Chapter 14 Ciaran
CIARAN
The next morning arrives with fresh snow, more and more each day, and the hollow ache of regret lodged beneath my ribs.
I wake before dawn, as has become my habit since arriving in Eryndral, and lie in the narrow inn bed listening to Nya's steady breathing from the one beside me.
But instead of the contentment that usually fills these quiet moments, all I can think about is the way Brynn pulled away from me last night—the flash of panic in her hazel-green eyes, the careful distance she put between us as if I'd burned her.
I replay the kiss over and over, searching for what went wrong. The way she'd melted against me, soft and willing, her hands fisting in my cloak like she was afraid I might disappear. Then that sudden retreat, walls slamming back into place so fast it left me reeling.
Fear. I know it when I see it—have carried enough of my own to recognize the shape of it in someone else's eyes. But fear of what? Of me? Of caring too much? Of being abandoned again by another dark elf who promises more than he can give?
The last thought tastes like poison. Because that's what happened with Rhea's father, isn't it? I don't know much beyond that Brynn has admitted she's half dark elf. Someone who took what he wanted and left her to raise their daughter alone.
No wonder she ran. No wonder she looks at me sometimes like I'm a beautiful trap waiting to spring shut.
By the time Nya stirs, I've worked myself into a quiet fury—not at Brynn, but at whatever bastard came before me who taught her that caring was dangerous.
At myself for moving too fast, for not seeing how fragile her trust still is.
At the circumstances that put us both in positions where love feels like a luxury we can't afford.
"Dad?" Nya's voice is still thick with sleep, but clear. No wheeze, no struggle for breath. The one episode has been the only so far, which is honestly such an improvement from the city. "Is it time to help with the flowers?"
"Not yet, sweetheart." I smooth her dark hair back from her forehead, checking for fever out of habit. Her skin is cool and dry, her color good. "But soon."
She stretches like a cat, all knobby elbows and knees, then fixes me with those violet eyes that see too much. "You look sad."
Trust my daughter to cut straight to the heart of things. It's a gift that served her poorly in Kyrdonis, where surface pleasantries and careful lies governed every interaction, but here in Eryndral it feels like honesty. Like coming home.
"I'm fine," I tell her, but she tilts her head in that way that means she doesn't believe me for a second.
"Is it because of Brynn? Did you have a fight?"
The question hits like a physical blow. Not because she's wrong, but because she's right in ways I hadn't expected an eight-year-old to notice. "Why would you think that?"
"She didn't look at you when we left." Nya's matter-of-fact delivery makes my stomach clench. "She usually smiles at you, but she didn't seem happy."
Well, fuck. If Nya noticed, what else did people see? But when I think back to the evening, most of the crowd was focused on the music and dancing, caught up in their own conversations and celebrations. Still, the thought that my daughter witnessed Brynn's retreat makes shame crawl up my throat.
"Sometimes adults get confused about feelings," I say carefully. "It doesn't mean anyone did anything wrong."
"But you're not confused." It's not a question.
No. I'm not confused at all. I know exactly what I want—Brynn's laughter in my kitchen every morning, her sharp wit over dinner, her body warm against mine in the dark.
I want to watch our daughters grow up together, want to give Nya the mother she never really had and Rhea the father who walked away.
I want permanence and partnership and all the messy, beautiful complications that come with loving someone completely.
What confuses me is how to convince Brynn that I'm not going anywhere without pushing so hard I drive her away entirely.
"No," I tell Nya quietly. "I'm not confused."
She nods like this explains everything, then bounces out of bed with the resilience that only children possess. "Can we bring Brynn flowers? Maybe that would help."
The suggestion is so earnest, so sweetly hopeful, that it cracks something open in my chest. "Maybe, sweetheart. We'll see."
A few hours later, we're in the village center helping Veyra and a handful of other women arrange winter blooms for tomorrow's festival.
The harpist has taken charge of the decoration efforts with the same quiet competence she brings to her music, directing the placement of blue-silver rirzed blossoms and pale yellow tiphe leaves with an artist's eye for balance and flow.
