Page 15 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
"Poetry chose her," I say simply, turning back to Rhea with a slight smile. "I'm just fortunate enough to witness it."
Rhea beams at the praise, then looks between her mother and me with the kind of calculating expression that suggests wheels turning behind those violet eyes. There's something almost unsettling about how intently she studies my face, as if searching for answers to questions she doesn't know how to ask.
Watching her, I feel that same uncanny pull I've experienced since the first day we met—the sense that she belongs somehow, that she fits into spaces in my life I didn't know existed. It's more than simple affection for a bright child, more than appreciation for her friendship with Nya.
She feels familiar in ways that make no logical sense, like an echo of something I've lost, or perhaps something I never knew I was missing. As though she carries part of my blood, my heritage, my very self in her quick mind and artistic soul.
The thought should be impossible, ridiculous. Yet it persists, growing stronger each day I spend in her presence.
9
BRYNN
Icy rain lashes against the shutters with a persistence that makes my teeth ache in sympathy. The sound is sharp and relentless, like winter's fingernails scratching at the glass, demanding entry. Outside, I can see the cobblestones glistening under their thin coating of ice, treacherous and beautiful in equal measure. The whole world looks like it's been dipped in crystal, though I know how quickly that beauty turns deadly underfoot.
I'm just reaching for the ledger to tally the day's modest earnings when the shop door swings open, bringing with it a gust of frigid air that sets the evergreen garlands rustling. Ciaran slips inside first, his dark cloak beaded with moisture, followed closely by Nya who clutches something wrapped in oiled cloth against her chest like it contains precious treasure.
"Mum!" Rhea's voice carries down from somewhere upstairs, followed by the thunder of feet on wooden stairs. She appears at the bottom, ink smudges on her fingers and her hair escaping its braid in wild corkscrews. "I heard the door!"
"Nya!" she squeals, launching herself toward her friend with the kind of enthusiasm that usually results in someone ending up on the floor.
Nya's face transforms from the pinched, cold expression she wore moments ago into pure sunshine. "Rhea! We brought something special!" She holds up her bundle with reverence. "Traditional Ikuyenda herbs. Dad said we could make the drink for you and your mom, so you can taste what we taste during the festival."
The girls disappear up the stairs in a flurry of excitement, their voices already blending into that particular pitch of childhood conspiracy that usually means trouble. I should probably follow them, make sure they don't decide to experiment with anything dangerous, but instead I find myself frozen beside the counter, acutely aware that Ciaran and I are suddenly alone in the shop's golden lamplight.
He stands just inside the door, drops of moisture still clinging to his dark hair where it's come loose from its usual tie. The dampness makes it curl slightly at the ends, softening the sharp angles of his face. His violet eyes hold that gentle expression I've come to recognize—the one that appears whenever he's thinking about doing something kind without being asked.
"In Kyrdonis, the festivities will have already started," he says, almost hesitant. "They like to celebrate with special dinners leading up to the parties that go on for weeks. It's so unlike the warmth we've seen here." He gestures toward the window where the icy rain continues its assault. "Where it's more about warm drinks and beautiful handmade decorations."
I know I should say something neutral, something that maintains the careful distance I've worked so hard to preserve. Instead, I hear myself asking, "What do you mean?"
He considers this, absently pushing his damp hair back from his face. "In the city, Ikuyenda becomes performance. Who can throw the most lavish party, whose decorations cost the most, which family can demonstrate their wealth most effectively." His mouth tightens slightly. "My late wife thrived on that kind of competition. Every year, she'd plan more elaborate displays, invite more important guests, serve more exotic delicacies. By the end, I could barely recognize the quiet reflection the festival was meant to inspire."
Something in his tone—resignation mixed with old pain—makes my chest ache. I've spent weeks watching him with Nya, seeing how he notices every small need, every moment of fatigue, every spark of joy that crosses her face. The idea of him trapped in some kind of social performance, forced to watch his daughter endure events that drained rather than nourished her, sits wrong in my stomach.
"But tonight," he continues, glancing toward the stairs where the girls' laughter echoes, "sharing something simple with people who matter—that feels like what the festival was always supposed to be."
The words hit me like a physical blow, mostly because they echo thoughts I've been trying to suppress for days. The way these quiet evenings with him and Nya have started to feel necessary rather than simply pleasant. The way Rhea blooms in Nya's presence, and how Nya seems to gain strength from my daughter's endless energy. The way Ciaran looks at me sometimes, like I'm something precious he's afraid to touch too quickly.
I realize I'm staring at him, probably longer than polite, when he clears his throat gently.
"I should let you close up," he says, though he doesn't move toward the door. "I know it's been a long day."
Here's my moment. The perfect opportunity to send him back to the inn, to maintain the boundaries I've carefully constructed, to protect myself from the growing warmth in my chest whenever he's near. The smart choice. The safe choice.
Instead, I find myself reaching for the shop key with hands that barely tremble.
"Stay," I say, not quite meeting his eyes as I turn the lock. "Come upstairs. It's too cold and wet for you to walk back to the inn tonight."
The silence stretches just long enough for me to wonder if I've made a terrible mistake. Then I hear his quiet intake of breath, the soft sound of his boots on the wooden floor as he steps closer.
"Are you certain?"
I turn to face him, and something in his expression—hope mixed with careful restraint—steadies my resolve. "I'm certain."
The apartment feels smaller with him in it, though not uncomfortably so. More like it's finally being used as intended, filled with the right number of voices and footsteps and quiet breathing. The hearth glows low, casting dancing shadows across the worn but comfortable furniture that Rhea and I have made our own over the years.
I busy myself setting out bowls and spoons, ladling stew from the pot that's been simmering all day, slicing thick pieces of the bread Eda brought by this morning. Simple food, nothing fancy, but it fills the small space with warmth and the promise of satisfaction. When I glance up, I find Ciaran watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
