Chapter 4 Brynn
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The morning arrives with that peculiar brightness that only fresh snow can bring, transforming Eryndral's cobblestones into a glittering maze of white and shadow.
I'm trying to convince myself that the extra care I took with my appearance has nothing to do with yesterday's visitors when Rhea bounds down the stairs like a colt testing new legs.
"Can we go see Nya today?" The words tumble out before she's even reached the bottom step, her violet eyes bright with hope. "She said she liked pressed flowers, and I know where the best winter blossoms grow."
I pause in my morning routine of checking yesterday's accounts, my quill hovering over the ledger. "Rhea, they're travelers. They won't be staying long."
"But they're here now." She plants herself in front of my desk, chin jutting forward in that stubborn way that reminds me uncomfortably of myself at her age. "And Nya needs friends. I could tell."
The certainty in her voice catches me off guard.
Rhea has always been perceptive, but there's something in her tone that speaks of understanding beyond her years.
Perhaps it comes from being the only half-dark elf child in Eryndral, from knowing what it means to be different, to need careful handling in a world that doesn't always make space for you.
"We'll see," I tell her, which we both know means maybe, and maybe has gotten her far more than it should over the years.
She grins and bounces on her toes, already moving toward the door. "I'll get my cloak."
Before I can remind her about morning chores or the inventory that needs cataloging, she's disappeared upstairs.
I shake my head and return to my ledger, but the numbers blur together.
Yesterday's encounter keeps intruding—the way Ciaran's eyes had lingered on the small stone sculpture in the corner, the casual dismissal of his brother's craft that had surprised a laugh out of me when I least expected it.
I tell myself the flutter in my chest is nothing more than the aftershock of unexpected social interaction. It's been years since anyone made me laugh without trying, longer still since I felt that spark of... what? Interest? Attraction?
The thought sends ice through my veins. Not again. Never again.
Rhea reappears with her winter cloak and that expression of determined innocence that usually means I'm about to be outmaneuvered by a ten-year-old.
"Fine," I say, closing the ledger with more force than necessary. It's not like we won't know where they are. There's one inn in town. "But we're not bothering them if they're resting."
"Of course not." She's already at the door, practically vibrating with excitement. "I just thought we could walk past the inn. In case they happen to be outside."
The manipulation is so transparent I almost smile despite myself. Instead, I reach for my own cloak, telling myself this has nothing to do with curiosity about a certain dark elf poet and everything to do with indulging my daughter's rare enthusiasm for making friends.
The morning air bites at my cheeks as we step outside, crisp and clean with the promise of more snow to come.
Rhea chatters about flower pressing techniques and the difference between winter and summer blossoms, but I'm only half listening.
Part of me hopes they've already moved on, that whatever strange pull I felt yesterday was just the product of a long winter and too much solitude.
The larger part—the part I'm trying very hard to ignore—scans the street ahead for any sign of familiar figures.
We're perhaps twenty paces from the inn when a voice calls out, high and clear in the still air.
"Rhea!"
My daughter stops so abruptly I nearly collide with her, and then she's pointing toward the inn's front courtyard where two figures emerge from behind a snow-dusted equu.
Nya waves with one mittened hand, her other arm wrapped around what appears to be a bundle of winter grasses.
Even from this distance, I can see the careful way she moves, as if each step requires consideration.
Beside her, Ciaran straightens from checking the equu's harness, his long frame unfolding with that unconscious grace some dark elves possess. The morning light catches the silver threads in his violet eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—my breath catches in my throat.
"Come on!" Rhea grabs my hand and pulls, and I find myself being towed toward the inn like debris in a current.
Ciaran notices our approach and says something to Nya, who brightens visibly.
By the time we reach the courtyard, he's moved to intercept us, and I watch in fascination as he drops to one knee in the snow, bringing himself to Rhea's eye level with the kind of natural ease that speaks of extensive practice with children.
