Page 12 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
Brynn's laugh is soft and genuine, and when she smiles, really smiles, it transforms her entire face. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and the careful control she maintains over her expression gives way to something unguarded and beautiful. I find myself watching her mouth, the way her lips curve upward with such natural grace that I am captivated
"They've found kindred spirits in each other," she observes, and there's something almost wondering in her voice as she watches our daughters examine ribbons with the serious concentration of art critics.
"Nya hasn't had many friends," I admit, surprised by my own willingness to share something so personal. "The social expectations in Kyrdonis... they don't leave much room for simple childhood companionship."
She glances at me sharply, and I see recognition flicker across her features. "Rhea's had the same challenge, though for different reasons. Being half dark elf in a predominantly human town..." She trails off, shaking her head. "Not everyone has been unkind, but not everyone has been accepting either."
The confession hangs between us, another small offering of trust, and I find myself studying her profile as she watches our daughters with protective intensity. Here's someone who understands the particular challenges of raising a child who doesn't quite fit the expected mold, someone who's fought to create space for her daughter to simply exist without explanation or apology.
"They're lucky to have found each other," I say quietly, and when she turns to look at me, there's something open and vulnerable in her expression that makes my breath catch.
"Yes," she agrees, her voice barely audible above the market noise. "They are."
The moment stretches between us, filled with understanding and possibility, and I realize that whatever walls she's built around herself, she's allowing me past them, inch by careful inch. It's not much—just shared recognition of the challenges we both face, the common ground of parenthood and protection—but it feels like the beginning of something important.
7
BRYNN
The snow falls heavier these days, transforming Eryndral into something from one of Rhea's fairy tale books. Fat flakes drift past the shop windows like wayward stars, and frost paints delicate patterns across the glass that catch the lamplight each morning. The cold seeps through the walls despite the hearth's steady warmth, and I find myself brewing extra pots of kaffo just to keep my hands from going numb as I work.
Rhea presses her nose to the window for the third time this morning, her breath fogging the glass as she peers down the street toward the inn. "Do you think they're awake yet?"
"It's barely past dawn," I remind her, not looking up from the ledger where I'm tallying yesterday's sales. "Give them time to have breakfast, at least."
But even as I say it, I know it's useless. For the past week, since market day, my daughter has been a barely contained force of anticipation from the moment she opens her eyes. Every morning brings the same ritual—rushed breakfast, hurried dressing, and increasingly creative excuses to venture out into the square where she might "accidentally" encounter Nya and her father.
"Can I put up the winter garlands today?" she asks, abandoning the window to bounce on her toes beside my desk. "Please? The shop looks so plain compared to everyone else's decorations."
I glance around our modest space, taking in the bare walls and utilitarian shelves. She's right—while the rest of Eryndral has begun transforming for Ikuyenda with ribbons and evergreen boughs, our shop remains stubbornly practical. It's not that I don't enjoy the festival preparations, but decorating has always felt like... indulgence. Something for families with more time and fewer worries about next month's rent.
"After the morning customers," I concede, and her squeal of delight makes me smile despite myself. "But nothing too elaborate. We still need to be able to conduct business."
She nods eagerly, already mentally arranging whatever vision she's concocted for our festive transformation. At ten, Rhea approaches everything with an artist's eye for beauty and possibility—a trait that both delights and terrifies me, depending on the day. Right now, watching her plan our decorations with such earnest enthusiasm, it mostly just makes my chest ache with affection.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up expecting Old Berren or perhaps Ralric with an order for grain tallies. Instead, Ciaran steps through, shaking snow from his dark cloak, with Nya tucked close beside him like a small shadow.
"Rhea!" Nya's face lights up the moment she spots my daughter, and the two girls rush toward each other as if they haven't seen each other in weeks rather than since yesterday evening.
"We brought warm cider," Ciaran says, lifting a steaming earthenware jug. "The inn's cook made too much for breakfast, and Nya insisted it would be wrong to let it go to waste."
The practical part of me knows I should politely decline, maintain the professional distance I've been carefully constructing. The maternal part of me sees how Rhea's eyes widen at the promise of spiced cider on a cold morning and crumbles immediately.
"That's... thoughtful," I manage, clearing space on the counter. "Though you didn't need to?—"
"We wanted to," Nya interrupts with quiet certainty, and something about the way she says it—like wanting to share something good is the most natural thing in the world—makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
Ciaran pours the cider into mugs I retrieve from our small kitchen, and the scent of cinnamon and winter spices fills the shop with warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. I watch him work, noting the careful way he handles the pottery, the economical grace in his movements. His hands are elegant despite their ink stains—long fingers that speak of countless hours holding quills, writing words I'll probably never read.
"Can we go look for winter flowers?" Rhea asks, bouncing between her cider and the window where snow continues its lazy dance. "I saw some bluefrost blooming near the old mill yesterday, and I want to show Nya how to press them properly."
"In this weather?" I gesture toward the window where the snow falls steadily. "You'll catch your death."
"Actually," Ciaran says quietly, "that shouldn't be a problem."
He moves closer to the girls, and I watch in fascination as he tugs a glove free of one hand and raises it. The air around them seems to shimmer slightly, like heat waves rising from summer stone, and both girls straighten with obvious relief.
"Oh!" Rhea's eyes go wide with wonder. "It's like being wrapped in sunlight."
