"Get up. You're leaving."
The Steward's voice commanded.
Tristan was unsure if he had heard right. The markings he made on the stone wall totaled two years of labor and silence. And now, they're letting him go?
"Don't speak of what happened here. No one needs to know." The Steward warned. "You're free to go."
Free. The word felt foreign.
He had nothing to pack. He didn't have anything when he was thrown into the mines. He survived on hand-me-downs from the older miners who had taken pity on him.
A few miners pressed closer for a group hug with a faint smile on their lips. "Good for you, boy."
"Here, take my bowl," Tristan whispered, slipping it into the hand of a new inmate. "The hole is smaller."
He gave the mine one last look before limping toward the exit. If the ones who locked him up changed their minds, he wouldn't escape twice.
The magical owners of the camp were rarely seen. The Steward and his guards enforced the quotas, beatings and silence. The daily meals were mostly stale or near spoilage. Water was rationed so tightly that a full wash was a luxury. And the other inhumane conditions, you learn along the way.
Some older miners had been released over the years. They went home mute, their tongues cut out in exchange for freedom.
Tristan had often wondered if he would survive the camp at all. Now that he was finally free, the thought that haunted him was different…what future did he have left? Where was he supposed to go? Back to the manor that had cast him aside, or to the streets where he might beg for scraps and a place to sleep?
He longed for something familiar, something that was his alone… an anchor to remind him he still belonged somewhere.
His violin.
Once, it had been his whole world. At first, he considered himself lucky to have a tutor. But the old musician was a perfectionist with a short temper.
By the age of twelve, he decided to let go of the tutor and study by himself. He cleaned the neighbor's lawn in exchange for the use of an old violin. To hone his skills, he played on street corners and family gatherings. Whenever possible, he collected donations from passersby until he saved enough to buy his very own violin.
"Will he still be able to play at the opera house?" Tristan wondered. He recalled that he had once played to a standing ovation with flowers thrown at his feet. But that was before the mines. Before his hands had been broken by endless digging. Now his fingers were stiff, his grip clumsy. He wasn't sure he could even hold a bow.
"Tristan?"
The voice startled him. He looked up. Tristan didn't expect anyone to come for him, let alone Terry.
"Terry?" His brother stood at the entrance, reins of a horse in hand. "You came." His throat tightened. "Where's Father?"
"They're at the manor, waiting for the prodigal son," Terry said, expression unreadable.
Terry stared at the sunken eyes of his brother. He was no longer "pretty" as described by everyone else. He's unrecognizable, except for the voice.
Tristan bit his lip until it bled. It was Terry who had accused him of theft. Terry who had signed the papers that sent him here.
He would not have come at all if not for Lord Shannon's insistence. Terry didn't know his interest in the matter, The Alpha had pressed him, and Terry dared not refuse.
"You're lucky," Terry said as they walked. "The stolen coins were insured with mana stones. The land titles were reconstructed. We had to pull a lot of strings." He smirked. "Of course, you owe us. We'll name the price later."
Tristan stared at him in disbelief. Two years of forced labor, and he still owed them? He had never touched the vault, never seen the gold, the jewels, the titles. He was framed and no one had lifted a finger to clear his name. For two years, the steward and his rogue miners tried to break him.
Lady Arriane had seen to that. The elf he had once rejected had thrown him here without due process, her overseers making sure he was broken.
No water, no food, no breaks until he finds a mana stone.
If he finds a mana stone deposit, it was taken away from him and reported to be found by another miner. Nothing was credited under his ledger, nothing for his hard work.
If it weren't for some kind-hearted miners who gave him stow away food and water, he would have been dead by now.
When he first woke up in the mining camp, he was gagged, punched and kicked in the butt. He thought he would stay there for a week. The weeks turned into months. And months into years. They have the wrong person. I was framed.
And as if on cue, a whip cut him deep for resting.
At first, he had the energy to snap back at his detainers. Eventually, he stopped fighting back. Hunger, thirst and sleep deprivation broke him.
"Change into these," Terry said curtly, throwing him clothes too large for his skeletal frame and a pair of shoes not his size. "Hurry up."
Tristan did what he was told.
"Take the reins," shouted Terry. That woke him from stupor.
The trip back home was longer now that there was an air of silence between the two of them. Terry brought two horses, so he didn't hear Tristan's heavy and difficult breathing.
Tristan thought of his old horse, his best friend, the one he had given up to pay off Terry's debts. That loss still ached.
The rains continued to pour by the time they reached the manor house. No one came to greet him except the servants who welcomed Tristan back with dry towels and hot soup.
So this is what waiting for the prodigal son looked like…
"Escort him to his new quarters," ordered Terry. Clean him up before he is presented to grandfather and the rest of the family.
He was ushered into a small, quaint home, a decent but empty house. Save for a small bed, a square table with four stools. Obviously, constructed with haste to accommodate a new and unexpected arrival.
He asked quietly, "Who is in my room? Where are my servants?"
"Terry uses your room now," one servant explained. "Your staff were dismissed."
"I am Andrew, your servant," said one.
"I am Randell, from Altruiz," said the other.
Tristan only nodded. "Find my violin."
Back in the manor. "Violin?" The servants looked at each other. Therese overheard it and said, "It's with me. I kept his violin in my room for safekeeping."
The servants were relieved and left with a bow.
The servants returned later with food, meat, fish, vegetables, and fruit. Tristan's eyes widened. He ate with his hands, shoving food down too quickly. For two years, every meal had been scraps. Now, the taste of real food overwhelmed him.
"Young master, slow down," one servant pleaded.
Tristan forced himself to pause, breathing hard. The servant was right, he no longer had to fight for crumbs. He could eat slowly. He could breathe.
"Bring more dessert," he said softly.
As he ate, the servants brought his violin. It was carefully wrapped, its wood unwarped. Someone had cared for it.
Tristan stared at it, throat tight.
Could he still play? Could he still lift a bow with scarred fingers?
Would he ever again play for his grandfather, the one man who had always believed in him?