Page 11 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"I sold him," I say simply, crouching down to her level. "We won't be needing him anymore."
She processes this for a moment, her small face serious as she works through the implications. "Because we're staying?"
"Because we're staying. At least for a bit." The words feel solid, final, right in a way that surprises me with its intensity. After the winter season, I’ll decide if we should keep going or not, but for now, I feel comfortable keeping Nya here.
Her smile could power every lamp in Eryndral, and she throws her arms around my neck with such enthusiasm that I nearly lose my balance. "Really? We're really staying?"
"Really." I hold her close, breathing in the scent of winter air and the faint sweetness of the rirzed oil Rhea helped her braid into her hair yesterday. “I told you we would.”
“I know. I just thought…” She trails off like she doesn’t know how to say the words I can already hear. That she worried I might change my mind.
"Ciaran? Nya?" Brynn's voice cuts through the market noise, and I look up to see her approaching with Rhea at her side, both of them carrying baskets laden with what appear to be baking supplies. Brynn's cheeks are flushed from the cold, and her dark hair has escaped its braid in small tendrils that frame her face. She looks younger somehow, less guarded, and the sight of her makes something warm rush through me.
"Rhea!"
"Nya!" Both girls abandon us with the single-minded focus children reserve for their closest friends, immediately falling into animated conversation about the market stalls and the approaching festival.
"Preparing for Ikuyenda?" I ask, noting the quality ingredients in Brynn's basket—real spices, fresh cream, the kind of supplies that suggest serious cooking ahead.
"Every year," she confirms, though there's something almost defensive in her tone. "Nothing fancy, just... traditions."
I want to ask about those traditions, to understand what Ikuyenda means to her and this town, but something in her expression warns me away from pressing too hard. Instead, I watch as she adjusts her basket, noting the careful way she's selected each item, the practical efficiency that seems to govern all her movements.
"The merchant mentioned it's quite different here than in the cities," I venture.
"I wouldn't know about city celebrations." She echoes the merchant's words almost exactly, but where the older woman's tone had been simply matter-of-fact, Brynn's carries an edge that suggests deliberate ignorance rather than mere lack of experience.
Rhea looks up from her whispered conversation with Nya, her violet eyes bright with excitement. "Mum always makes the best honey cakes for Ikuyenda, and Mrs. Eda lets me help with the bread, and there's music in the square every night, and?—"
"Rhea." Brynn's gentle interruption carries fond exasperation. "I'm sure Ciaran doesn't need a complete inventory of our simple festivities."
But I do want to hear about them, want to understand what makes this celebration different from the elaborate displays of wealth and status I've grown to despise in Kyrdonis. The way Rhea's face lights up when she speaks of honey cakes andshared bread suggests something I've been searching for without quite knowing it—community built on affection rather than obligation, celebration rooted in joy rather than competition.
"Actually," I say carefully, "it sounds wonderful. Nya and I have grown tired of..." I pause, choosing my words with deliberate care, "elaborate entertainments."
Something flickers across Brynn's face—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. She studies my expression as if searching for deception, and I find myself hoping she sees only honesty there. The silence stretches between us, filled with the sounds of the market around us but charged with something I can't quite name.
"Most people find small-town celebrations rather... provincial," she says finally, and there's something carefully neutral in her voice that makes me think someone once used that exact word to describe Eryndral's traditions.
"Most people are fools." The vehemence in my own voice surprises me, and I see her eyebrows rise in response. "I've attended elaborate festivals that cost more than some families see in a year, watched people compete to see who could display the most wealth or status. Give me honey cakes and genuine laughter over that nonsense any day."
She's quiet for a long moment, her hazel-green eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes me feel exposed. Whatever she sees there seems to satisfy some internal test, because her shoulders relax slightly and something that might be approval flickers across her features.
"Well," she says, and there's the faintest hint of warmth creeping back into her voice, "if you're both staying through winter, you'll get to experience our 'provincial' celebration firsthand."
The way she says it—with quotation marks practically audible around the word provincial—tells me exactly who onceused that term and in what context. Another piece of the puzzle that is Brynn Corven's past clicks into place, and I feel my jaw tighten at the thought of someone dismissing this town's traditions as beneath their notice.
"I'm looking forward to it," I say, and mean it completely.
Rhea tugs at her mother's sleeve, her basket forgotten as she points toward a stall selling ribbons and small ornaments. "Mum, can we show Nya and Mr. Ciaran the decoration stall? They have the prettiest silver bells this year."
"And winter flowers," Nya adds eagerly, still wearing the crystal pendant like a badge of honor. "Rhea knows all about pressing them. She has so much to show me." Their adventure with the flower press has only taken them to a new level.
I watch as the two girls begin pulling their respective parents toward the indicated stall, their enthusiasm infectious despite the practical considerations of market shopping. But what strikes me most is the way Brynn's expression softens when she looks at her daughter, the careful guardedness giving way to something warmer and more open.
"She's obsessed with flower pressing lately," Brynn says, her voice carrying the fond exasperation of a parent whose child has discovered a new passion. "I can barely open a book without finding petals between the pages."
"Nya does the same thing," I admit, and something eases between us at this shared understanding. "I've given up trying to keep my notebooks clear. Yesterday I found an entire winter blossom pressed between pages of poetry I was working on."
