Chapter 7 Brynn
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The snow falls heavier these days, transforming Eryndral into something from one of Rhea's fairy tale books.
Fat flakes drift past the shop windows like wayward stars, and frost paints delicate patterns across the glass that catch the lamplight each morning.
The cold seeps through the walls despite the hearth's steady warmth, and I find myself brewing extra pots of kaffo just to keep my hands from going numb as I work.
Rhea presses her nose to the window for the third time this morning, her breath fogging the glass as she peers down the street toward the inn. "Do you think they're awake yet?"
"It's barely past dawn," I remind her, not looking up from the ledger where I'm tallying yesterday's sales. "Give them time to have breakfast, at least."
But even as I say it, I know it's useless.
For the past week, since market day, my daughter has been a barely contained force of anticipation from the moment she opens her eyes.
Every morning brings the same ritual—rushed breakfast, hurried dressing, and increasingly creative excuses to venture out into the square where she might "accidentally" encounter Nya and her father.
"Can I put up the winter garlands today?" she asks, abandoning the window to bounce on her toes beside my desk. "Please? The shop looks so plain compared to everyone else's decorations."
I glance around our modest space, taking in the bare walls and utilitarian shelves.
She's right—while the rest of Eryndral has begun transforming for Ikuyenda with ribbons and evergreen boughs, our shop remains stubbornly practical.
It's not that I don't enjoy the festival preparations, but decorating has always felt like.
.. indulgence. Something for families with more time and fewer worries about next month's rent.
"After the morning customers," I concede, and her squeal of delight makes me smile despite myself. "But nothing too elaborate. We still need to be able to conduct business."
She nods eagerly, already mentally arranging whatever vision she's concocted for our festive transformation.
At ten, Rhea approaches everything with an artist's eye for beauty and possibility—a trait that both delights and terrifies me, depending on the day.
Right now, watching her plan our decorations with such earnest enthusiasm, it mostly just makes my chest ache with affection.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up expecting Old Berren or perhaps Ralric with an order for grain tallies. Instead, Ciaran steps through, shaking snow from his dark cloak, with Nya tucked close beside him like a small shadow.
"Rhea!" Nya's face lights up the moment she spots my daughter, and the two girls rush toward each other as if they haven't seen each other in weeks rather than since yesterday evening.
"We brought warm cider," Ciaran says, lifting a steaming earthenware jug. "The inn's cook made too much for breakfast, and Nya insisted it would be wrong to let it go to waste."
The practical part of me knows I should politely decline, maintain the professional distance I've been carefully constructing. The maternal part of me sees how Rhea's eyes widen at the promise of spiced cider on a cold morning and crumbles immediately.
"That's... thoughtful," I manage, clearing space on the counter. "Though you didn't need to—"
"We wanted to," Nya interrupts with quiet certainty, and something about the way she says it—like wanting to share something good is the most natural thing in the world—makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
Ciaran pours the cider into mugs I retrieve from our small kitchen, and the scent of cinnamon and winter spices fills the shop with warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.
I watch him work, noting the careful way he handles the pottery, the economical grace in his movements.
His hands are elegant despite their ink stains—long fingers that speak of countless hours holding quills, writing words I'll probably never read.
"Can we go look for winter flowers?" Rhea asks, bouncing between her cider and the window where snow continues its lazy dance. "I saw some bluefrost blooming near the old mill yesterday, and I want to show Nya how to press them properly."
"In this weather?" I gesture toward the window where the snow falls steadily. "You'll catch your death."
"Actually," Ciaran says quietly, "that shouldn't be a problem."
He moves closer to the girls, and I watch in fascination as he tugs a glove free of one hand and raises it. The air around them seems to shimmer slightly, like heat waves rising from summer stone, and both girls straighten with obvious relief.
"Oh!" Rhea's eyes go wide with wonder. "It's like being wrapped in sunlight."
Magic. Quiet, practical magic used without fanfare or expectation of praise.
I've seen flashier displays in the market—merchants warming their goods, entertainers creating sparks and colored lights to draw crowds.
But this is different. This is magic as a tool rather than spectacle, used simply to ensure two children can safely pursue their flower-pressing expedition without discomfort.
"The warming will last several hours," Ciaran explains to me, his violet eyes serious. "Long enough for whatever adventure they have planned. Nya knows her limits—she won't push herself too hard."
There's something in the way he says it, a careful attention to his daughter's needs that speaks of hard-won experience.
