Page 5 of The Dark Elf's Found Family
The equu shifts beneath me as we reach the inn's entrance, her breath forming silver clouds in the cold air. The beast has served us well on the journey from Kyrdonis, patient with Nya's need for frequent stops and gentle enough that my daughter feels secure against my chest even when exhaustion makes her grip weak.
I slide down first, then reach up to lift Nya. She's lighter than she should be—lighter than she was even a month ago—and the thought sends that familiar spike of helpless anger through my chest. But she's awake enough to loop her arms around my neck, and that's something.
"Dad," she murmurs against my shoulder, "the book smells like flowers."
I glance down at the slim volume clutched in her free hand—a collection of illustrated folk tales I'd selected from Brynn's shop while Nya chatted with her daughter. The pages are old but well-maintained, and Brynn had mentioned the pressed rirzed blossoms between the covers that previous owners had used as bookmarks.
"Just don't read it in the dark," I tell her, setting her carefully on her feet. "Save your eyes for daylight."
Before I can turn back to the equu, Syla appears at my elbow. The innkeeper moves like she does everything else—efficiently, with no wasted motion. She's a dark elf of middle years, her gray skin marked with the kind of fine lines that speak of someone who spends her time squinting at ledgers and calculating profit margins.
"For coin, I can keep it in the stables, feed it proper," she says, extending a weathered hand for the reins. Her tone is brisk, businesslike. No pretense of friendship or false warmth, which I appreciate after months of navigating Kyrdonis society where every word carried three different meanings.
I press silver into her palm—more than the service is worth, but the equu has carried us through bitter wind and uncertain roads. She deserves better than the bare minimum.
"See that it's brushed and watered," I tell Syla, watching as she counts the coins with practiced fingers.
Her eyebrows arch at the amount, but she nods without comment, tucking the silver into the leather pouch at her belt. "Aye, she'll be treated well. Storm's coming in tonight, so she'll be warm and dry."
Storm. I glance up at the sky, noting the heavy gray clouds gathering on the horizon. It’s good we’ve found a warm place to stay since the snow has started to move in.
Syla leads the equu toward the stables, and I take Nya's hand, guiding her through the inn's heavy oak door. The common room is warm with firelight, the air thick with the scent of roasted taura and ale. A few locals cluster around tables, their conversations a low murmur that doesn't intrude on the peaceful atmosphere.
It's nothing like the grand inns of Kyrdonis, with their marble floors and crystal chandeliers. No servants hovering toanticipate our every need, no other nobles watching to see if we're worth their attention. Just honest warmth and simple comfort.
"Come on, sweetheart," I murmur to Nya, steering her toward the narrow stairs that lead to our room. She climbs slowly, one hand trailing along the worn wooden banister, the other still clutching her new book.
Our room is small but adequate—two narrow beds with thick wool blankets, a scarred writing desk positioned beneath the shuttered window, and a washbasin with a cracked mirror above it. I'd stayed in far worse during my traveling years, before Syrelle and marriage and the suffocating expectations of Kyrdonis society.
Nya goes straight to her bed, kicking off her traveling boots and burrowing under the blankets without bothering to change out of her clothes. The journey wore her out more than usual, I can tell. Her breathing has that shallow quality that speaks of exhaustion rather than rest.
I help her out of her heavy cloak, hanging it on the wooden peg near the door. "Better?"
She nods, already settling deeper into the mattress. The book lies open beside her, its illustrated pages catching the lamplight. "Will you read to me?"
"Just for a bit." I settle on the edge of her bed, taking care not to jostle her too much. The mattress dips under my weight, and she shifts closer automatically, seeking warmth and comfort in that unconscious way children do.
The story is simple—a tale about a young iypin who outwits a pack of worgs through cleverness rather than strength. Nya's eyes grow heavy as I read, her breathing evening out into the rhythm of approaching sleep. By the time I reach the part where the iypin safely reaches her burrow, she's barely conscious.
I smooth her dark hair back from her forehead, the strands soft under my fingers. She's inherited Syrelle's coloring but thankfully little else. Where her mother was sharp angles and brittle edges, Nya is all gentle curves and quiet strength.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," I whisper, using the endearment I've called her since she was small enough to cradle in one arm.
"G'night, Dad," she mumbles, already half-asleep.
I pull the blanket up to her chin and move away carefully, not wanting to disturb her rest. Sleep comes so rarely for her without the aid of exhaustion, and I've learned to treasure these moments when her body finally gives in to the peace it needs.
The desk chair creaks under my weight as I settle into it, and I find myself staring down at my hands. The ink stains are permanent now, worked so deep into the skin that no amount of scrubbing removes them completely. Evidence of a life spent with quill and parchment, chasing words across pages in the hope of capturing something true.
My thoughts drift, as they have too often today, back to the scribe shop. To Brynn Corven.
There was something about her that caught me off guard—something beyond the obvious competence and the way she moved through her small domain with quiet authority. When she laughed at my comment about sculptors, the sound was startled out of her, as if she'd forgotten she was capable of amusement. And for just a moment, the carefully maintained distance in her eyes had softened into something approaching warmth.
I tell myself it means nothing. We're travelers here, temporary residents at best. A night or two to rest and resupply, then we'll move on to... where? I haven't planned that far ahead. Only knew we needed to leave Kyrdonis before the winter social season began, before the endless cycle of parties and obligations that leave Nya pale and shaking in their wake.
But when I close my eyes, I can still smell the scent of parchment and ink that permeated her shop. Can hear the musical quality of her voice when she spoke to her daughter, all sharp edges softened by maternal affection. Can picture the way she moved—economical, purposeful, with the kind of unconscious grace that comes from someone comfortable in their own skin.
Dangerous thoughts. The kind that lead to complications neither Nya nor I can afford.
