Chapter 9 Tristan
TRISTAN
The storm broke just after dawn, leaving behind a world buried in white and unnaturally quiet.
Tristan stood at the safe house window, watching gray light filter through heavy clouds. Restlessness crawled through his muscles, the instinct that had kept him alive in a dozen war zones screaming that this calm wouldn't last.
The sky knew it too.
Behind him, Maren slept in the loft, her breathing even and her shadows appeared across the rafters like dark silk. They'd talked until past midnight, her confessions about forbidden bloodline magic sitting heavy in his mind along everything else he couldn't afford to feel.
He pulled on his coat and stepped outside. The cold bit hard, sharp enough to clear his head. He needed to report to the Council before the weather closed in again. But honestly, he needed the distance.
To stop thinking about how right it felt having her nearby.
His comm thankfully broke his thoughts. "Ash, copy?"
"Copy."
"Emmett wants you at the glade. Now." Mills sounded tense. "Bram's pushing for an emergency session."
"On my way."
The ride to the Council Glade took longer than usual, snow drifted high across paths that had been clear days ago. By the time Tristan arrived, Emmett and Miriam were already there, along with Bram and two other Council members.
"Report," Emmett ordered.
Tristan kept his voice low, level. "Magical interference last night during the storm. A candle flame turned blue and exploded. Shadow signature, but not controlled by Maren. Something external triggered her magic."
"How convenient," Bram said. "Magical incidents always seem to happen when she's involved."
"She didn't cause it. She was trying to stop it when the flame exploded."
"And you believe that because?"
"Because her magic stopped before the damage did. Same pattern as the stream, the forge, the lake." Tristan met Bram's pale gaze steadily. "Someone's using her signature as cover."
"Or she's losing control and doesn't want to admit it." Bram turned to Emmett. "Three incidents in four days before we relocated her. Now another one at the safe house. How many more before we acknowledge the pattern?"
"The pattern is someone targeting her," Tristan said. "Not her targeting anyone else."
Miriam stepped forward. "What exactly happened with the candle?"
"Flame stretched and twisted like something was pulling at it from inside.
Turned blue at the edges. When Maren tried to sense what was causing it, her magic lurched sideways and the candle exploded.
" Tristan pulled out his pad. "Scorch pattern on the mantel matches the one at the forge. Same cold-burn signature."
"Cold-burn?" one of the other Council members asked.
"Fire that freezes instead of burning. Shadow magic can do it, but only specific bloodlines." Tristan paused. "Maren's magic doesn't work that way."
"How do you know?" Bram pressed.
"Because I've observed her closely," Tristan said instead. "Standard surveillance protocol. And everything about her magic reads defensive, not aggressive."
Emmett's eyes narrowed slightly but he didn't comment. "What about the wards? Did they hold?"
"Barely. The safe house hasn't been maintained in over a year. Another storm like last night and they might fail with what seems to be attacking her magic."
"Then reinforce them," Bram said. "Or move her somewhere more secure."
"She's secure where she is."
"With you watching her." Bram's tone carried accusation. "How objective can you be when you're the only one spending time with her?"
Tristan's jaw tightened. "Objective enough to document facts instead of jumping to conclusions based on fear. And, if I recall, no one else wanted to go near her."
"Gentlemen." Miriam's voice cut through the tension. "The question isn't whether Tristan's objective. It's whether we're doing enough to find whoever's actually causing these incidents."
"Assuming it's not her," Bram muttered.
"It's not." Tristan's voice went flat. He was tired to the school yard manipulating from Bram. He knew it wasn’t her in ways he just couldn’t explain. "But someone wants us to think it is. Someone with knowledge of shadow magic and access to the town."
Emmett crossed his arms. "You have suspects?"
"Working on it. Boot prints from the vandalism matched three different people, all standard winter boots. The symbols were old folk magic, crude but effective. Whoever's doing this knows enough to be dangerous but not enough to be professional."
"So an amateur with a grudge," Miriam said.
"Or someone being directed by someone with real knowledge." Tristan closed his notebook. "Either way, keeping Maren isolated and protected gives me time to investigate without civilian interference."
