Page 17 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
This is what I've been afraid of. Not just that I might fall for another dark elf who could disappear without warning, but that I might fall for someone who fits so perfectly into our lives that losing him would break not just my heart, but Rhea's as well.
But watching him guide my daughter through this simple ritual, seeing how naturally he includes her in traditions that stretch back generations, I realize I may already be lost. The warmth in my chest when he praises her curiosity, the way my breath catches when he smiles at something she says, the fierce protectiveness I feel when I imagine anyone hurting him—these aren't the reactions of someone maintaining careful emotional distance.
These are the reactions of someone already falling, and falling hard.
10
CIARAN
Rhea has grown addicted to steeped tea that I taught them to make days ago. I picked up some more herbs this morning to satisfy her insatiable need for it.
The warm milk steams gently in the pot, filling the small kitchen with the sweet, floral scent of the Ikuyenda herbs. I watch Rhea carefully stir the mixture under Nya's guidance, both girls bent over the pot with the kind of intense concentration usually reserved for the most important tasks in the world.
"It smells like the festivals in Kyrdonis," Nya says softly, her voice carrying that note of wistful remembrance I recognize too well. "But warmer somehow."
Rhea grins at her, honey still sticky on her fingers. "That's because we're making it with people who actually want to be here."
The simple wisdom in her words hits me square in the chest. This child sees straight through to the heart of things with a clarity that would humble most adults. I catch Brynn's eye over their heads, and the small smile playing at the corner of her mouth tells me she's thinking the same thing.
"Can we go show Eda?" Rhea asks suddenly, straightening up from the pot. "She lets me help bake sometimes, and I bet she'd love to taste this. Plus, I want to show Nya how she makes those little bread rolls shaped like animals."
Nya's eyes light up with interest, but I feel my chest tighten automatically. The instinct to keep her close, to monitor every breath and movement, has become so ingrained over the past two years that the thought of letting her out of my sight sends anxiety crawling up my spine.
"I don't know," I start, but Brynn is already reaching for her cloak.
"Eda would love that," she says, shooting me a look that somehow manages to be both understanding and gently challenging. "She's been helping with Rhea since she could walk. She's wonderful with children."
"Please, Dad?" Nya asks, and there's something in her voice—not the careful politeness she uses when she's trying not to be a burden, but genuine excitement. "I've never helped bake before."
The admission stings more than it should. In Kyrdonis, Syrelle's idea of domestic activities involved directing the servants to prepare elaborate displays, not actually teaching Nya practical skills. And I've been so focused on managing her health, on making sure she doesn't overexert herself, that I've overlooked simple pleasures like learning to knead dough or shape bread.
"Of course," I hear myself saying, though my hands are already reaching for my cloak with the automatic motion of someone who never goes anywhere without his daughter. "Let me just?—"
"Ciaran." Brynn's voice is gentle but firm. "Eda's bakery is three doors down. She's raised half the children in this village. They'll be safe."
I pause, one arm halfway into my cloak sleeve, and really look at her. There's no judgment in her expression, just patient understanding. She knows what it's like to be solely responsible for a child's wellbeing, to carry that weight alone. But she also knows when to trust others, when to let go just enough to allow space for growth.
"You could stay if you want," Nya says quietly, but I can hear the disappointment she's trying to hide. "If you think I might get too tired or?—"
"No," I say quickly, shrugging out of the cloak. "You're right. You should go help Eda. Just... promise me you'll tell her if you need to rest?"
Nya nods solemnly, but the spark in her violet eyes tells me this is exactly what she wanted. To be treated like any other child, allowed to explore and learn without constant supervision.
The walk to Eda's bakery is brief but illuminating. Brynn navigates the icy cobblestones with practiced ease, one hand on Rhea's shoulder while chatting easily with Nya about the different types of bread Eda makes. I find myself studying the way she moves through this space—confident, at home, but always alert to the needs of those around her.
Eda herself is exactly what I expected from Brynn's description: a pleasantly round woman with flour permanently dusted across her apron and the kind of smile that makes children instantly feel welcome. Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she sees us approaching, and she opens the bakery door before we can even knock.
"Brynn, love! And this must be the famous Nya I've been hearing so much about." She beams at my daughter with genuine warmth. "Rhea's told me all about your friendship. I was hoping you'd come by soon."
"This is Ciaran," Brynn says, gesturing toward me. "Nya's father."
Eda's handshake is firm, her gaze direct but kind. "The poet, yes? Welcome to Eryndral. We're glad to have you both."
The simple acceptance in her voice catches me off-guard. No questions about how long we're staying, no probing about our background or circumstances. Just welcome, offered as easily as breathing.
"The girls wanted to show you something they made," Brynn continues, and Rhea immediately launches into an enthusiastic description of the Ikuyenda drink while Nya adds quiet corrections about the proper herb proportions.
"How wonderful!" Eda exclaims, clapping her flour-dusted hands together. "And perfect timing—I was just about to start the evening bread. Would you girls like to help? I could teach you how to make those little animal shapes Rhea loves so much."
