Page 7 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"Could we show her?" Rhea looks up at me with those expressive eyes that are her father's legacy, the only gift he left her. "Please? We won't go far."
I glance toward Ciaran, still crouched in the snow despite the fact that it must be soaking through his knees. He's watching the exchange with an expression of quiet warmth, and when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us. Not the sharp, consuming attraction I remember from before, but something steadier. More dangerous in its subtlety.
"If Nya feels up to it," I hear myself saying, though part of me wants to grab Rhea's hand and retreat to the safety of our shop.
Nya nods eagerly, though I notice the way she leans slightly against the inn's wooden fence, as if the act of standing requires more energy than she wants to admit.
"Stay where we can see you," Ciaran says, rising to his full height with fluid grace. "And Nya, if you need to rest?—"
"I'll tell you," she finishes, the words carrying the weight of a promise made many times before.
The girls set off toward the garden with Rhea matching her pace to Nya's careful steps, their heads bent together in conversation. I watch them disappear around the corner of the inn and immediately regret allowing it, though I can't articulate why.
"She's good with her." Ciaran's voice is closer than I expected, and I turn to find him standing beside me, near enough that I catch the faint scent of ink and something warmer—winter spices, perhaps, or the lingering trace of wood smoke from the inn's hearth.
"Rhea doesn't have many friends," I admit, then immediately wonder why I'm sharing personal information with a virtual stranger. "She's... different. It makes some people uncomfortable."
He follows my gaze toward where the girls' voices drift back to us, bright with laughter and discovery. "Different how?"
The question is asked without the careful neutrality most people employ when fishing for information about Rhea's parentage. Instead, there's genuine curiosity, as if he's trying to understand rather than judge.
"She sees things others miss," I say finally. "Understands things she shouldn't at her age. And she's..." I gesture vaguely toward where they disappeared. "Half dark elf. Many people don't understand how to handle a child with her heritage." Not ones outside this town.
Ciaran nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Nya's had similar challenges. Being frail in a society that values strength, being quiet in a world that rewards the bold. People can be especially cruel to those who don't fit their expectations."
There's something in his tone—a weariness that speaks of personal experience—that makes me look at him more closely.His clothes are well-made but travel-worn, his hands ink-stained but elegant. Everything about him suggests refinement, education, the kind of background that should insulate someone from the casual cruelties of the world.
"You speak from experience."
A shadow crosses his features, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "In some ways. Though Nya's circumstances are... unique."
Before I can ask what he means, the sound of approaching footsteps draws our attention. The girls emerge from behind the inn, Rhea carrying a small bundle of winter flowers while Nya clutches what appears to be a single perfect snowbell blossom.
"Look what we found!" Rhea announces, holding up her collection. "And Nya showed me how to tell which ones will press best by the way the petals feel."
Nya beams at the praise, though I notice she's breathing more heavily than the short walk should warrant. Ciaran notices too, his attention sharpening as he takes in his daughter's slightly pallid complexion.
"Perhaps we should head inside," he suggests gently. "Get you warmed up before you catch a cold."
"But we were going to find stones for added weight when pressing," Rhea protests, then catches sight of Nya's face and immediately moderates her tone. "But we could do that another time."
The casual way she adjusts to accommodate Nya's needs without making a fuss about it sends another pang through my chest. My daughter has learned empathy through her own experiences of being different, and watching her extend that understanding to someone else is both heartwarming and heartbreaking.
"Why don't you come back to the shop?" The invitation slips out before I can stop it, surprising me as much as anyone. "I havea flower press Rhea could show Nya how to use. And it's warmer there."
Ciaran's eyebrows rise slightly, and I realize how the offer must sound—like I'm actively seeking their company when everything in my demeanor should be suggesting polite distance.
"We wouldn't want to impose," he says, though there's something in his eyes that suggests he wants to accept.
"It's no imposition." The lie comes easily, though I'm not entirely sure it is a lie. "Besides, Rhea will be impossible to live with if she doesn't get to demonstrate proper flower pressing technique."
"Please, Dad?" Nya looks up at him with those striking violet eyes, and I see the exact moment his resolve crumbles.
"Very well," he says, then glances at me with an expression I can't quite read. "But only for a short while."
As we walk back toward the shop, Rhea and Nya chattering about the relative merits of different pressing methods, I find myself falling into step beside Ciaran. He moves with the kind of unconscious confidence that comes from good breeding and education, but there's something more deliberate about the way he positions himself—always within easy reach of his daughter, always aware of her energy levels and limitations.
"You're very protective of her," I observe, keeping my voice low enough that the girls won't overhear.
