Chapter 13 Brynn
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The village center has transformed into something from a winter dream.
Snow blankets every surface—the cobblestones, the rooftops, the branches of the old tiphe trees that ring the square—turning Eryndral into a crystalline wonderland.
Strings of paper lanterns in deep blues and silvers hang between the buildings, swaying gently in the cold breeze like captured stars.
The scent of roasted burgona and sweet rirzed wine drifts from the various stalls that have sprouted around the square's edges, mingling with woodsmoke from the great fire crackling in the center.
People gather in clusters around the flames, their faces flushed with warmth and good cheer.
Korin the blacksmith holds court near one side of the fire, his booming laugh carrying across the square as he shares some tale with a group of younger men.
Eda bustles between her bakery stall and the fire, pressing warm pastries into the hands of anyone who looks cold.
Even Serenya the seamstress has emerged from her shop, her usually sharp expression softened as she admires the decorations strung between the lampposts.
The festival is still a week away, but already the community pulses with anticipation. These nightly gatherings have become tradition in the days leading up to Ikuyenda—a chance for neighbors to share food, stories, and the simple pleasure of each other's company during the darkest part of winter.
I stand at the edge of it all with Ciaran, watching as Nya and Rhea help Veyra, the young harpist string more lanterns along the temporary stage someone built near the fountain.
Veyra's patient voice carries to us as she explains the proper way to tie the cords, her dark fingers deft and sure as she demonstrates.
Both girls hang on her every word, their faces bright with concentration and excitement.
"Rhea, mind the—" I start to call out as my daughter reaches for a lantern that's dangling precariously from its string.
"I've got it!" she calls back, her tongue poking out between her lips as she carefully adjusts the paper shade. The lantern settles into place with a satisfied rustle, joining the dozens of others that will cast their gentle glow over the festival crowds.
Beside me, Ciaran chuckles softly. "She's got the same stubborn streak you do."
I snort, crossing my arms against the cold. "Stubborn? She's determined. There's a difference."
"Is there?" His violet eyes dance with amusement. "Because I seem to remember someone insisting she could carry three crates of parchment up two flights of stairs by herself, despite having a perfectly willing dark elf offering to help."
Heat rises in my cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or the memory of how his muscles had flexed beneath his tunic when he'd finally wrestled those crates away from me, I refuse to examine too closely. "That was different. I didn't want to impose."
"Brynn." The way he says my name, low and warm with affection, shouldn’t make me forget everything else going on around me. But it does. "You could never impose."
Before I can respond to that—before I can figure out what to do with the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious—Nya's voice pipes up from across the square.
"Dad! Can you make the lanterns glow? Like you did with the window frost?"
Several other dark elves in the crowd turn toward Ciaran, their expressions eager.
Magic has always been a communal thing among their people, I've learned, shared freely for the joy and wonder it brings.
It's so different from the stories I grew up hearing about dark elf sorcerers hoarding their power, using it for dominance and control.
Ciaran glances at me, a question in his eyes that I don't quite understand.
Then he steps forward, raising one hand toward the strings of lanterns.
His magic unfurls like invisible silk, wrapping around each paper shade and settling into the colored glass baubles that hang between them.
One by one, the lanterns begin to emit a soft, steady glow—not harsh like torchlight, but gentle and warm as candleflame.
The effect is breathtaking. The entire square bathes in pools of blue and silver light that dance across the snow and reflect off the icicles hanging from the eaves.
Gasps and delighted laughter rise from the crowd as the magical illumination transforms the already beautiful scene into something truly enchanting.
"More!" Rhea demands, clapping her hands together. "Can you make them change colors?"
Other voices join hers—children and adults alike caught up in the magic of the moment.
I watch Ciaran's face as he listens to their requests, see the way he smiles at their enthusiasm.
There's no arrogance in his expression, no sense that he's showing off or expecting praise for his abilities.
He looks genuinely pleased to be able to give them this gift.
His magic shifts, and suddenly the lanterns cycle slowly through a rainbow of hues—deep purples and midnight blues giving way to warm golds and soft greens before settling back into their original silver-blue glow.
The crowd erupts in applause, and I find myself clapping along, caught up in the wonder of it despite myself.
This is what magic should be, I realize. Not a tool for manipulation or control, but something beautiful shared freely with others. Something that brings joy instead of pain.
"Show-off," I murmur as Ciaran returns to my side, but there's no bite in the words.
He grins, unrepentant. "Rhea asked nicely."
"She has that effect on people." I watch as my daughter throws her arms around Nya in celebration, both girls laughing as they admire the glowing lanterns overhead. "Gets them to do things they normally wouldn't."
"Wonder where she learned that trick."
The teasing note in his voice makes me look at him sharply, but his expression is fond rather than mocking.
We're standing slightly apart from the main crowd, close enough to keep an eye on the girls but far enough away that their chatter and the musicians' practice songs create a buffer of privacy around us.
