"Ouch," Tristan hissed.
"Sorry. You'll feel every touch I make," Eira cautioned.
She examined his hands with deliberate care. His nails were cracked, knuckles swollen, skin covered in cuts and scabs. But she suspected the real damage lay deeper—in the pathways between his hands and his brain. That disconnection made it hard for him to move his fingers the way he once did.
"The swelling in the tendons and the blockages in your nerve paths have stolen your control," she murmured.
Placing her warm hands over his arms, she began her treatment—a blend of steady pressure and subtle energy, coaxed through touch. The goal wasn't only to ease the pain but to help his nerves wake up, to remind them how to send signals again.
"This isn't just about surface wounds," she explained. "I'm helping your hands remember how to move. How to play. We're also getting the blood flowing properly again."
"It'll take about six weeks," she continued. "Daily sessions. Some soreness. But no cutting, no needles. Just pressure, rhythm, and patience."
Tristan flinched as she pressed into the center of his palm.
"That spot's important," Eira said gently. "It's been locked up from stress and disuse. We need to remind it what music feels like."
He looked at her, voice low. "Do you think I could still play the violin?"
Eira met his eyes and smiled, steady but not overly sweet. She didn't give him false hope. "If you trust me—and trust yourself—yes."
The treatment room smelled faintly of lavender and mint. Large windows let in fresh air, and the walls were built to slide open when needed. For the next six weeks, this space would be Tristan's refuge.
Eira's hands moved with quiet precision down his forearm, pressing along each taut muscle. Tristan winced more than once but never pulled away.
"You're starting to loosen up," she said after a while. "That's a good sign. The swelling is going down too."
Tristan tilted his head. "Do you ever get tired of this?"
She gave a soft laugh. "Of healing? Or of stubborn musicians pretending they're not flinching?"
"I wasn't flinching," he said, clearly lying.
"To answer seriously—sometimes," she admitted. "I was born into it. My mother and grandfather were both healers. But I had to train and practice before anyone let me do anything more than carry tea."
"So… it's not just magic?"
"No. Magic helps. My bloodline helps too. But healing is something you learn, like playing an instrument. You don't just wish for it and expect results. You study, make mistakes, and keep going. I trained at the Moressan Temple for two years, then with the Stormhowl Clan for another. I nearly lost my own hand treating a poisoned claw wound during my final trial."
Her voice softened. "That's when I stopped thinking healing was beautiful. It's messy. But it's worth it."
Tristan blinked. "Do you get paid?"
She laughed dryly. "Most don't think we should be. But Lord Shannon insists. He says even sacred people need to eat."
"Do you live here full time?"
Her smile dimmed. "Yes. It's peaceful and far from prying eyes. No one asks why a wolf-born lives alone—until now."
Tristan's gaze sharpened. "So… you're hiding."
She didn't deny it.
"And you?" she asked, pressing lightly into his palm again. "Where did a merchant's son learn to play like that?"
"My grandfather," Tristan answered softly. "He played the harmonica. Said it was the breath of his soul. But when I touched a violin… it felt like finding a voice I didn't know I had."
"Did someone teach you?"
"For a while. A strict tutor. But I didn't last. He wanted perfection. I just wanted to play like the wind. So I listened—to birds, to rain, to street vendors shouting outside our gates. That's how I learned rhythm."
"You learned music from angry vendors?"
Tristan smiled faintly. "You'd be surprised how musical insults can be."
Eira chuckled. "What was that piece you played at the Opera House? Lord Shannon mentioned it."
"I called it Thread of Gold. It was meant to sound like hope winding through a battlefield."
She paused. "You're not what I expected."
"Neither am I," Tristan replied.
"Can you sing?"
"I used to. My voice cracked at thirteen. I never tried again."
"You should. Your body's healing. Maybe your voice is waiting too."
Her words wrapped around him like warmth.
"Do you think I'll really play again?" he asked, almost whispering.
"If you don't," Eira said, resuming her work, "the world will miss something beautiful."
Tristan hissed sharply as she pressed into a tense spot near his elbow.
"That hurts."
"Then it's working," she said calmly. "Pain means your nerves are responding. I'd be more worried if you felt nothing."
"Great. Pain equals progress. I'll make that my new motto."
"You're more dramatic than I thought."
"Two years in a mining pit with no baths will do that to a man."
She gave him a long look. "Speaking of baths, no cold ones."
His eyes widened. "Wait, what?"
"You're healing nerve tissue. Heat helps. Cold tightens everything up. It'll slow us down."
"No swimming?"
"No icy drinks either."
"That's half my will to live," he muttered.
"You can take warm baths. Soak your hands for at least ten minutes. Use that time to stretch your fingers."
"Sounds like work disguised as self-care."
"Welcome to recovery."
He grinned. "Can I still have coffee?"
"Yes."
"Sweet."
"But no alcohol."
"Bitter."
She smiled at his sulking. "Stick to tea and room-temperature water. No extremes. Your system needs balance."
"And sleep? Do I have to hang upside down like a bat?"
"No. Just don't sleep on your stomach or tuck your arms under you. Let them stay open and relaxed."
Tristan sighed. "Healing comes with rules."
"Do you want your hands back or not?"
"I do," he said softly. "More than anything."
Eira's voice gentled. "Then follow the plan. I'm working on your nerve paths, loosening the tension in your arms, and guiding energy along channels that affect movement. Some call it pressure healing, others call it energy flow. It helps if you also sit still and breathe now and then."
"Is that your way of telling me to meditate?"
"Call it what you like. Just listen to your heartbeat and stop arguing with yourself."
"That's harder than it sounds."
"It always is," she said.