Chapter 7 Tristan
TRISTAN
Four days.
That's how long it took for fear to turn into violence.
Tristan stood in the Council Glade listening to Emmett outline the third vandalism incident with a jaw so tight his teeth ached. Dawn light filtered through bare branches, turning snow blue and cold.
"Blood symbols on her door," Emmett said, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Wards slashed. Garden destroyed. And a message—Leave or burn."
"When?" Tristan asked.
"Before dawn. Maren heard something around four but they were gone by the time she got outside." Emmett's expression hardened. "Three incidents in four days. Each one worse than the last."
Miriam Caldwell stood beside Emmett, silver hair gleaming in the pale light. "This has to stop before someone gets hurt."
"Someone will get hurt," Elder Bram said from across the circle. "The question is whether it's the witch or one of our people."
"Her name is Maren," Tristan said flatly. "And she hasn't done anything to warrant this."
"The townspeople don't see it that way." Bram's pale eyes stayed cold. "Three magical incidents at the lake, the forge, and the wards. All shadow-signature. All near her."
"Correlation isn't causation."
"Tell that to Thomas Wells and his friends gathering at the Silver Fang every night." Bram gestured toward town. "Fear is spreading. People want action."
"So we give them action." Emmett's voice cut through the tension. "Just not the kind they're expecting. Tristan, you're taking Maren to the northern safe house. Today."
Tristan's gut twisted. "That's what they want. Her isolated, vulnerable, easier to target."
"She’s already isolated where she lives. Better to have her safer, with strong wards and someone actually watching her back." Emmett met his gaze directly. "I won't have mob justice in my town. But I also won't leave her exposed to escalating violence. This buys us time."
"Time for what?"
"For you to find out who's actually causing the magical incidents. And for the town to calm down before someone does something they can't take back." Emmett's jaw set firm. "I'm not exiling her. I'm protecting her. There's a difference."
Tristan wanted to argue. Wanted to say forced relocation was just exile with better optics.
But he'd seen the blood symbols and the message. He knew exactly where this kind of escalation led if left unchecked.
"Fine. But I want doubled patrols around the safe house. And anyone who comes near her answers to me directly."
"Done." Emmett nodded once. "Mills is bringing the wagon. Get her there before midday. I don't want her spending another night in that cottage."
"What about her property?" Miriam asked. "We can't just leave it unguarded."
"I'll assign someone to watch it," Emmett said. "Make sure the vandals don't escalate to arson."
The meeting dissolved so Tristan headed toward the forest path that led to Maren's cottage.
He found her outside, staring at the vandalized door with her shadows pressed close. She'd wrapped herself in her black cloak, arms crossed tight, looking smaller than he'd ever seen her.
Her voice stayed level, carefully controlled. "This is the third time in four days."
Tristan crouched to examine boot prints in the snow. Three different sets, all adult-sized, all wearing standard winter boots. Could be anyone. "Council's moving you to the safe house."
"A safe house." Her voice went flat. "You mean a cage."
"I mean protection." He stood, scanning the treeline. "These incidents are escalating. Next time it might not just be property damage."
"And whose fault will that be?" Bitterness crept into her tone. "Mine for existing, or theirs for deciding I'm the monster?"
"Theirs. But that doesn't keep you safe."
She looked at him for a long moment, silver eyes searching. "How long?"
"Until things calm down and I find who's actually behind the magical incidents." Tristan pulled out his comm unit. "Mills is bringing a wagon. Pack what you need."
"For a few days that'll turn into weeks. Months." Maren shook her head. "I know how this works. Temporary becomes permanent becomes 'maybe you should just leave.'"
"Not if I have anything to say about it."
"And what do you have to say about it, Officer Ash?" She stepped closer, shadows swirling. "You're following orders. Relocating the problem so the town can pretend everything's fine."
Tristan held her gaze, refusing to back down. "I'm keeping you alive. There's a difference." He gestured toward the vandalized door. "This isn't justice. It's fear looking for a target. And I won't let you be it."
