Page 1 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
1
CIARAN
The equu's breath rises in white plumes ahead of us, each exhale a reminder of how far we've traveled from Kyrdonis's warmth. Snow crunches beneath her hooves, the sound sharp in the winter air that bites at my exposed skin despite the heavy cloak wrapped around both Nya and me. My daughter's weight against my chest feels too light, her breathing shallow against the wool of my tunic.
"Dad, my fingers are cold." Her voice carries that particular weariness that's become too familiar these past weeks.
I shift the reins to one hand and pull her small fingers into mine, rubbing warmth back into them. They're like ice, delicate as bird bones beneath my touch. "Better?"
She nods against my chest, but I feel the tremor that runs through her slight frame. The journey from the city has been harder on her than I'd anticipated, each mile stretching her thin reserves thinner still. But staying—staying would have been worse.
Behind us, Kyrdonis sprawls across the plains like a jewel against white velvet, its spires catching the pale winter sun. Even from this distance, I can make out the preparations beginningfor Ikuyenda—banners unfurling from windows, vendors setting up stalls that will soon overflow with delicacies and trinkets. The festival that celebrates our great lake, our way of life, our connection to the Gatherer herself.
Three weeks of revelry that starts quiet and builds to a crescendo of excess that would make Syrelle proud.
My jaw tightens at the thought. Syrelle, who lived for Ikuyenda. Who would spend months planning her gowns, her parties, her appearances at the lake ceremonies. Who saw the festival not as a spiritual celebration but as the grandest stage for her own performance.
Because that is what my late wife lived for. I could provide money befitting the status she elevated our family to. And I let myself believe it was enough for the marriage that crumbled quickly.
"Why aren't we staying for the festival?" Nya's question cuts through my brooding, her violet eyes—so like mine, thankfully, and not her mother's indigo—peering up at me with that sharp intelligence that sometimes unnerves me.
I consider my words carefully. At eight, she's old enough to understand more than I'd like, old enough to remember fragments of those final months when Syrelle's behavior grew more erratic, more dangerous. When the parties became desperate escapes and the aviid powder became her constant companion.
"Sometimes a man needs quiet to think properly," I tell her, guiding the equu around a particularly deep drift. "The city gets... loud during Ikuyenda."
It's not a lie, exactly. The truth is more complicated—that I can't bear the thought of watching other families gather around the Lake of Wishes while mine remains fractured. Can't stomach the sight of children being lifted to their parents' shoulders todrop offerings into the sacred waters while Nya struggles just to stay upright after too much excitement.
Can't face another winter celebration where Syrelle's absence feels like a wound that refuses to heal.
The equu snorts, her four nostrils flaring as she picks up some scent on the wind. Her ears swivel forward, alert but not alarmed. Probably just catching wind of the small trading post that should be coming into view soon—a waystation for travelers heading north toward Kantor or west toward the wilder territories.
"Will we see the lake ceremonies from where we're going?" Nya asks, and there's something wistful in her voice that makes my chest tighten.
"Perhaps from a distance," I say, though I doubt it. The cabin I'm taking us to sits nestled in the forests north of the city, far enough from the celebrations to offer the peace we both need. "Would you like that?"
She considers this, her small face serious in the way that reminds me she's had to grow up too fast. "I think so. I liked the lake when we went last year."
Three years ago. When Syrelle was still alive, still spinning her web of glittering lies. When Nya was still young enough to believe her mother's absences were normal, that the wild mood swings and the strange, sweet smell that clung to Syrelle's clothes were just part of who she was.
I remember that visit to the lake—Syrelle draped in silver silk that caught the light like water, accepting compliments and admiration while Nya stood forgotten at her side. I'd lifted our daughter to see over the crowd, let her drop a copper coin into the sacred waters and make her wish in whispered words I couldn't quite catch.
Later, when I'd asked what she'd wished for, she'd looked at me with those too-serious eyes and said, "For Mama to be happy."
The road curves downward through a stand of bare-branched trees, and suddenly the valley opens before us like a cupped palm. Eryndral, which I've seen on the maps, spreads across the hollow in a patchwork of timber and stone, smoke rising from countless chimneys to blur the winter sky. Lanterns hang in cheerful clusters across the market square, their warm glow a welcome sight after hours of cold travel.
It's a town of middling size—larger than the farming settlements we've passed, but nothing like the grand sprawl of Kyrdonis. The kind of place where everyone knows their neighbors' business but still maintains enough distance for a man to think. Perfect for what we need.
"Look, Dad," Nya breathes against my ear, her voice carrying the first note of interest I've heard from her in days. "They have decorations too."
She's right. Even here, so far from the sister cities, the preparations for Ikuyenda have begun. Banners flutter from windows—not the elaborate silk affairs of the noble houses, but honest wool and linen dyed in deep blues and greens. A few vendors have set up early stalls in the square, their wares modest but cheerful. The scent of roasting chestnuts carries on the wind, along with something sweeter—baked goods, perhaps, or mulled wine.
The equu picks her way carefully down the sloping road, her hooves finding purchase on the packed snow. Her breathing has steadied now that we're out of the wind, and she tosses her head as if sensing the promise of a warm stable ahead.
I guide her toward what looks like the main thoroughfare, scanning the shop fronts for what I need. There—a narrow building with glass windows displaying bottles of ink and neatstacks of parchment. Perfect. If I'm going to hole up somewhere for the winter, I'll need proper supplies. My current manuscript won't finish itself, and the coin from my publisher won't stretch forever.
"Are we stopping here?" Nya asks as I bring the equu to a halt outside the shop.
"Just for supplies," I tell her, dismounting carefully with her still wrapped in my arms. Her weight—or lack of it—never fails to concern me. At eight, she should be squirming to get down, eager to explore. Instead, she clings to me like a much younger child, her violet eyes taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with wariness rather than curiosity.
