Chapter 10 Ciaran
CIARAN
Rhea has grown addicted to steeped tea that I taught them to make days ago. I picked up some more herbs this morning to satisfy her insatiable need for it.
The warm milk steams gently in the pot, filling the small kitchen with the sweet, floral scent of the Ikuyenda herbs.
I watch Rhea carefully stir the mixture under Nya's guidance, both girls bent over the pot with the kind of intense concentration usually reserved for the most important tasks in the world.
"It smells like the festivals in Kyrdonis," Nya says softly, her voice carrying that note of wistful remembrance I recognize too well. "But warmer somehow."
Rhea grins at her, honey still sticky on her fingers. "That's because we're making it with people who actually want to be here."
The simple wisdom in her words hits me square in the chest. This child sees straight through to the heart of things with a clarity that would humble most adults. I catch Brynn's eye over their heads, and the small smile playing at the corner of her mouth tells me she's thinking the same thing.
"Can we go show Eda?" Rhea asks suddenly, straightening up from the pot. "She lets me help bake sometimes, and I bet she'd love to taste this. Plus, I want to show Nya how she makes those little bread rolls shaped like animals."
Nya's eyes light up with interest, but I feel my chest tighten automatically. The instinct to keep her close, to monitor every breath and movement, has become so ingrained over the past two years that the thought of letting her out of my sight sends anxiety crawling up my spine.
"I don't know," I start, but Brynn is already reaching for her cloak.
"Eda would love that," she says, shooting me a look that somehow manages to be both understanding and gently challenging. "She's been helping with Rhea since she could walk. She's wonderful with children."
"Please, Dad?" Nya asks, and there's something in her voice—not the careful politeness she uses when she's trying not to be a burden, but genuine excitement. "I've never helped bake before."
The admission stings more than it should.
In Kyrdonis, Syrelle's idea of domestic activities involved directing the servants to prepare elaborate displays, not actually teaching Nya practical skills.
And I've been so focused on managing her health, on making sure she doesn't overexert herself, that I've overlooked simple pleasures like learning to knead dough or shape bread.
"Of course," I hear myself saying, though my hands are already reaching for my cloak with the automatic motion of someone who never goes anywhere without his daughter. "Let me just—"
"Ciaran." Brynn's voice is gentle but firm. "Eda's bakery is three doors down. She's raised half the children in this village. They'll be safe."
I pause, one arm halfway into my cloak sleeve, and really look at her.
There's no judgment in her expression, just patient understanding.
She knows what it's like to be solely responsible for a child's wellbeing, to carry that weight alone.
But she also knows when to trust others, when to let go just enough to allow space for growth.
"You could stay if you want," Nya says quietly, but I can hear the disappointment she's trying to hide. "If you think I might get too tired or—"
"No," I say quickly, shrugging out of the cloak. "You're right. You should go help Eda. Just... promise me you'll tell her if you need to rest?"
Nya nods solemnly, but the spark in her violet eyes tells me this is exactly what she wanted. To be treated like any other child, allowed to explore and learn without constant supervision.
The walk to Eda's bakery is brief but illuminating.
Brynn navigates the icy cobblestones with practiced ease, one hand on Rhea's shoulder while chatting easily with Nya about the different types of bread Eda makes.
I find myself studying the way she moves through this space—confident, at home, but always alert to the needs of those around her.
Eda herself is exactly what I expected from Brynn's description: a pleasantly round woman with flour permanently dusted across her apron and the kind of smile that makes children instantly feel welcome.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she sees us approaching, and she opens the bakery door before we can even knock.
"Brynn, love! And this must be the famous Nya I've been hearing so much about." She beams at my daughter with genuine warmth. "Rhea's told me all about your friendship. I was hoping you'd come by soon."
"This is Ciaran," Brynn says, gesturing toward me. "Nya's father."
Eda's handshake is firm, her gaze direct but kind. "The poet, yes? Welcome to Eryndral. We're glad to have you both."
The simple acceptance in her voice catches me off-guard. No questions about how long we're staying, no probing about our background or circumstances. Just welcome, offered as easily as breathing.
