replies. "Both Lady Arriane and the clerk confirm there's no ledger. And Arriane promised to deal with the steward herself—magically, if he refuses to drop the matter."
"So it really was just him stirring trouble." Tristan exhaled, relief and weariness in the sound.
"Revenge for losing his post, most likely," Shannon said flatly. "But it's finished now. You won't hear of it again."
"Good. I've had enough people trying to drag me back into that dark place. Even if it's only with lies. Imagine—he even dragged his niece into it.
Poor Bridgitte."
Shannon studied him for a moment. In the lamplight, he noticed something that made him pause.
Tristan's hair, once dull and lifeless, now gleamed faintly. His cheeks carried color. The sickly gray cast to his skin was gone. Even the old scars on his arms looked lighter.
And, to Shannon's private satisfaction, the young man was finally filling out his clothes again.
"You're looking good," Shannon said at last.
Tristan blinked. "Good?"
"You've gained weight. Color's back in your face. Your hair looks like something people would pay to touch. And you're standing straighter."
Warmth rushed to Tristan's ears. He was blushing, embarrassed and amused at the same time. "That's… oddly detailed for an observation."
"It's a commander's habit to note his men's condition," Shannon replied smoothly. "You look like you belong to the living again."
That earned a faint smile.
"Marla's cooking helped. Music brought life back, and sleeping without chains—for once—made the biggest difference."
Marla, passing by with a pot of stew, snorted.
"And don't forget the bread I haul out of the oven twice a week, since someone claims he 'doesn't like' city loaves. Funny how those loaves always disappear before they have the chance to go stale."
Tristan raised his brows, caught off guard. "I don't eat them all."
Shannon, leaning back in his chair, looked entirely too amused. "No, you just make them vanish."
Marla set the pot down with a clatter that was half warning, half humor.
Tristan muttered under his breath, though a hint of color touched his ears. "Keep it up, and I'll start hiding the loaves."
"Then I'd just have to find them."
Tristan's eyes twinkled in agreement.
Shannon reached into his saddlebag and placed a cloth bundle on the table.
"Speaking of city loaves. Redleaf Bakery, fresh this morning. And honey-cured ham."
Tristan eyed it with suspicion thinly veiled by interest. "You didn't have to…"
"I wanted to," Shannon interrupted. "You've been here long enough without a change of pace."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," Shannon said, leaning back, "if you like, I can take you into the city.
Just for a day.
There are quieter districts where no one will stare. And I think you'd enjoy the markets. There are stalls where you can choose a change of clothes for the new Tristan."
Tristan hesitated. "Will you lend me coins to buy a few items?"
"Yes, the coins would be in your hands for ease." Shannon gave the assurance.
"What about safety?
"Your safety is my priority," Shannon said mildly. "But a change of scenery keeps a man from going stale. And you've been here long enough to start talking to fence posts as if they were neighbors."
That drew a short laugh. "Let me think about it."
"Think faster," Shannon said, rising. "The city doesn't wait forever."
Marla brought the horse out front when she saw Shannon by the door. She patted the horse lightly and murmured, "See you soon."
After he left, Tristan stood in the doorway, watching Shannon's figure fade down the lane. It was already too dark to see clearly at a distance.
The faint clatter of the improvised alarms carried in the evening air, oddly reassuring. He was safe inside the cottage. Yet part of him longed to walk freely down a city street again—without fear, without chains.
And this time, perhaps with someone like Shannon beside him.