Chapter 10 Ciaran #2
"No." She's quiet for a long moment, watching the dark water flow beneath its delicate border of ice.
"The village where I grew up was raided when I was sixteen.
Bandits, looking for anything valuable enough to steal.
My parents..." She stops, shakes her head.
"I don't remember them, actually. They died when I was very young, and the village raised me.
When the raiders came, some of the survivors decided to try their luck elsewhere. I ended up here."
The matter-of-fact way she delivers this information doesn't hide the pain underneath. Orphaned twice—first by fate, then by violence. No wonder she's built such careful walls around her heart.
"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it. "That must have been terrifying."
"It was," she agrees. "But also... freeing, in a way. I could be anyone here. Brynn the shopkeeper, Rhea's mother. Not Brynn the orphan, the girl with no family name, no prospects beyond whatever charity the village could spare."
I understand this more than she knows. The desire to shed old identities, to become someone new in a place where your past doesn't define your possibilities. "Is that why you stayed? The chance to start fresh?"
"Partly." She glances at me sideways, something vulnerable flickering across her features.
"But mostly because this place felt like home in a way nowhere else ever had.
People here care about each other without expecting anything in return.
They helped me set up the shop, taught me the business, welcomed Rhea when she was born like she was everyone's daughter. "
The fondness in her voice when she talks about this community, the genuine gratitude for simple human kindness, makes my chest tight with something I'm not ready to name.
In Kyrdonis, relationships are transactions.
Alliances are strategic. Even friendship comes with calculations about mutual benefit.
But here, watching Brynn's face soften as she talks about the village that raised her, I'm beginning to understand what I've been missing. What Nya has been missing.
"And you?" she asks, turning the conversation back to me with the grace of someone accustomed to deflecting attention from her own vulnerabilities. "What made you leave Kyrdonis? Beyond the obvious benefits for Nya, I mean."
I consider how much to reveal, how honest I want to be about the suffocating weight of my former life.
"I once married a dark elf woman for all the wrong reasons.
And Syrelle's death changed everything," I begin carefully.
"Not just losing her, or Nya not having her mother, but.
.. understanding how little of our life had been real. How much of it was performance."
Brynn nods encouragingly, her attention completely focused on me in a way that makes speaking easier somehow.
"Nya's health has always been fragile," I continue.
"She was born premature, and there were.
.. complications during Syrelle's pregnancy.
" I don't mention the aviid powder, the nights Syrelle came home glassy-eyed and giggling while our unborn daughter absorbed every chemical excess through her bloodstream.
That's a conversation for later, if there is a later.
"The constant social obligations, the parties, the noise and crowds—they exhausted her. Made her sick."
"How long ago did she pass?"
The gentle question hits deeper than I expected.
"A little over two years ago. I didn't have a reason to stay after she did, but I didn't know how to leave," I admit.
"My career, my reputation, everything I'd built was there.
And I kept thinking if I just managed her schedule better, found the right healers, created the perfect environment.
.." I trail off, embarrassed by how naive that sounds now.
"You thought you could fix everything through sheer determination," Brynn says, and there's no judgment in her voice. Just understanding.
"Yes. And I was wrong. The city itself was slowly killing her.
All the magical residue from thousands of spellcasters, the noise, the pressure to constantly perform socially—she couldn't thrive there.
Some children might adapt, but Nya..." I shake my head.
"She needed space to breathe. Literally and figuratively. "
We've reached a small bend in the river where a fallen log creates a natural bench. Brynn settles onto it, brushing snow off the surface, and I join her. The warm bubble holds steady around us, keeping the winter at bay while we sit in our small pocket of comfort.
"How is she really?" Brynn asks quietly. "I can see she tires easily, that she needs frequent rest. But there's more, isn't there?"
The perceptiveness of the question shouldn't surprise me. Brynn has been watching Nya with the careful attention of someone who understands children, who notices what they need even when they can't articulate it themselves.
"Her lungs," I say finally. "They never developed properly.
Cold air, exertion, strong emotions—any of them can trigger breathing difficulties.
In Kyrdonis, with all the magical pollution and winter fog, she was constantly struggling.
Here..." I pause, remembering how easily she climbed the stairs to Rhea's room yesterday, how her laughter rang clear and strong.
"Here, she's getting stronger every day. "
"Are you just taking a break from the city?" Brynn asks gently and I can hear what she really wants to know.
Am I still only passing through?
"I'm looking for a place where she can grow up healthy and happy," I say because I don't know the true answer. "Where she doesn't have to spend half her energy just breathing, just existing. Where she can be a child instead of a patient."
The words hang between us in the gently falling snow, more honest than I intended to be. But something about this place, this woman, makes truth feel safer than the careful deflections I've perfected over years of protecting my family's privacy.
"And what about you?" Brynn asks softly. "What do you need to be happy?"
The question catches me completely off-guard. When did anyone last ask what I wanted, separate from my responsibilities as a father? When did I last even consider my own happiness as distinct from Nya's wellbeing?
I look at Brynn sitting beside me in our warm bubble of magic, snowflakes catching in her dark hair, her hazel-green eyes reflecting the soft light.
I think about the way she laughs at Rhea's dramatic storytelling, how she automatically makes space at her table for unexpected guests, the gentle competence with which she navigates both business and motherhood.
I think about what it would mean to build a life here, to wake up each morning knowing Nya is safe and healthy, knowing there are people who care about us both without expecting anything in return.
To write in the quiet hours while she plays with Rhea, to share meals and stories and the small domestic rituals that make a house into a home.
To have someone like Brynn to come home to each evening, someone who understands the weight of single parenthood and the fierce love that drives every decision. Someone who sees past the carefully maintained facades to the man beneath.
The longing that rises in my chest is so sharp it takes my breath away.
I want to reach for her hand, to close the careful distance between us on this snow-covered log.
I want to tell her that what I need to be happy is sitting right beside me, wrapped in a practical cloak with ink stains on her fingers and kindness in her eyes.
But I don't. Because I can see the wariness she tries to hide, the careful way she maintains space between us even in casual conversation. Another dark elf hurt her badly enough to leave scars, and I won't push past her boundaries simply because my own heart is ready to trust again.
Instead, I settle for honesty of a different kind.
"I need to know Nya is safe," I say quietly.
"That she has a future worth living, friends who accept her as she is, a community that will support her even when I'm no longer able to.
Everything else..." I pause, meeting her eyes briefly before looking back at the river.
"Everything else feels possible when she's happy. "
It's not the whole truth, but it's true enough. And perhaps, if I'm patient, if I prove myself worthy of the trust she's so carefully guarding, there will be time for the rest of it later.
For now, it's enough to sit beside her in the gentle snow, sharing warmth and honest conversation while our daughters learn to shape bread into fantastical creatures just a few doors away.