Page 32 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
The night air hits my face like a slap when I step outside, sharp and clean and full of the promise of more snow. But I pull my cloak tighter and make my way through the quiet streets toward the inn, my boots crunching softly on the thin layer of powder that's accumulated since this afternoon.
I find him exactly where I expected to—sitting on the wooden bench outside the inn's main entrance, hunched over his notebook with a lamp balanced precariously on the armrest beside him. His magic shimmers around him like a heat haze, keeping the falling snow from settling on his dark hair and protecting him from the worst of the cold.
He looks up at the sound of my footsteps, and a smile curves his mouth—surprised but genuinely pleased, like I've given him an unexpected gift.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, closing the notebook and setting it aside.
"Couldn't stop thinking," I admit, settling beside him on the bench. The warmth of his magic extends to include me immediately, wrapping around my shoulders like an invisible blanket. "Thought you might be having the same problem."
"You thought right." He glances at the basket in my lap with raised eyebrows. "What's all this?"
"Bread. Cheese. Wine." I start unpacking items onto the space between us. "I figured if we're both going to be awake anyway, we might as well make the most of it."
His expression softens as he takes in the impromptu feast, and I catch something that looks almost like relief in his violeteyes. Like he's been hoping for exactly this kind of distraction but hasn't known how to ask for it.
"This is perfect," he says quietly, accepting the wine bottle when I offer it. "Thank you."
We eat in comfortable silence at first, passing the bottle back and forth and watching the snow fall in lazy spirals through the lamplight. The bread is still soft from yesterday's baking, the cheese sharp enough to make my mouth water, and the wine warms me from the inside out in a way that has nothing to do with Ciaran's magic.
"Tell me about your childhood," I say after a while, surprising myself with the request. "Before all the complications. What made you happy when you were young?"
He considers this, tearing off another piece of bread and chewing thoughtfully. "Books," he says finally. "I was one of those children who disappeared into stories and forgot the world existed. My mother used to find me curled up in the strangest places with a book—under the kitchen table, in the barn loft, once in a tree so high she had to coax me down with promises of dinner."
I can picture it easily—a young Ciaran with ink-stained fingers and wild hair, so absorbed in whatever tale had captured his imagination that he forgot about everything else. The image makes me smile.
"What about you?" he asks. "What did little Brynn dream about?"
"Adventure," I admit, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "Which probably sounds ridiculous coming from someone who's spent her entire adult life in the same small town, but I used to dream about traveling to distant cities, seeing strange sights, having grand adventures like the heroes in the stories traders would tell."
"That doesn't sound ridiculous at all. What changed?"
The question hits deeper than I expected, and I find myself thinking about the girl I used to be—wild-haired and fearless, convinced the world was full of wonders waiting to be discovered. Before raiders destroyed my village, before I learned that the world could be cruel and unpredictable, before I understood that sometimes the safest thing you can do is find a place that feels like home and protect it fiercely.
"Life," I say simply. "Reality. The understanding that adventure usually means danger, and I had too much to lose to go chasing after maybes."
Something passes across his face—understanding, maybe, or recognition of the kind of hard-won wisdom that only comes from surviving disappointment.
"Do you ever regret it?" he asks gently. "Choosing safety over adventure?"
I think about it seriously, rolling the question around in my mind like a smooth stone. "No," I say finally. "Because I got something better than adventure. I got Rhea. I got a home, a community, a life that matters. Sometimes the best stories are the quiet ones."
"The ones where people choose each other," he agrees, and there's something in his voice that makes me look at him more closely. He's watching me with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable, but instead it makes my pulse quicken.
"What about rain?" I ask, searching for safer ground. "You mentioned once that rain sounds different in different cities."
His face lights up at the change of subject, and he launches into descriptions of summer storms in Kyrdonis that sound like drumbeats on slate roofs, of gentle morning drizzles in coastal towns that whisper against glass windows, of the fierce downpours in mountain settlements that turn streets into temporary rivers.
I find myself hanging on every word, not just because his descriptions are beautiful—though they are—but because of the way his whole body comes alive when he talks about the things he's passionate about. His hands move as he speaks, painting pictures in the air, and his violet eyes brighten with enthusiasm that's infectious.
The conversation flows easily after that, meandering through comfortable topics like the way Rhea hums when she's concentrating, or Nya's habit of collecting interesting stones, or the particular quality of light on winter mornings that makes everything look like it's been touched by magic.
"She gets that from you," Ciaran says when I mention Rhea's artistic eye. "The way she sees beauty in ordinary things, the way she can make something wonderful out of whatever materials she has on hand."
"You think I'm artistic?" The question slips out before I can stop it, carrying more vulnerability than I intended.
"I think you're many things," he says quietly, and there's something in his voice that makes my breath catch. "Creative. Resourceful. Strong enough to build something beautiful out of nothing but determination and love."
The air between us has changed somehow, grown thicker and more charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. I'm suddenly hyperaware of everything—the way the lamplight plays across his sharp features, the warmth of his magic wrapping around us both, the way his eyes seem to hold entire conversations I'm not sure I'm ready to hear.
