Page 4 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
My heart stutters against my ribs, but I only nod. "It's beautiful work."
"We were never particularly close," he continues with a shrug that doesn't quite mask the regret in his voice. "Different temperaments, different paths. Last I heard, he'd gone to Oshta to study with some renowned master sculptor.”
I nod as I tie off the package containing his ink. Even if I don't particularly like thinking of dark elf sculptors who passed through Eryndral with stories of artistic greatness waiting in the northern cities. Not when I was fool enough to believe in promises whispered against my ear in the darkness of my small room above this very shop.
"Sculptors," Ciaran says with a dry laugh that pulls me back to the present. "Most insufferable of the Chivdouyu caste, if you ask me. All artistic temperament and grand gestures, no practical sense whatsoever."
The comment is so unexpected, delivered with such casual humor, that I actually laugh before I can stop myself. It's a short sound, more surprise than amusement, but genuine nonetheless.
His smile widens at the sound, transforming his entire face. The aristocratic features soften, and for a moment he looks lesslike a brooding nobleman and more like a man who remembers how to find joy in simple moments.
"There," he says, as if my laughter has accomplished something important. "I was beginning to think the north had frozen all the warmth out of the people up here."
"Just the smart ones," I reply before I can think better of it. "The rest of us are too stubborn to know when we should give up."
His eyes crinkle with genuine amusement, and I feel an uncomfortable flutter in my chest. This is dangerous territory—the kind of easy banter that can lead places I've sworn never to go again. I turn my attention back to his packages, adding up numbers with more concentration than they require.
"Dad, can we stay a little longer?" His daughter's voice drifts over from where she and Rhea have moved to examine a collection of bound journals. "Rhea was going to show me how she organizes her writing practice."
Ciaran glances at me, a question in his raised eyebrows. "If it's not too much trouble?"
Part of me wants to say yes. Rhea looks happier than she has in weeks, and there's something about the careful way his daughter moves that tugs at my protective instincts. But the larger part—the part that's learned hard lessons about dark elf men and their casual ability to upend careful lives—knows better.
"I'm afraid I need to close soon," I say, not entirely a lie. "Preparations for Ikuyenda, you understand."
He nods, though I catch the flash of disappointment in his expression. "Of course. Nya, time to go."
The little girl—Nya—turns with reluctance that mirrors Rhea's. "But we were just?—"
"I know, sweetheart." His voice gentles when he addresses his daughter, the endearment carrying a warmth that makes my chest tight. "But we need to find shelter for the equu."
As he pays for his supplies, counting out coins with the kind of casual precision that speaks of wealth kept carefully hidden, I find myself studying his hands. Long-fingered and elegant, marked with the telltale ink stains of a writer. No calluses from manual labor, but not soft either. The hands of someone who works with his mind rather than his back.
"Thank you," he says as I hand over his packages. "For the supplies, and for..." He glances toward where Rhea is helping Nya into her heavy cloak. "Kindness isn't always easy to find on the road."
"Eryndral takes care of its own," I reply, then immediately wonder why I phrased it that way. As if I'm claiming them, somehow.
He pauses at the door, one hand on the brass handle. "Perhaps we'll see you before we have to leave again."
It's not quite a question, not quite a statement. An opening, if I want to take it.
"Perhaps," I say, which commits me to nothing at all.
And then they're gone, the brass bell chiming their departure. Through the front window, I watch them make their way to where a patient equu waits, her breath steaming in the cold air. Ciaran lifts his daughter carefully, settling her against his chest before mounting, and I'm struck again by how gentle he is with her. How protective.
Rhea appears at my elbow, pressing her face to the glass. "They're nice, aren't they, Mum? Nya knows so much about books, and she's read stories I've never even heard of. And her father writes real novels that people buy in shops."
"Mm," I murmur, still watching as they disappear around the bend in the road.
"Do you think they'll stay for Ikuyenda? Nya's never seen a proper festival celebration. Well, she has, but not like ours. She says the city ones are all fancy and stuffy, with rules about who can do what when."
I turn away from the window, that uncomfortable ache still sitting heavy against my ribs. There was something about Ciaran Delyth that stirred memories I'd rather leave buried. Something in the way he moved, the cadence of his voice, the way he talked about the sculptor and the Chivdouyu.
"We'll see," I tell Rhea, gathering up the day's receipts with hands that want to shake. "Winter's long. Plenty of time for paths to cross again."
3
CIARAN
