Chapter 9 Brynn
brYNN
Icy rain lashes against the shutters with a persistence that makes my teeth ache in sympathy.
The sound is sharp and relentless, like winter's fingernails scratching at the glass, demanding entry.
Outside, I can see the cobblestones glistening under their thin coating of ice, treacherous and beautiful in equal measure.
The whole world looks like it's been dipped in crystal, though I know how quickly that beauty turns deadly underfoot.
I'm just reaching for the ledger to tally the day's modest earnings when the shop door swings open, bringing with it a gust of frigid air that sets the evergreen garlands rustling.
Ciaran slips inside first, his dark cloak beaded with moisture, followed closely by Nya who clutches something wrapped in oiled cloth against her chest like it contains precious treasure.
"Mum!" Rhea's voice carries down from somewhere upstairs, followed by the thunder of feet on wooden stairs. She appears at the bottom, ink smudges on her fingers and her hair escaping its braid in wild corkscrews. "I heard the door!"
"Nya!" she squeals, launching herself toward her friend with the kind of enthusiasm that usually results in someone ending up on the floor.
Nya's face transforms from the pinched, cold expression she wore moments ago into pure sunshine.
"Rhea! We brought something special!" She holds up her bundle with reverence.
"Traditional Ikuyenda herbs. Dad said we could make the drink for you and your mom, so you can taste what we taste during the festival. "
The girls disappear up the stairs in a flurry of excitement, their voices already blending into that particular pitch of childhood conspiracy that usually means trouble.
I should probably follow them, make sure they don't decide to experiment with anything dangerous, but instead I find myself frozen beside the counter, acutely aware that Ciaran and I are suddenly alone in the shop's golden lamplight.
He stands just inside the door, drops of moisture still clinging to his dark hair where it's come loose from its usual tie.
The dampness makes it curl slightly at the ends, softening the sharp angles of his face.
His violet eyes hold that gentle expression I've come to recognize—the one that appears whenever he's thinking about doing something kind without being asked.
"In Kyrdonis, the festivities will have already started," he says, almost hesitant.
"They like to celebrate with special dinners leading up to the parties that go on for weeks.
It's so unlike the warmth we've seen here.
" He gestures toward the window where the icy rain continues its assault.
"Where it's more about warm drinks and beautiful handmade decorations. "
I know I should say something neutral, something that maintains the careful distance I've worked so hard to preserve. Instead, I hear myself asking, "What do you mean?"
He considers this, absently pushing his damp hair back from his face.
"In the city, Ikuyenda becomes performance.
Who can throw the most lavish party, whose decorations cost the most, which family can demonstrate their wealth most effectively.
" His mouth tightens slightly. "My late wife thrived on that kind of competition.
Every year, she'd plan more elaborate displays, invite more important guests, serve more exotic delicacies.
By the end, I could barely recognize the quiet reflection the festival was meant to inspire. "
Something in his tone—resignation mixed with old pain—makes my chest ache.
I've spent weeks watching him with Nya, seeing how he notices every small need, every moment of fatigue, every spark of joy that crosses her face.
The idea of him trapped in some kind of social performance, forced to watch his daughter endure events that drained rather than nourished her, sits wrong in my stomach.
"But tonight," he continues, glancing toward the stairs where the girls' laughter echoes, "sharing something simple with people who matter—that feels like what the festival was always supposed to be."
The words hit me like a physical blow, mostly because they echo thoughts I've been trying to suppress for days.
The way these quiet evenings with him and Nya have started to feel necessary rather than simply pleasant.
The way Rhea blooms in Nya's presence, and how Nya seems to gain strength from my daughter's endless energy.
The way Ciaran looks at me sometimes, like I'm something precious he's afraid to touch too quickly.
I realize I'm staring at him, probably longer than polite, when he clears his throat gently.
"I should let you close up," he says, though he doesn't move toward the door. "I know it's been a long day."
Here's my moment. The perfect opportunity to send him back to the inn, to maintain the boundaries I've carefully constructed, to protect myself from the growing warmth in my chest whenever he's near. The smart choice. The safe choice.
Instead, I find myself reaching for the shop key with hands that barely tremble.
"Stay," I say, not quite meeting his eyes as I turn the lock. "Come upstairs. It's too cold and wet for you to walk back to the inn tonight."
The silence stretches just long enough for me to wonder if I've made a terrible mistake. Then I hear his quiet intake of breath, the soft sound of his boots on the wooden floor as he steps closer.
"Are you certain?"
I turn to face him, and something in his expression—hope mixed with careful restraint—steadies my resolve. "I'm certain."
The apartment feels smaller with him in it, though not uncomfortably so.
More like it's finally being used as intended, filled with the right number of voices and footsteps and quiet breathing.
The hearth glows low, casting dancing shadows across the worn but comfortable furniture that Rhea and I have made our own over the years.
I busy myself setting out bowls and spoons, ladling stew from the pot that's been simmering all day, slicing thick pieces of the bread Eda brought by this morning.
Simple food, nothing fancy, but it fills the small space with warmth and the promise of satisfaction.
When I glance up, I find Ciaran watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Can I help?"
"Just sit," I tell him, nodding toward the wooden table where Rhea's latest drawings are scattered alongside my account books. "You're soaked through. Let the fire warm you."
He settles into the chair across from where I usually sit, his long fingers picking up one of Rhea's sketches—a surprisingly detailed rendering of Nya reading by the shop window. His smile is soft, genuine.
"She captures something essential in every line," he murmurs. "Most people draw what they think they see. Rhea draws what actually is."