"Or gives whoever's targeting her more opportunities to strike," Emmett countered. "How long do you need?"
"A week. Maybe less if I get lucky."
"You have three days." Emmett's expression hardened. "Then we meet again and reassess. If incidents continue escalating, we'll have to consider other options."
"What other options?" Tristan asked, though he knew the answer.
"Relocation outside Hollow Oak. For everyone's safety." Emmett held up a hand before Tristan could argue. "I don't want to exile her. But I won't let fear turn this town into something ugly. If keeping her here means mob violence, we'll find another solution."
Tristan wanted to say exile was just mob violence with official approval.
But Emmett's expression said the decision was already made if things didn't improve.
"Three days," Tristan agreed before heading back toward the safe house, every instinct screaming at him to move faster.
The sky had darkened considerably. Wind picked up, carrying the scent of incoming snow. He'd been right, the break was temporary.
He reached the safe house just as the first flakes started falling. Inside, Maren stood at the hearth making tea, her black curls loose over one shoulder.
"How bad?" she asked without turning.
"Emmett's giving me three days to find proof you're not responsible." Tristan shed his coat. "And another storm's coming. Bigger than last night."
"So you're staying again."
"Give me a chance to do my job. Maybe the magic will try something like last night,"
She handed him a mug, her silver eyes searching his face for the real answer. "They're running out of patience."
"So am I."
"With me or the situation?"
"The situation." He took the tea, avoiding eye contact at his admittance.
Something flickered in her expression and Tristan forced himself to keep talking to avoid the rush of thoughts he tried to ignore as they surged forward.
"Evidence supports innocence," he said instead. "And I follow evidence."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Outside, wind howled. Snow began falling in earnest, thick and fast. Tristan moved to check the wards, testing their strength with his hand.
They hummed against his palm, strained but holding.
"How long this time?" Maren asked.
"Could be all night. Maybe into tomorrow." He turned to face her. "Hope you don't mind company."
"I'm getting used to it." She moved to a window, watching snow accumulate. "Strange how fast that happened."
"What?"
"Getting used to having someone around. I've been alone for so long I forgot what it felt like."
Tristan knew that feeling intimately. Had lived it for three years, ever since—
Heat flared beneath his ribs, sharp and protective and wrong. He shoved it down hard.
"You okay?" Maren's voice pulled him back.
"Fine."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth lifted despite everything. "You're picking up my tells."
"Maybe I'm just paying attention." She crossed to where he stood. "Same as you've been doing with me."
Too close. She was standing too close and something primal in him approved while his mind screamed warnings about history repeating itself.
He couldn't let this happen again. Couldn't let himself care about someone the world wanted to destroy.
"I should check the perimeter," Tristan said, stepping back. "Make sure the wards are solid all around."
"In this storm?"
"Won't take long."
He grabbed his coat and left before she could argue, stepping into wind that cut like knives. The cold helped. Cleared his head. Reminded him why getting attached was dangerous.
Every instinct he had disagreed. Fought him with every step away from the cabin.
Away from her.
Tristan circled the safe house twice, testing wards and scanning for threats that weren’t there. When he finally returned inside, snow-covered and half-frozen, Maren had soup heating over the fire.
"You were gone almost an hour," she said, not looking at him.
"Wards needed checking."
"Right." She ladled soup into bowls. "That's why you ran."
"I didn't run."
"You left like the cabin was on fire." She shifted to face him, silver eyes sharp. "What are you afraid of, Tristan?"
Losing you before I even have you. Watching fear destroy someone I care about again. Admitting what you might mean to me when it should be impossible.
"Nothing you need to worry about," he said.
She nodded slowly. "Alright. But I'm afraid too."
"Of what?"
"That this ends the same way everything else in my life has. With me alone and blamed for things I didn't do." She handed him a bowl. "But it helps. Having someone who doesn't assume the worst."
Tristan took the soup, their fingers brushing again. That spark of heat sharp.
"I won't let it end that way," he said quietly.
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."