Page 2 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
The shop's door bears a painted sign: "Corven's Fine Papers and Supplies." Below it, in smaller letters: "Books, Writing Materials, Binding Services." Promising. I push inside, the brass bell above the door announcing our arrival with a cheerful chime.
The interior smells of ink and parchment, with undertones of leather and something faintly floral—perhaps dried rirzed blossoms tucked among the merchandise. Shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with everything a scribe could desire. Bottles of ink in varying shades, from practical black to exotic purples and golds. Quills bundled by the dozen, some from common fowl, others bearing the distinctive markings of more exotic birds. Leather-bound ledgers and journals stacked with mathematical precision.
It's the kind of shop that speaks to order and careful attention to detail—qualities I appreciate in a place of business. Behind the counter, shelves display bound books, their spines bearing titles I recognize from the literary circles of Kyrdonis. Not a complete collection, but respectable for a town this size.
"Can you stand?" I ask Nya quietly, and she nods, letting me set her feet on the wooden floor.
Nya steps away from me and wanders toward a display of bound journals, her fingers trailing over the leather covers with something approaching fascination. It's the most animated I've seen her since we left the city, and I find myself watching her instead of the shopkeeper's careful inventory.
That's when I hear it—rapid footsteps on wooden stairs, followed by a voice calling out from somewhere above.
"Mum, have you seen my—oh!"
A girl appears at the bottom of a narrow staircase I hadn't noticed before, moving with the kind of boundless energy that Nya once possessed. She's perhaps ten years old, with wild dark curls escaping from what might have been an attempt at braiding and striking violet eyes that mark her as half dark elf despite her warmer skin tone.
She stops short when she sees us, taking in our travel-stained clothes and foreign features with undisguised curiosity. Then her gaze falls on Nya, who has turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.
For a moment, the two girls simply stare at each other. Nya, pale and delicate in her dark traveling cloak, clutching the edge of a display case for support. The other child—the shopkeeper's daughter, presumably—vibrant with health and energy, ink stains on her fingers and a smudge of something that might be charcoal on her cheek.
"Your eyes," the human girl says suddenly, her voice filled with wonder rather than rudeness. "They're the same color as mine."
Nya blinks, clearly startled by the observation. Her own violet eyes—inherited from me, thank whatever gods watch over us—widen as she takes in the other child's face.
"They are," she whispers, and there's something like amazement in her voice.
The shopkeeper's daughter grins, revealing a gap where one tooth is missing. "I'm Rhea. Are you staying for Ikuyenda? Mum says it won't be as grand as in the big cities, but we're going to have music in the square, and Eda's making special cakes, and?—"
She stops abruptly, seeming to notice Nya's pallor and the way she leans against the display case. Without missing a beat, she moves closer, but slowly, the way one might approach a startled creature.
"You look tired," Rhea says, her voice gentling. "Do you want to sit down? There's a chair behind the counter, and Mum always keeps tea brewing."
Before Nya can respond, Rhea has darted past me to the back of the shop, returning with a wooden stool that she sets carefully near the display case. She doesn't touch Nya or try to guide her—just offers the option and steps back, waiting.
My daughter looks up at me, uncertainty flickering across her features. I nod slightly, and she sinks onto the stool with visible relief.
"Better?" Rhea asks, and when Nya nods, she settles cross-legged on the floor beside her, apparently unconcerned about the propriety of sitting on shop floors in front of customers.
"Are you from Kyrdonis?" she continues, her curiosity irrepressible. "I can tell from your accent. And your cloak—that's city weaving, isn't it? Mum taught me to recognize different cloth weights."
Nya glances at me again, then back at Rhea. "Yes. We came from the city."
"For the winter?"
"I think so." Nya's voice is barely above a whisper, but there's something in her posture—a slight leaning forward, as if drawn by Rhea's easy chatter—that I haven't seen in months.
"That's brilliant," Rhea declares. "I've never met anyone from Kyrdonis before. Well, except for traders, but they don't count because they never stay long enough to talk properly. Do you like stories? I love stories. Mum has books upstairs, and sometimes I write my own, though they're probably terrible."
She pauses for breath, then seems to register something in Nya's expression. "Oh, but you're tired from traveling. I'm being too loud, aren't I? Mum always says I chatter like a capucho when I'm excited."
To my surprise, Nya shakes her head. "No, it's... nice. I like hearing about the town."
They fall into easier conversation then, Rhea describing Eryndral's modest preparations for Ikuyenda while Nya listens with growing interest. I find myself staying silent, not wanting to interrupt this tentative connection.
When Rhea mentions helping her mother organize the shop's inventory, Nya's eyes brighten slightly. "My father writes books," she offers, the first time she's volunteered information about our lives to a stranger in longer than I can remember.
"Really?" Rhea's eyes go wide. "What kind of books? Are they in Mum's shop? Do you help him write them?"
Before I can intervene, Nya actually smiles—a small, uncertain thing, but genuine. "Sometimes I help organize his papers. And I read the stories when he's finished with them."
