Page 8 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"She's all I have." The words are simple, but they carry a weight that suggests a story I probably don't want to hear. "And she's... fragile in ways that aren't always obvious."
There's pain in his voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Whatever circumstances brought them to Eryndral, whatever drove them from their previous life, it wasn't by choice.
"Children are more resilient than we think," I tell him, though I'm not sure if I'm trying to comfort him or convince myself. "Rhea's taught me that."
He glances at me sideways, and for a moment I'm struck by how the winter light brings out the silver flecks in his eyes. "You raise her alone."
It's not quite a question, but I nod anyway. "Her father..." I let the sentence trail off, realizing I don't want to explain about the sculptor who charmed me with promises and passion before disappearing like morning mist. "He wasn't interested in staying."
"His loss," Ciaran says simply, and there's something in his tone that makes heat bloom in my chest despite the cold air.
I tell myself it's just sympathy, one single parent recognizing another's struggles. But the way he looks at me when he says it—direct, unflinching, with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken—suggests something more complicated.
We reach the shop just as the first fat snowflakes begin to fall again, and I fumble with the key while trying to ignore the way Ciaran's presence seems to fill the space behind me. He's standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and when I finally get the door open and turn to usher everyone inside, our eyes meet for a moment that stretches longer than it should.
"After you," he says, his voice carrying a formality that doesn't quite mask whatever current is running between us.
I step inside quickly, grateful for the familiar scent of parchment and ink that grounds me in my own space. But even as I busy myself with lighting the lamps and stirring the banked coals in the hearth, I'm acutely aware of Ciaran moving through my shop, taking in the carefully organized shelves and the small personal touches that make this place mine.
"This is lovely work," he says, pausing beside a display of hand-illuminated manuscripts. His fingers hover just above the gold leaf detailing, careful not to touch. "Local artisans?"
"Some. Others are pieces I've collected over the years." I don't mention that several of them were created during my brief, foolish foray into believing I could have a life that included beauty and impracticality. "I've always had a weakness for illuminated texts."
"Beauty in the marriage of word and image," he says, still studying the manuscripts. "It's the kind of art that feeds the soul even when it serves no practical purpose."
I pause as he says it, the words so familiar that for a moment I can't breathe.The kind of art that feeds the soul.I've heard those exact words before, spoken in the same cultured tones by another dark elf who filled my head with dreams and left me holding the pieces of a shattered heart.
But when I look at Ciaran, he's already moved on to examine a collection of pressed flowers Rhea created last summer, his attention focused entirely on our daughters as they spread their winter treasures across the counter. If he notices my reaction, he gives no sign.
I shake my head sharply, forcing the memory back into the locked box where it belongs. Different words, different person. Just because he's a dark elf with artistic sensibilities doesn't mean... anything.
But even as I tell myself this, I can't shake the feeling that I'm standing on the edge of something that could change everything.
5
CIARAN
The morning sun catches the frost on our window, transforming it into crystalline artwork that reminds me why I fell in love with words in the first place—beauty in the smallest details, poetry in the mundane. Nya stirs beside me in the narrow inn bed, and I'm struck by how much color has returned to her cheeks after just two nights of proper rest.
"Dad?" Her voice carries none of yesterday's exhaustion, and when she sits up, there's an alertness in her violet eyes that I haven't seen in months. "Can we go see Rhea today?"
"Of course." I push myself up on one elbow, studying her face for any signs of the fragility that usually shadows her features. Nothing. Just the bright-eyed eagerness of a child who's found something—someone—that brings her joy. "Are you feeling well enough for a walk?"
She nods enthusiastically, already scrambling out of bed with more energy than she's shown since we left Kyrdonis. "I picked some more winter flowers yesterday when you were talking to the innkeeper. The ones with the silver edges that Rhea said were rare. I want to bring them to her."
The bundle of carefully gathered blossoms sits on the small table by the window, wrapped in one of my spare handkerchiefs. I'd watched her collect them with the kind of focused intensity she usually reserves for her books, taking care to choose only the most perfect specimens. It strikes me now that this is the first time in years I've seen her genuinely excited about sharing something with another child.
We dress quickly—Nya insisting on wearing her best wool dress despite my practical suggestions about warmer clothing—and step out into the crisp morning air. The town is already stirring to life around us, shopkeepers opening their doors, the distant sound of hammering from the blacksmith's forge. It's a gentle rhythm, so different from the constant noise and motion of Kyrdonis that I feel some tension I didn't know I was carrying begin to ease from my shoulders.
"Dad," Nya says as we walk, her mittened hand tucked securely in mine, "how long are we staying here?"
The question I've been avoiding surfaces with uncomfortable directness. I study her profile—the sharp cheekbones she inherited from me, the determined set of her jaw that's all her own—and realize that whatever answer I give will change the course of both our lives.
"Would you like to stay longer?" I ask instead, deflecting while I gather my thoughts.
"Yes." No hesitation, no doubt. Just the simple certainty of a child who knows her own mind. "I like it here. It's quiet, and people don't stare at me, and Rhea understands things."
Rhea understands things.The phrase hits me with unexpected force. In all our years in Kyrdonis, surrounded by the supposed sophistication of high society, my daughter has never found someone who simply understands her. Yet here, in this small trade town I'd never heard of a week ago, she'sdiscovered kinship with a half-dark elf girl whose mother makes my pulse quicken in ways I'd forgotten were possible.