A moment passed before she quietly finally said. "Fine. Give me twenty minutes."
She disappeared inside. Tristan used the time to photograph the damage, catalogue the boot prints, memorize every detail. The symbols were ancient folk magic, fear-work designed to unsettle. Effective but crude. Someone with just enough knowledge to be dangerous.
Mills arrived with the wagon just as Maren emerged carrying two bags and her basket of remaining herbs. She'd changed into practical layers that suggested she'd done this before. Packed for exile.
The thought made Tristan's tiger snarl.
"Safe house is provisioned," Mills said, helping load the bags. "Firewood, basic food stores, clean water. Should be comfortable enough."
"Comfortable," Maren repeated, climbing into the wagon. "Right."
The ride north took thirty minutes through increasingly dense forest. Tristan kept scanning the trees, looking for anyone who might be following.
The safe house sat in a clearing barely visible from any main path, built low and sturdy with smoke-dark stone and reinforced shutters.
Wards shimmered across every surface, stronger than anything outside Council headquarters.
"Wait here," Tristan said, jumping down.
He cleared the house room by room before returning to help Maren inside. She moved through the space like someone cataloguing 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.
His tiger went very still.
"What happened to your wrists?" He had a hard time trying to control the anger that was beginning to burn inside of him at the thought.
Maren's hands stilled. She set down her bowl carefully, not looking at him. "It's not pleasant."
"Most true stories aren't."
She was quiet for a moment, shadows curling protectively around her shoulders. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the flat quality of someone reciting facts rather than reliving trauma.
"My last town thought I caused a fire. Three people died. The mayor decided binding my magic would make everyone feel safer." She lifted one wrist, tracing the scars. "Iron cuffs enchanted to suppress shadow work. Wore them for six months before the real arsonist was caught."
Tristan's jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. "Did they apologize?"
"They let me leave without burning me. That was apology enough, apparently." Her smile held no warmth. "The cuffs came off but the scars stayed. Reminder that fear doesn't need proof."
"That's not justice."
"No. But it's human nature." She met his gaze directly. "Which is why I know how this ends, Tristan. The vandalism will continue. The fear will spread. Eventually the Council will decide it's easier to make me leave than to keep fighting for me."
"That’s not my end game."
Something flickered in her silver eyes. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why stand between me and them? You don't know me. Don't owe me anything." She stood, moving closer. "So why risk your position, your reputation, to protect someone the whole town's decided is guilty?"
Tristan stood too, closing the space until they were near enough that her shadows brushed against his boots. "Because I've been the outsider. Been the one nobody trusted. And the only thing worse than people fearing you is people deciding you deserve it."
He'd revealed more than he intended, but Maren didn't push. Just nodded slowly, understanding written across her features.
He reached out without thinking, fingers hovering near her wrist. "Can I?"
She hesitated, then extended her hand.
He cradled her wrist gently, thumb brushing over the white lines. His tiger rumbled, protective and furious at old wounds he couldn't prevent.
"They were wrong," he said. "The people who did this. They were wrong."
"I know."
They stood like that for a moment too long, her wrist cradled in his palm, shadows and breath mingling in the space between them.
Then Tristan released her carefully and stepped back. "I should go. You need rest."
"Will you come back tomorrow?"
"Every day until you're home." He shifted toward the door. "Lock the wards. Break the beacon if anything feels wrong."
"Tristan?"
He paused, hand on the door.
"Stay safe out there."
"You too."
Outside, the forest felt colder than it had before, but the warmth that had now slowly started to spread through Tristan made it almost indistinguishable.
Tristan climbed into the wagon, but his tiger remained focused on the safe house behind him and the woman inside.
She’d survived iron cuffs and false accusations and six months of magical suppression.
But it was more than that. It had only happened once before, but this couldn’t be.
Was it even possible for a single shifter to have two mates in one lifetime?