"The girls wanted to show you something they made," Brynn continues, and Rhea immediately launches into an enthusiastic description of the Ikuyenda drink while Nya adds quiet corrections about the proper herb proportions.
"How wonderful!" Eda exclaims, clapping her flour-dusted hands together. "And perfect timing—I was just about to start the evening bread. Would you girls like to help? I could teach you how to make those little animal shapes Rhea loves so much."
Both girls nod eagerly, already moving toward the warm interior of the bakery where the scent of yeast and honey mingles with woodsmoke from the ovens.
"I could watch them for a bit," Eda continues, her eyes twinkling as she looks between Brynn and me. "Give you two a chance to take a proper walk without little ones underfoot. The river path is lovely in the snow, and it's not far if you want to stay close."
I open my mouth to protest—leaving Nya feels like stepping out of my own skin—but Brynn's hand touches my arm lightly.
"We won't go far," she says quietly. "And Eda raised three children of her own. She'll know if Nya needs anything."
There's something in her tone that makes me really listen. Not just to the words, but to what she's offering. Trust. The chance to step away from constant vigilance, even briefly. The opportunity to exist as just myself, not solely as Nya's father and protector.
"All right," I say, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears. "But if she gets tired—"
"I'll send Rhea to fetch you immediately," Eda promises, already ushering the girls toward a worktable covered in bowls and measuring spoons. "Now go on, both of you. Enjoy the quiet while you can."
The snow has started falling in earnest by the time we step outside, fat flakes that catch the light from the bakery windows and transform the familiar street into something magical, especially with the sun trying to shine through the clouds.
Brynn pulls her hood up against the cold, but strands of dark hair still escape to frame her face in soft curves.
"The river's this way," she says, nodding toward a narrow path that winds between houses toward the sound of running water.
I follow her lead, my boots crunching softly in the fresh snow.
The anxiety of leaving Nya doesn't disappear, but it settles into something manageable—a low hum of awareness rather than the sharp spike of panic I expected.
Perhaps it's the knowledge that we're truly not far away, or maybe it's the growing trust I have in this village and the people who've welcomed us so completely.
The path opens onto a small riverbank where snow-laden branches hang low over dark water that hasn't yet frozen. It's beautiful in that stark way winter landscapes can be—all clean lines and gentle curves, the world reduced to its essential elements.
I glance at Brynn, noting the way her cheeks are already pink from the cold, how she's pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders.
Without really thinking about it, I reach for the warmth that always sits just beneath my skin and extend it outward, creating a gentle bubble of heated air around us both.
She looks up at me in surprise as the snow begins to melt before it can land on her shoulders. "You've done this for the girls before."
"It's a simple magic," I say, somewhat embarrassed by how quickly she noticed. "Practical rather than impressive. Useful for keeping children comfortable outdoors."
"It's wonderful," she says softly, loosening her cloak as the warmth settles around us. "I've seen dark elves use magic for grand displays, flashy demonstrations of power. This is... thoughtful."
The comparison stings slightly, though I know she doesn't mean it to.
"Most of my caste prefers magic that draws attention, yes.
Creates spectacle. But when you have a child who gets cold easily, who needs comfort more than entertainment.
.." I shrug. "Practical magic becomes more valuable than any grand gesture. "
She nods, understanding flickering in her hazel-green eyes. We begin walking along the riverbank, our footsteps muffled by the snow, the warm bubble moving with us like our own private sanctuary.
"How do you like Eryndral?" she asks after a moment, her voice carefully casual.
"It's..." I pause, searching for words that capture the unexpected peace I've found here. "Restful. In Kyrdonis, every interaction carries weight—political implications, social positioning, potential advancement or failure. Here, people simply are who they are."
"It took me time to adjust to that too," she admits. "I came here when I was barely seventeen, and I'd never experienced a place where kindness didn't come with conditions attached."
Something in her tone catches my attention. The careful way she phrases it, the slight tension in her shoulders. "You weren't born here?"