Page 13 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
Magic. Quiet, practical magic used without fanfare or expectation of praise. I've seen flashier displays in the market—merchants warming their goods, entertainers creating sparks and colored lights to draw crowds. But this is different. This is magic as a tool rather than spectacle, used simply to ensure two children can safely pursue their flower-pressing expedition without discomfort.
"The warming will last several hours," Ciaran explains to me, his violet eyes serious. "Long enough for whatever adventure they have planned. Nya knows her limits—she won't push herself too hard."
There's something in the way he says it, a careful attention to his daughter's needs that speaks of hard-won experience. I've watched him with her over the past week, noting how he hovers without smothering, how he guides without controlling. When Nya needs to rest, he suggests sitting on convenient benches or stopping to examine interesting shop displays. When she grows tired, he notices before she has to ask for help.
It's not the hovering of an overprotective parent or the inattention of someone who doesn't understand their child's needs. It's something more nuanced—partnership, perhaps. Recognition that she's capable within her limitations, that protection doesn't require wrapping her in silk.
"Please, Mum?" Rhea clasps her hands together in exaggerated pleading, though her grin suggests she already knows I'll say yes. "We'll be careful, and we'll stay close to town, and Nya knows so many facts about the winter flowers!"
I look between my daughter's eager face and Nya's quiet hopefulness, then at Ciaran's patient expression. He's not pushing, not trying to convince me. He's simply waiting for my decision, ready to accept whatever I choose. The lack of pressure somehow makes it easier to agree.
"Stay where people can see you," I say finally. "And if the weather gets worse, come straight back."
They're gone in a whirlwind of excited chatter and flying cloaks, leaving me alone with Ciaran in the sudden quiet of the shop. Snow taps against the windows like impatient fingers, and the scent of cider lingers in the air between us.
"Thank you," I say, then immediately feel foolish for the formality. "For the warming magic. I know Rhea will be over the moon about flower pressing in winter weather."
"Nya's been wanting to see some spots over this way that Rhea told her about," he replies, settling into the chair across from my desk with easy familiarity. "She doesn't often have someone who shares her interests."
I find myself studying his profile as he speaks, noting the way afternoon light catches the silver flecks in his violet eyes, the elegant line of his jaw, the careful way he chooses his words. Everything about him suggests refinement, education, the kind of breeding that comes with wealth and status. And yet he sits in my modest shop drinking inn-keeper's cider like it's the finest vintage, treating my half-elf daughter with the same gentle courtesy he shows his own.
"She's good for Rhea," I admit, returning to my ledger with unnecessary focus. "It's been... nice, watching her make a real friend."
"They complement each other well," he agrees, and I can hear the smile in his voice without looking up. "Nya needs someone with Rhea's energy and enthusiasm. She's been too isolated, spending time only with adults who treat her like something fragile."
The observation hits closer to home than I'd like to admit. How many times have I caught myself doing the same thing with Rhea—not because she's physically frail, but because her mixed heritage makes her different, vulnerable in ways I can't alwaysprotect her from? Treating her like she needs extra care rather than trusting her strength?
"Rhea's taken quite a shine to you as well," I say, then immediately regret the admission. It reveals too much, suggests I've been watching more carefully than a casual acquaintance should.
But Ciaran just chuckles, a warm sound that makes something flutter in my chest. "She brought me a drawing yesterday of the shop decorated for Ikuyenda. Very detailed plans for where every ribbon should go."
I can picture it perfectly—Rhea bent over her parchment with tongue-tip concentration, planning our modest celebration with the same intensity she applies to everything that captures her interest. The thought of her sharing those plans with him, seeking his approval for something so personal, makes my throat tighten with emotions I don't want to examine too closely.
"She's been talking about decorations for days," I admit. "I promised we could put some up this afternoon."
"She mentioned you usually keep things simple." There's no judgment in his voice, just observation, but I find myself bristling anyway.
"We don't need elaborate displays to enjoy the festival," I say, more defensive than I intended. "Ikuyenda is about community, not competition."
He's quiet for a moment, and when I glance up, his expression is thoughtful rather than critical. "You sound like you've had to defend that position before."
The insight is too accurate, too perceptive, and I find myself looking away. "Some people have different ideas about what celebration should look like."
I don't mention Cyprien, don't talk about the way he laughed at Eryndral's "quaint little festival" or how he promised to show me real celebrations in the great cities. Don't mention how thosepromises turned to ash when he vanished like morning mist, leaving me with a daughter who carries his eyes and my broken faith in beautiful words.
But something in Ciaran's expression suggests he understands anyway, and the gentleness there makes my chest ache in ways I'm not prepared to handle.
"Different doesn't mean wrong," he says quietly. "I've attended celebrations that cost more than most families see in a year. Give me honest joy over expensive displays any day."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard, and I find myself meeting his eyes despite every instinct that tells me to look away. There's no mockery there, no condescension. Just genuine appreciation for the simple traditions that hold this town together.
My resolve to maintain distance wavers like candle flame in wind.
8
CIARAN
The afternoon sun slants through the shop windows, catching dust motes in golden columns that dance between the evergreen garlands Rhea insisted we hang yesterday. The scent of winter pine mingles with ink and parchment, creating something that feels more like home than any grand salon I've ever inhabited. Nya sleeps curled in the chair by the window, one of my old poetry collections splayed across her chest, rising and falling with each steady breath.