"Good morning, Rhea," he says, his voice carrying that warm formality I remember from yesterday. "Nya was just telling me about winter flower pressing. She wondered if you might know where to find the best specimens."
Rhea lights up like a lumiola, practically bouncing on her toes. "Oh yes! There's a whole patch of winter rirzed just past the inn's garden, and I know where the snowbell flowers grow. They're tiny but they press well, and they smell like—"
"Like home," Nya finishes softly, her pale cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
Something passes between the two girls, an understanding that makes my chest tighten with emotions I don't want to name.
Rhea has always been solitary by necessity rather than choice, content with my company and the occasional interaction with the town's children who treat her kindness with casual indifference.
To see her face transformed by the simple joy of being understood. ..
"Could we show her?" Rhea looks up at me with those expressive eyes that are her father's legacy, the only gift he left her. "Please? We won't go far."
I glance toward Ciaran, still crouched in the snow despite the fact that it must be soaking through his knees.
He's watching the exchange with an expression of quiet warmth, and when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us.
Not the sharp, consuming attraction I remember from before, but something steadier. More dangerous in its subtlety.
"If Nya feels up to it," I hear myself saying, though part of me wants to grab Rhea's hand and retreat to the safety of our shop.
Nya nods eagerly, though I notice the way she leans slightly against the inn's wooden fence, as if the act of standing requires more energy than she wants to admit.
"Stay where we can see you," Ciaran says, rising to his full height with fluid grace. "And Nya, if you need to rest—"
"I'll tell you," she finishes, the words carrying the weight of a promise made many times before.
The girls set off toward the garden with Rhea matching her pace to Nya's careful steps, their heads bent together in conversation. I watch them disappear around the corner of the inn and immediately regret allowing it, though I can't articulate why.
"She's good with her." Ciaran's voice is closer than I expected, and I turn to find him standing beside me, near enough that I catch the faint scent of ink and something warmer—winter spices, perhaps, or the lingering trace of wood smoke from the inn's hearth.
"Rhea doesn't have many friends," I admit, then immediately wonder why I'm sharing personal information with a virtual stranger. "She's... different. It makes some people uncomfortable."
He follows my gaze toward where the girls' voices drift back to us, bright with laughter and discovery. "Different how?"
The question is asked without the careful neutrality most people employ when fishing for information about Rhea's parentage. Instead, there's genuine curiosity, as if he's trying to understand rather than judge.
"She sees things others miss," I say finally. "Understands things she shouldn't at her age. And she's..." I gesture vaguely toward where they disappeared. "Half dark elf. Many people don't understand how to handle a child with her heritage." Not ones outside this town.
Ciaran nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Nya's had similar challenges. Being frail in a society that values strength, being quiet in a world that rewards the bold. People can be especially cruel to those who don't fit their expectations."
There's something in his tone—a weariness that speaks of personal experience—that makes me look at him more closely.
His clothes are well-made but travel-worn, his hands ink-stained but elegant.
Everything about him suggests refinement, education, the kind of background that should insulate someone from the casual cruelties of the world.
"You speak from experience."
A shadow crosses his features, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "In some ways. Though Nya's circumstances are... unique."
Before I can ask what he means, the sound of approaching footsteps draws our attention. The girls emerge from behind the inn, Rhea carrying a small bundle of winter flowers while Nya clutches what appears to be a single perfect snowbell blossom.
"Look what we found!" Rhea announces, holding up her collection. "And Nya showed me how to tell which ones will press best by the way the petals feel."
Nya beams at the praise, though I notice she's breathing more heavily than the short walk should warrant. Ciaran notices too, his attention sharpening as he takes in his daughter's slightly pallid complexion.
"Perhaps we should head inside," he suggests gently. "Get you warmed up before you catch a cold."
"But we were going to find stones for added weight when pressing," Rhea protests, then catches sight of Nya's face and immediately moderates her tone. "But we could do that another time."