Page 14 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
Two weeks in Eryndral, and already the change in her is remarkable. The constant fatigue that plagued her in Kyrdonis has lifted like morning fog. Her cheeks hold more color, her breathing comes easier, and she sleeps peacefully rather than fitfully. The fresh air here, the slower pace—it suits her in ways the grand city never did, no matter how much coin I spent on healers and treatments.
Rhea kneels on the wooden floor beside Nya's chair, a quill gripped in her ink-stained fingers as she scribbles across a scrap of parchment with fierce concentration. Her dark curls have escaped their braid again, framing her face in wild spirals that catch the light. There's something about the way she holdsherself when she's creating—shoulders hunched protectively over her work, tongue-tip visible between her lips, those striking violet eyes absolutely focused—that tugs at something deep in my chest.
I find myself drawn closer, curiosity winning over the polite distance I should maintain.
"What is this?" I ask, crouching beside her.
She looks up, and her face transforms with excitement, those eyes—so familiar yet impossible—bright with pride and nervousness.
"It's a poem," she says, then immediately ducks her head. "Well, I think it's a poem. I'm not sure if I did it right."
The words hit me like a physical blow. How many times did I speak those exact phrases as a boy, clutching crumpled parchments in ink-stained hands? How many times did I seek approval for the words that poured from me like water from a spring, desperate for someone to understand the compulsion that drove me to capture emotions in verse?
"Would you share it?" I ask gently, settling more comfortably on the floor beside her.
She straightens, clearing her throat with the solemnity of someone about to deliver something important. When she speaks, her voice carries that particular rhythm of careful recitation:
"Winter comes with silver breath,
Painting flowers in the frost,
But underneath the cold and death,
Nothing beautiful is lost.
Seeds wait deep beneath the snow,
Dreams of spring in sleeping ground,
Knowing when it's time to grow,
Life will make its joyful sound."
The words are raw, unpolished. The meter stumbles in places, and the rhymes occasionally feel forced. But there's something alive in them, something that speaks to truth rather than technique. The sentiment behind the verses—hope persisting through hardship, beauty surviving darkness—strikes me as remarkably mature for a ten-year-old girl.
More than that, though, is the way she delivers them. The careful attention to rhythm, the instinctive pause at the end of each line, the way her voice lifts and falls with the natural music of the words. This isn't someone reciting memorized text. This is someone who understands poetry from the inside out, who feels its heartbeat.
My chest tightens painfully. I remember being her age, maybe younger, when words first started arranging themselves in my mind like soldiers finding formation. I remember the compulsion to write them down, to give them form and substance, even when I barely understood what drove me. I remember my brother's scoffing laughter when he caught me with my scattered verses, his pronouncement that words were useless compared to stone, that poets were dreamers who contributed nothing of value to the world.
Yet here sits Rhea, her spirit blazing with the same fire that once consumed me, offering her halting but heartfelt creation with the kind of courage I wish I'd possessed at her age.
"That's beautiful," I tell her, and mean it completely. "You have a real gift, Rhea."
Her face lights up like sunrise, and she clutches the parchment to her chest as if it contains treasure. "Really? You think so?"
Before I can respond, Brynn's voice carries from behind the counter, warm with affection and mock concern.
"I should have known you'd corrupt my daughter into poetry," she says, though I can hear the smile in her tone. "Firstyou encourage her artistic ambitions, now you're teaching her to spin pretty words. What's next—convincing her to run away and join a traveling theater troupe?"
I glance toward her, taking in the way afternoon light catches the warm brown of her skin, how her hazel eyes sparkle with genuine humor rather than the careful wariness that characterized our first meetings. Two weeks of daily interaction have worn away some of her defensive walls, revealing glimpses of the woman beneath the protective armor.
Each day brings small victories—a laugh that reaches her eyes, a moment where she relaxes enough to tease me, an afternoon where we talk about something deeper than weather or business. I've learned to read the subtle signs of her moods, to recognize when she's testing my reactions, when she's deciding whether to trust me with another small piece of herself.
It's intoxicating and frustrating in equal measure. With Syrelle, everything was transaction—I provided status and financial security, she provided social connections and the appearance of a proper family. We understood each other's needs and met them efficiently, without pretense or deeper emotion. I loved Nya from the moment she was born, but my marriage to her mother was built on mutual benefit rather than genuine connection.
This thing growing between Brynn and me feels entirely different. Dangerous. Real in ways that make my chest ache and my sleep restless. I find myself thinking about her laugh when I should be writing, wondering what she looks like first thing in the morning, imagining what it would feel like to have the right to touch her hand without excuse.
But I can see how carefully she guards herself, how she maintains just enough distance to retreat if necessary. I'm going at her pace, letting her set the boundaries, even when every instinct screams at me to push harder, faster. She's worth thepatience. Worth the careful courtship. Worth whatever time it takes to earn her trust completely.
