Page 41 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
A small smile tugs at the corner of Brynn's mouth, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "It is a good place," she admits softly. "Better than I expected when I first arrived."
"Nya has thrived here," I say, my voice thick with emotion. "For the first time since..." I pause, swallowing hard. Since Syrelle died. Since I realized how much damage those early years had done to my daughter's fragile body. "She's healthy here, Brynn. Happy. She sleeps through the night without coughing fits. She runs and plays instead of sitting quietly because breathing is too difficult. She laughs—really laughs—in a way I haven't heard since she was very small."
Tears shine in Brynn's eyes, and she nods. "I've seen the change in her. She's like a different child."
"She is," I agree, my thumb stroking across her knuckles. "And it's not just the air or the slower pace. It's having Rhea as a sister. It's having you care for her like she's your own. It's feeling like she belongs somewhere, with people who love her unconditionally."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. I can see Brynn processing them, understanding what I'm not quite saying yet. That Nya isn't the only one who's found belonging here. That I've watched this woman mother my daughter with such fierce tenderness it makes my chest ache. That I've fallen for the way she lights up when Rhea shows her a new drawing, how she automatically reaches for Nya when she's tired, the gentle strength with which she's built a life from nothing.
"Ciaran," she whispers, my name barely audible above the distant music.
"I've thrived here too," I admit, my voice dropping lower, more intimate. "Not just as Nya's father, but as... myself. For the first time in years, I'm not pretending to be someone I'm not. I'm not performing for audiences who see my caste before they see me. I don't have to smile and nod while nobles treat my work like a curiosity, something exotic to display at their gatherings."
Her fingers curl around mine, holding tight, and I feel that familiar spark of connection that's been growing stronger every day. In Kyrdonis, I was always performing—the brilliant poet, the grieving widower, the devoted father struggling alone. Here, I'm just Ciaran. A man who helps Rhea with her letters while Brynn tends customers. Someone who sits by Nya's bedside when she's ill without it being a tragic tableau for others to observe.
"In the city, everything was about appearances," I continue, the words flowing easier now. "My marriage, my career, even my grief—it all had to look a certain way. But here..." I lift our joined hands, pressing her palm against my chest where my heart races beneath her touch. "Here, I can just be."
The vulnerability in her expression steals my breath. I can see her walls crumbling, brick by careful brick, and it terrifies me as much as it fills me with hope. Because I know what it costs her to let someone in. I know about the sculptor who passedthrough her life like a storm, leaving destruction in his wake. I understand why she flinches sometimes when I touch her, why she watches me with that guarded expression when she thinks I'm not looking.
But I also know what I feel when I watch her braid Nya's hair in the mornings, the careful tenderness in her hands. I know the way my chest expands when she laughs at something Rhea says, how right it feels when we sit together in the evening while the girls play. I know that somewhere along the way, this stopped being about finding a safe place for Nya and became about finding home.
And that's what I want to tell her. That I'm going to build one here. That my stay isn't fleeting and what's between us doesn't have to be either. It'snotand I don't want to pretend it is anymore.
The hope in her expression is almost blinding, but there's still fear there too. Still that careful reserve that's kept her safe all these years. I want to sweep it all away, to tell her that I'm not going anywhere, that I want to build something real with her. That watching her love my daughter has made me fall harder than I ever thought possible. That I want more—so much more—than stolen moments and careful distances.
I want to wake up beside her every morning. I want to help her in the shop when the busy seasons come. I want to teach both our daughters about poetry and art and all the beautiful things this world has to offer. I want to grow old with her, to watch Rhea and Nya become young women, to maybe give them siblings to love and protect.
The words rise in my throat, pressing against my teeth, begging to be spoken. I want to tell her that we don't have to be fleeting, that this connection we've found is worth fighting for. That I'm not the artist who broke her heart, and she's not the noble who broke mine. We're just two people who've foundsomething precious in each other, something worth building a life around.
But before I can voice any of it, before I can take that final leap, footsteps pound across the cobblestones behind us. We turn as one, and my heart lurches at the sight of Veyra running toward us, her usually composed face twisted with panic.
"The girls," she gasps, doubled over and struggling for breath. Her harp lies forgotten somewhere behind her, and tears stream down her cheeks. "Something's happened."
The world stops. Everything—the music, the laughter, the warm bubble of possibility that surrounded us moments before—shatters like glass. Ice floods my veins as my mind immediately leaps to the worst conclusions. Nya's illness. Her fragile lungs. The way she pushed herself tonight, dancing and laughing despite my constant worry.
I seize Brynn's hand, my fingers probably bruising in their intensity, and we run. The square blurs past us as we race toward Eda's bakery, my heart hammering against my ribs with each step. Behind us, I can hear other voices rising in concern, footsteps following, but everything feels distant and muffled compared to the roar of blood in my ears.
Please, I think desperately, not caring to whom I'm praying. Please let them be alright. Please don't let this perfect night end in tragedy. Please don't let me lose the family I've only just found.
We burst through Eda's door, both of us breathing hard, and my eyes immediately scan the room for my daughter. I find her standing by the couch, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, her small hands pressed against her mouth in horror.
"Nya," I breathe, moving toward her, relief flooding through me so intensely it makes me dizzy. She's standing. She's breathing. She's?—
"Dad," she whispers, and the word breaks my heart because there's so much pain in it, so much fear. She points with a shaking hand toward the couch, and my gaze follows.
Rhea lies collapsed on the faded fabric, her small body frighteningly still. Her lips are blue—a terrible, unnatural blue that makes my stomach lurch—and her chest barely moves with each shallow breath.
The world tilts sideways. For a moment, I'm not in Eda's warm bakery but back in our house in Kyrdonis, finding Syrelle's lifeless body sprawled across our bedroom floor. The same blue lips, the same terrible stillness. The same crushing weight of helplessness and rage and grief all tangled together in my chest.
But this isn't Syrelle. This is Rhea—sweet, brilliant Rhea who brings me pressed flowers and asks endless questions about everything. Rhea who lights up when I praise her writing, who's been learning to braid Nya's hair, who has no problem asking me to use my magic and reach for me like I'm more to her than a stranger. Rhea, who has somehow become as precious to me as my own daughter.
The fear that tears through me is exactly the same as what I feel when Nya is ill. The desperate, clawing panic of a parent watching their child suffer. Because that's what she is now, isn't it? My child, in every way that matters. I love her just as fiercely as I love Nya, and the thought of losing her feels like losing a piece of my soul.
"What happened?" Brynn's voice is hoarse with terror as she rushes to Rhea's side, her hands hovering over her daughter's still form like she's afraid to touch her.
My mind races, cataloging symptoms with the grim expertise of someone who's spent years managing a chronically ill child. The blue lips, the shallow breathing, the way Rhea's skin has taken on a grayish pallor. It looks exactly like the withdrawalepisodes Nya suffered as an infant, when her tiny body was fighting the aviid that had poisoned her in the womb.
But that's impossible. There's no way that Rhea has that in her system. She shouldn't be susceptible to aviid poisoning, shouldn't be able to overdose on something she's never been exposed to.
