He cleared the house room by room before returning to help Maren inside. She moved through the space like someonecataloguing an unfamiliar cage, taking in the single main room with its stone hearth, the small sleeping loft above, the basic kitchen tucked in the corner.
"It's not terrible," she admitted.
"High praise." Tristan set her bags near the hearth. "I'll be back before dark with fresh supplies."
"You're leaving?"
"I've got patrol. And an investigation to run." He paused at the door. "Lock the wards behind me. Don't open them for anyone but me or Emmett."
"What if something happens?"
"Then you use the emergency beacon." He pointed to a carved stone on the mantel. "Break it, and every Council member within five miles will know you're in trouble."
Maren picked up the stone, weighing it in her palm. "And if the trouble's already inside?"
"Then you fight. You're not helpless, Maren."
She looked at him, surprise flickering across her features.
He left before she could respond, though her silver eyes followed him all the way to the wagon.
The day crawled past in frustrating dead ends. The boot prints led nowhere useful. The paint on her door was common enough that half the town could've purchased it. The symbols were old, ancient folk magic anyone with a grudge and basic library access could copy.
By the time Tristan returned to the safe house, twilight had painted the forest in shades of blue and purple. Smoke rose from the chimney, warm and steady. He knocked twice, then once, then twice again; the pattern Emmett had specified.
Maren opened the door looking more settled than she had that morning. Her shadows moved freely through the space, clearly comfortable. She'd unpacked her herbs, arranged her books, made the space hers despite its temporary nature.
"Find anything?" she asked, stepping aside to let him enter.
"Nothing useful." Tristan set down the supply bag. "Fresh bread, cheese, dried meat. Some of Freya's tea blends."
"She sent tea?"
"Insisted on it. Said you'd need the comfort." He pulled out the wrapped packages. "Sage drew you a picture."
Maren took the folded paper, opening it carefully. The child's drawing showed two figures. One tall with dark curls, one smaller with bright colors. They were holding hands, surrounded by what might've been flowers dancing with shadows.
"She labeled you 'Pretty Maren,'" Tristan said.
"She's a sweet child." Maren set the drawing on the mantel like it was precious. "Tell Freya thank you."
"Tell her yourself when you're back home."
"If I'm back home."
"When." Tristan's voice carried certainty he wasn't entirely sure he felt. "This town's better than mob justice. They just need time to remember it."
Maren moved to the hearth, stirring something that smelled like vegetable stew. "You have a lot of faith in people."
"Faith's cheaper than the alternative."
She ladled stew into two bowls without asking if he was staying. Automatically, he sat, and his tiger balked at how quickly he had obeyed.
They ate in companionable silence, the fire crackling and shadows swimming across walls. Tristan found his gaze drawn to her hands as he ate. Her elegant fingers wrapped around the bowl, steam rising between them.
That's when he noticed the scars.
Thin white lines circling both wrists, barely visible unless you knew to look. The kind left by restraints held too long with magic burning against skin.