"She's stubborn, remember?" I say, trying to maintain our light banter even as something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest at the way he's looking at me. "Runs in the family."
"So does being remarkable."
The words steal the breath from my lungs.
He's not looking at Rhea anymore—his violet gaze is fixed entirely on me, intense and unwavering in a way that makes my pulse skip.
The noise of the festival fades into background murmur as the space between us seems to shrink, charged with an electricity that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the way his lips curve when he speaks my name.
"You are so remarkable, Brynn." It's barely a whisper, but it carries the weight of weeks of carefully controlled longing, of moments like this when the careful distance we've maintained threatens to crumble entirely.
He leans closer, close enough that I can see the silver flecks in his eyes, can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek despite the winter cold. Close enough that when he tilts his head slightly, questioningly, I know exactly what he's asking.
Every rational thought I possess screams at me to step away, to maintain the boundaries I've spent ten years building around my heart.
This is dangerous territory—the kind that leads to shattered dreams and broken promises, to waking up one morning to find myself abandoned again with nothing but bitter memories and another child to explain why her father doesn't want her.
But when Ciaran's gaze drops to my lips and back to my eyes, when he leans just a fraction closer but stops there, waiting for me to make the choice, all my careful defenses crumble like paper in rain.
I meet him halfway.
The kiss is soft at first, barely more than a brush of lips, tentative and questioning.
But then his hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking across my skin with devastating gentleness, and something inside me simply melts.
I rise up on my toes, my hands fisting in the front of his cloak as I press closer, and the kiss deepens into something real and breathtaking and utterly terrifying.
He tastes like rirzed wine and winter air, like warmth and safety and all the things I've taught myself not to want.
His lips move against mine with a careful reverence that makes my heart pound so hard I'm sure he must feel it through the layers of wool between us.
This isn't the hungry, demanding kiss of someone taking what they want—it's the kiss of someone who knows exactly how precious this moment is, who doesn't want to risk breaking it by moving too fast.
For one perfect, crystalline second, I let myself believe this could be real.
Let myself imagine what it would be like to trust this man with my heart, to build something lasting and beautiful with him and our daughters.
The fantasy is so vivid, so achingly sweet, that I can almost taste it beneath the wine on his lips.
Then reality crashes back in like ice water.
The last time I gave my trust to a dark elf artist, the way his smile had made me believe too much, the way he vanished without a word.
The memory hits me with brutal clarity—Cyprien's hands on my skin, the way he'd whispered promises against my throat, the morning I'd woken to find him gone without so much as a note.
The months that followed, watching my belly grow while I waited for him to come back, to explain, to claim the child we'd made together.
The way I'd finally had to accept that he never would.
I jerk back so suddenly that Ciaran stumbles, his eyes going wide with confusion and hurt.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged bird as I stare at him, at this man who looks so much like the one who broke me, who sculpts words instead of stone but creates beauty with the same careless artistry that captured my foolish heart once before.
"I—" I start, then stop, pressing my lips together to trap the words that want to spill out. I'm sorry. I can't do this. You'll leave.
Because that's what they do, isn't it? Dark elf artists with their beautiful hands and their silver tongues and their complete inability to think beyond their own desires.
They take what they want and move on to the next inspiration, the next muse, the next foolish human woman who thinks she might be special enough to make them stay.
Ciaran reaches for me, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. "Brynn, what—"
"I'm fine." The words come out sharper than I intend, a defensive wall thrown up between us with desperate speed. I force my lips into a smile that feels like broken glass. "We should... the girls will want to head home soon."
He stares at me like I've struck him, violet eyes searching my face for some explanation I can't give.
Because how do I tell him that kissing him felt like coming home and like walking off a cliff all at once?
How do I explain that I initiated it, wanted it, but now I'm drowning in the terror of wanting something I can't have?
"Mum!" Rhea's voice cuts through the tension like a blade, bright and oblivious. "Come see what Veyra taught us!"
Both girls are racing toward us, their faces flushed with cold and excitement, and I've never been more grateful for my daughter's impeccable timing.
Before I can think too hard about what I'm doing, I step away from Ciaran, putting careful distance between us as Nya crashes into his legs and Rhea grabs my hand.
"The lanterns look like stars!" Nya says, tilting her head back to gaze up at the glowing decorations. "And Veyra says we can help with the flower arrangements tomorrow!"
"That's wonderful, sweetheart," Ciaran says, but his voice sounds strained, and when I dare to glance at him, his eyes are still fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
Rhea tugs on my hand, chattering about the songs Veyra has been teaching them, about the plans for tomorrow's preparations, about how Nya thinks they should ask Eda to show them how to make special Ikuyenda pastries.
I nod and make appropriate responses, but my pulse thrums with equal parts longing and fear, and I can feel Ciaran's gaze on me like a physical touch.
What have I done?