Page 18 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
Both girls nod eagerly, already moving toward the warm interior of the bakery where the scent of yeast and honey mingles with woodsmoke from the ovens.
"I could watch them for a bit," Eda continues, her eyes twinkling as she looks between Brynn and me. "Give you two a chance to take a proper walk without little ones underfoot. The river path is lovely in the snow, and it's not far if you want to stay close."
I open my mouth to protest—leaving Nya feels like stepping out of my own skin—but Brynn's hand touches my arm lightly.
"We won't go far," she says quietly. "And Eda raised three children of her own. She'll know if Nya needs anything."
There's something in her tone that makes me really listen. Not just to the words, but to what she's offering. Trust. The chance to step away from constant vigilance, even briefly. The opportunity to exist as just myself, not solely as Nya's father and protector.
"All right," I say, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears. "But if she gets tired?—"
"I'll send Rhea to fetch you immediately," Eda promises, already ushering the girls toward a worktable covered in bowls and measuring spoons. "Now go on, both of you. Enjoy the quiet while you can."
The snow has started falling in earnest by the time we step outside, fat flakes that catch the light from the bakery windows and transform the familiar street into something magical, especially with the sun trying to shine through the clouds. Brynn pulls her hood up against the cold, but strands of dark hair still escape to frame her face in soft curves.
"The river's this way," she says, nodding toward a narrow path that winds between houses toward the sound of running water.
I follow her lead, my boots crunching softly in the fresh snow. The anxiety of leaving Nya doesn't disappear, but it settles into something manageable—a low hum of awareness rather than the sharp spike of panic I expected. Perhaps it's the knowledge that we're truly not far away, or maybe it's the growing trust I have in this village and the people who've welcomed us so completely.
The path opens onto a small riverbank where snow-laden branches hang low over dark water that hasn't yet frozen. It's beautiful in that stark way winter landscapes can be—all clean lines and gentle curves, the world reduced to its essential elements.
I glance at Brynn, noting the way her cheeks are already pink from the cold, how she's pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders. Without really thinking about it, I reach for the warmth that always sits just beneath my skin and extend it outward, creating a gentle bubble of heated air around us both.
She looks up at me in surprise as the snow begins to melt before it can land on her shoulders. "You've done this for the girls before."
"It's a simple magic," I say, somewhat embarrassed by how quickly she noticed. "Practical rather than impressive. Useful for keeping children comfortable outdoors."
"It's wonderful," she says softly, loosening her cloak as the warmth settles around us. "I've seen dark elves use magic for grand displays, flashy demonstrations of power. This is... thoughtful."
The comparison stings slightly, though I know she doesn't mean it to. "Most of my caste prefers magic that draws attention, yes. Creates spectacle. But when you have a child who gets cold easily, who needs comfort more than entertainment..." I shrug. "Practical magic becomes more valuable than any grand gesture."
She nods, understanding flickering in her hazel-green eyes. We begin walking along the riverbank, our footsteps muffled by the snow, the warm bubble moving with us like our own private sanctuary.
"How do you like Eryndral?" she asks after a moment, her voice carefully casual.
"It's..." I pause, searching for words that capture the unexpected peace I've found here. "Restful. In Kyrdonis, every interaction carries weight—political implications, social positioning, potential advancement or failure. Here, people simply are who they are."
"It took me time to adjust to that too," she admits. "I came here when I was barely seventeen, and I'd never experienced a place where kindness didn't come with conditions attached."
Something in her tone catches my attention. The careful way she phrases it, the slight tension in her shoulders. "You weren't born here?"
"No." She's quiet for a long moment, watching the dark water flow beneath its delicate border of ice. "The village where I grew up was raided when I was sixteen. Bandits, looking for anythingvaluable enough to steal. My parents..." She stops, shakes her head. "I don't remember them, actually. They died when I was very young, and the village raised me. When the raiders came, some of the survivors decided to try their luck elsewhere. I ended up here."
The matter-of-fact way she delivers this information doesn't hide the pain underneath. Orphaned twice—first by fate, then by violence. No wonder she's built such careful walls around her heart.
"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it. "That must have been terrifying."
"It was," she agrees. "But also... freeing, in a way. I could be anyone here. Brynn the shopkeeper, Rhea's mother. Not Brynn the orphan, the girl with no family name, no prospects beyond whatever charity the village could spare."
I understand this more than she knows. The desire to shed old identities, to become someone new in a place where your past doesn't define your possibilities. "Is that why you stayed? The chance to start fresh?"
"Partly." She glances at me sideways, something vulnerable flickering across her features. "But mostly because this place felt like home in a way nowhere else ever had. People here care about each other without expecting anything in return. They helped me set up the shop, taught me the business, welcomed Rhea when she was born like she was everyone's daughter."
The fondness in her voice when she talks about this community, the genuine gratitude for simple human kindness, makes my chest tight with something I'm not ready to name. In Kyrdonis, relationships are transactions. Alliances are strategic. Even friendship comes with calculations about mutual benefit.
But here, watching Brynn's face soften as she talks about the village that raised her, I'm beginning to understand what I've been missing. What Nya has been missing.
"And you?" she asks, turning the conversation back to me with the grace of someone accustomed to deflecting attention from her own vulnerabilities. "What made you leave Kyrdonis? Beyond the obvious benefits for Nya, I mean."