The observation is so precise, so understanding of my daughter's particular gift, that I have to pause in my bread-slicing to steady myself.
Cyprien never noticed Rhea's art at all, too focused on his own grand visions to pay attention to a child's scribbles.
But Ciaran sees her, really sees her, in ways that make my throat tight with gratitude and something dangerously close to affection.
I set the food on the table and take my usual seat, hyperaware of how close his hands are to mine, how the lamplight catches the silver flecks in his violet eyes.
This intimacy—sharing a meal in my private space, listening to our daughters' laughter echoing from Rhea's room—feels both natural and terrifying.
"Tell me one of your favorite memories of Nya," I find myself saying, desperate to fill the silence before I do something foolish like reach across the table to touch his hand.
His face lights up with the particular joy that always appears when he talks about his daughter.
"Nya was almost two, and she hadn't spoken yet.
I was beginning to worry. Her mother kept insisting she was simply choosing to be difficult, but I suspected.
.." He pauses, stirring his stew thoughtfully.
And I find myself curious because this is the first I've heard of Nya's mother.
"Nya was always observing, always listening.
She understood everything we said, responded to requests, showed preferences. She just wasn't ready to speak yet."
I can picture it perfectly—tiny Nya with her enormous violet eyes, taking in the world around her with that careful attention she still displays, processing everything before committing to action.
"What was the word?"
"'Book,'" he says, laughing softly. "Not 'dada' or 'mama' or any of the typical first words. I was reading to her one evening, and she pointed at the pages and said, clear as crystal, 'book.' Then she looked at me like she was wondering what took me so long to understand."
The image makes me smile despite myself. "That sounds exactly like her. Rhea's first word was 'more.' She was eight months old, reaching for another piece of bread, and just... demanded it. No babbling, no gradual development. Just 'more,' spoken like a complete sentence."
"Stubborn from the beginning," Ciaran observes, but his tone is fond.
"You have no idea," I mutter, thinking of the countless battles of will Rhea and I have engaged in over the years.
"Once she decides she wants something, she becomes absolutely relentless.
Last summer, she decided she needed to learn how to swim.
Never mind that the nearest body of water is a day's ride away.
She asked me about swimming lessons every single day for three months. "
"Did you eventually give in?"
I can feel heat creeping up my neck. "Old Berren finally took pity on me and taught her in the mill pond. She was doing proper strokes within a week."
Ciaran's laughter is rich and warm, filling the small space like honey. "Persistence runs in the family, I see."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to examine.
Because he's right—I am persistent when something matters to me.
I've built this shop from nothing, raised Rhea alone, survived Cyprien's abandonment and everything that followed.
When I decide something is important, I don't give up easily.
The question is whether I'm brave enough to apply that persistence to whatever this is growing between us.
After we finish eating, Ciaran helps me clear the table with the kind of natural ease that suggests he's accustomed to domestic tasks.
There's something deeply attractive about watching him move through my space, his long fingers careful with my dishes, his presence making everything feel more complete somehow.
"Mum!" Rhea's voice carries down the stairs. "Nya wants to show you how to make the Ikuyenda drink! Can we use the big pot?"
I glance at Ciaran, who nods encouragingly. "If you don't mind the chaos," he says. "It's actually quite simple, but the girls will want to help with every step."
We move to the kitchen area, where I retrieve my largest pot and set it on the counter. Moments later, the girls tumble down the stairs, Nya carefully carrying her bundle of herbs while Rhea bounces around her like an enthusiastic puppy.
"First, we need to warm the milk," Ciaran explains, accepting the bundle from Nya and beginning to unwrap it.
The herbs inside are dried but still fragrant—something floral and sweet mixed with earthier undertones.
"Then we add honey, and finally the herb mixture.
The key is not to let it boil, just steep gently. "
I pour milk into the pot and set it over the fire while Ciaran shows Rhea how to measure honey properly. His patience is extraordinary—when she drizzles more honey on the counter than into the measuring spoon, he simply smiles and guides her hand more carefully on the next attempt.
"Like this, Dad?" Nya asks, holding up a pinch of the herb mixture.
"Perfect, sweetheart," he murmurs, and the endearment shouldn’t endear him to me. But it does.. "Now we wait for the milk to steam, then add everything together."
I watch him with growing fascination as he explains each step, his voice gentle but clear, his hands demonstrating techniques with the kind of grace that speaks to long practice.
When Rhea asks why the herbs have to be added in a specific order, he doesn't brush off the question or give a simplified answer.
Instead, he launches into an explanation about how different components release their flavors at different temperatures, comparing it to how different notes in music need to be played in sequence to create harmony.
"You mean like when I write poems?" Rhea asks, her eyes bright with understanding. "How some words need to come before others to make the meaning work?"
"Exactly like that," Ciaran confirms, and his smile when he looks at her is so warm, so genuinely proud, that I have to grip the counter to steady myself.
This is what I've been afraid of. Not just that I might fall for another dark elf who could disappear without warning, but that I might fall for someone who fits so perfectly into our lives that losing him would break not just my heart, but Rhea's as well.
But watching him guide my daughter through this simple ritual, seeing how naturally he includes her in traditions that stretch back generations, I realize I may already be lost. The warmth in my chest when he praises her curiosity, the way my breath catches when he smiles at something she says, the fierce protectiveness I feel when I imagine anyone hurting him—these aren't the reactions of someone maintaining careful emotional distance.
These are the reactions of someone already falling, and falling hard.