I've watched him with her over the past week, noting how he hovers without smothering, how he guides without controlling.
When Nya needs to rest, he suggests sitting on convenient benches or stopping to examine interesting shop displays.
When she grows tired, he notices before she has to ask for help.
It's not the hovering of an overprotective parent or the inattention of someone who doesn't understand their child's needs. It's something more nuanced—partnership, perhaps. Recognition that she's capable within her limitations, that protection doesn't require wrapping her in silk.
"Please, Mum?" Rhea clasps her hands together in exaggerated pleading, though her grin suggests she already knows I'll say yes. "We'll be careful, and we'll stay close to town, and Nya knows so many facts about the winter flowers!"
I look between my daughter's eager face and Nya's quiet hopefulness, then at Ciaran's patient expression. He's not pushing, not trying to convince me. He's simply waiting for my decision, ready to accept whatever I choose. The lack of pressure somehow makes it easier to agree.
"Stay where people can see you," I say finally. "And if the weather gets worse, come straight back."
They're gone in a whirlwind of excited chatter and flying cloaks, leaving me alone with Ciaran in the sudden quiet of the shop. Snow taps against the windows like impatient fingers, and the scent of cider lingers in the air between us.
"Thank you," I say, then immediately feel foolish for the formality. "For the warming magic. I know Rhea will be over the moon about flower pressing in winter weather."
"Nya's been wanting to see some spots over this way that Rhea told her about," he replies, settling into the chair across from my desk with easy familiarity. "She doesn't often have someone who shares her interests."
I find myself studying his profile as he speaks, noting the way afternoon light catches the silver flecks in his violet eyes, the elegant line of his jaw, the careful way he chooses his words.
Everything about him suggests refinement, education, the kind of breeding that comes with wealth and status.
And yet he sits in my modest shop drinking inn-keeper's cider like it's the finest vintage, treating my half-elf daughter with the same gentle courtesy he shows his own.
"She's good for Rhea," I admit, returning to my ledger with unnecessary focus. "It's been... nice, watching her make a real friend."
"They complement each other well," he agrees, and I can hear the smile in his voice without looking up. "Nya needs someone with Rhea's energy and enthusiasm. She's been too isolated, spending time only with adults who treat her like something fragile."
The observation hits closer to home than I'd like to admit.
How many times have I caught myself doing the same thing with Rhea—not because she's physically frail, but because her mixed heritage makes her different, vulnerable in ways I can't always protect her from?
Treating her like she needs extra care rather than trusting her strength?
"Rhea's taken quite a shine to you as well," I say, then immediately regret the admission. It reveals too much, suggests I've been watching more carefully than a casual acquaintance should.
But Ciaran just chuckles, a warm sound that makes something flutter in my chest. "She brought me a drawing yesterday of the shop decorated for Ikuyenda. Very detailed plans for where every ribbon should go."
I can picture it perfectly—Rhea bent over her parchment with tongue-tip concentration, planning our modest celebration with the same intensity she applies to everything that captures her interest. The thought of her sharing those plans with him, seeking his approval for something so personal, makes my throat tighten with emotions I don't want to examine too closely.
"She's been talking about decorations for days," I admit. "I promised we could put some up this afternoon."
"She mentioned you usually keep things simple." There's no judgment in his voice, just observation, but I find myself bristling anyway.
"We don't need elaborate displays to enjoy the festival," I say, more defensive than I intended. "Ikuyenda is about community, not competition."
He's quiet for a moment, and when I glance up, his expression is thoughtful rather than critical. "You sound like you've had to defend that position before."
The insight is too accurate, too perceptive, and I find myself looking away. "Some people have different ideas about what celebration should look like."
I don't mention Cyprien, don't talk about the way he laughed at Eryndral's "quaint little festival" or how he promised to show me real celebrations in the great cities.
Don't mention how those promises turned to ash when he vanished like morning mist, leaving me with a daughter who carries his eyes and my broken faith in beautiful words.
But something in Ciaran's expression suggests he understands anyway, and the gentleness there makes my chest ache in ways I'm not prepared to handle.
"Different doesn't mean wrong," he says quietly. "I've attended celebrations that cost more than most families see in a year. Give me honest joy over expensive displays any day."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard, and I find myself meeting his eyes despite every instinct that tells me to look away. There's no mockery there, no condescension. Just genuine appreciation for the simple traditions that hold this town together.
My resolve to maintain distance wavers like candle flame in wind.