Tristan cleared his throat. "Hmm."
Eira didn't look up. "You're not dying. Just say it."
"Can I ask something?"
"Too late. You already did." She smirked, fingers still working the tension along 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 the answer."
"How did you meet him?"
Her fingers slowed, her expression unreadable. "I was ten when my village was raided. Wolf-born, not yet transformed and living in human territory."
Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it.
"Shannon found me bleeding under a collapsed roof," she continued. "Didn't 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 said, meeting his gaze. "He doesn't force people. He offers doors. If you walk through them, it'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. Then, softly, "What do you think he expects from me?"
Eira didn't respond right away. She moved to his other arm, massaging the ridge just below his elbow. Her 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.
"Maybe. But Shannon doesn't risk attention for talent alone. He came for someone with fire."
Tristan blushed, unsure whether to be proud or anxious that he had passion in him.
"Well, I just don't know what he wants in return," he admitted. "He hasn't said anything. Actually, "He said nothing."
Eira nodded. "He probably 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 his doubts.. "Ooh…That's a lot of pressure for someone who hasn't played in years."
"Then start with one note," Eira whispered.
They capped the night with mugs of warm tea. Tristan thought of the bowl with a small hole he left at the mine. He couldn't help it. His memories always drift towards that part of his life.
He hoped that the lavender and mint from the treatment room could make him forget and relax.
"What do you do when no one like me's around?" Tristan asked.
"Tend the garden. Brew tea. Heal the occasional guest. And sometimes, just sometimes, 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 a brow. "Musical interpretations?"
Just then, Tristan stood, picked up the porch broom, and held it like a violin. He placed one hand under the handle and positioned the other like a bow.
He reenacted a passionate solo with eyes closed and head tilted towards the broom.
Eira burst out laughing.
"Don't forget to actually sweep the floor on your way out, young master."
"Of course, as you wish." Tristan laughed.
"That broom's seen more muddy boots than your violin ever did," she said. "Play it again and it might snap from shame."
He gave an elegant bow. "Thank you, thank you."
Eira grinned. "You're not a burden, Tristan. But I may take you up on the firewood offer."
"I work for warm baths and moral support."
"You drive a hard bargain."
He looked thoughtful. "Who else visits this place?"
"Not many. A few soldiers. Wanderers. Children who wander too close to corruption zones. Shannon brings the ones he thinks matter."
"Are you stuck here?"
"Not stuck. But I chose to stay. Out there, I'm not exactly welcome either."
Tristan hesitated, then asked, "Have you ever treated Shannon himself?"
"Once. Shoulder wound. He didn't rest, obviously. He tried to leave halfway through treatment."
"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 leaned against the porch rail. "What makes him angry? I'd rather not learn the hard way."
"Cruelty. Betrayal. Dishonesty. He doesn't explode, but if he ever goes quiet, run."
"Duly noted. What about his favorites? Food? Drink? Cloaks?"
"Dark cloaks, bitter coffee, roasted root vegetables, and silence."
"So... brooding woodsman aesthetic."
"He manages three businesses, two of which he inherited from his parents," she added casually.
Tristan blinked. "Really?"
"Mm-hm. A timber company, a wilderness trade network, and a chain of safehouses, this one included. It gives temporary respite for wolf-born, hybrids, and exiles somewhere to breathe."
"And he runs all that?"
"He funds it. Keep it clean. Works with the Alpha Council to keep rogue packs in check. They say he's the one you call when things get too messy for diplomacy."
"So… fixer, founder, forest king. No pressure."
Eira snorted. "You forgot the reluctant hero."
Tristan shook his head. "He sounds like a myth."
"He'd hate that."
They fell into companionable silence.
"You're healing more than your hands, Tristan," Eira said after a while. "You're remembering how to live."
He looked at her, something warm stirring behind his ribs. "Thank you. For reminding me."
"Tomorrow," she said, standing and stretching, "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."
"One note at a time?" he asked.
"One note at a time," she echoed.