Brynn arrives with Rhea just as I'm using my magic to coax a particularly stubborn arrangement into perfect symmetry.
She nods at me—polite, distant, like I'm any other acquaintance instead of the man who had her pressed against him under the stars two nights ago.
The careful neutrality in her expression makes my jaw clench.
"The large arrangements go on either side of this area," Veyra instructs, her dark fingers deft as she weaves stems together. "And we'll need smaller ones for the food tables."
Rhea immediately dives into the work with characteristic enthusiasm, chattering to Nya about which flowers they should pick for their bouquet.
Brynn settles on the opposite side of the circle from me, her attention focused entirely on the blossoms in her lap as if arranging winter flowers requires every ounce of her concentration.
She's doing it again—that careful distance, that deliberate avoidance of anything that might lead to actual conversation.
Yesterday it was the same thing when I brought Nya by the shop to pick up more parchment.
Brynn had been perfectly pleasant, had smiled at my daughter and accepted payment for the supplies, but she'd treated me like any other customer.
No teasing about my tendency to buy too much ink, no lingering looks, no invitation to stay for tea.
It's driving me slowly insane.
"These need to be smaller," I say, gesturing to the arrangement Veyra just finished. With a subtle flex of magic, I coax the stems to contract slightly, tightening the overall shape. "For the food tables."
"Perfect." Veyra's approval is warm, but when I glance up, I catch Brynn watching my hands with an expression I can't quite read. The moment our eyes meet, she looks away, color rising in her cheeks.
So she's not completely immune. That's something, at least.
I spend the next hour finding excuses to use my magic—adjusting stem lengths, encouraging blooms to open more fully, creating small sculptures of ice and snow for the children to admire.
It's showy behavior, the kind of thing I'd normally avoid, but every time I work magic I feel Brynn's attention on me like a physical touch.
Even when she's determinedly focused on her own work, I catch her stealing glances, see the way her breathing changes when I make the flowers dance or coax frost into intricate patterns on the fountain's edge.
She remembers the kiss too. Remembers what it felt like to want something, even if she's too scared to reach for it again.
When we break for lunch, I approach her with what I hope looks like casual confidence rather than desperation. She's packing away the flowers she and Rhea arranged, her movements brisk and efficient.
"Those are beautiful," I say, nodding toward the small bouquet of rirzed blossoms and silver leaves. "Rhea has your eye for balance."
"She gets it from helping in the shop." Brynn's response is polite but distant, the kind of meaningless small talk you make with strangers. "Arrangement and display are part of the business."
Look at me, I want to say. Stop pretending I'm someone you barely know.
Instead, I try a different approach. "Nya's been asking if she can help you with inventory again. She loves organizing your supply room."
That gets me a real smile, small but genuine. "She's welcome anytime. Rhea enjoys having the help."
Progress. Not much, but something. I push a little further. "She's been drawing more, too. Nothing elaborate, just... things she sees. Flowers, snow, the way light looks through your shop windows."
Brynn's hands still on the flower stems. "That's wonderful. Rhea loves when they draw together."
"I thought maybe... if you have time... you could look at some of her work? I know you appreciate good art, and she values your opinion."
It's a shameless manipulation, using my daughter's artistic development to create an excuse for Brynn to spend time with me. But I'm running out of subtle options, and I refuse to let her slip away without a fight.
"Of course." Brynn's response is immediate, maternal instinct overriding whatever walls she's trying to maintain. "I'd be honored to see anything Nya wants to share."
"Thank you." I let genuine gratitude color the words, let her see how much this matters. Not just the art, but the fact that she's willing to care for my daughter despite whatever fears are keeping her from caring for me. "It means everything to her. To both of us."
Something flickers in her eyes—awareness, maybe, or recognition of the deeper current beneath my words. But before she can respond, Rhea appears at her elbow with Nya in tow, both girls chattering about the afternoon's plans.
"Can Nya come home with us for dinner?" Rhea asks, bouncing slightly on her toes. "We want to practice the songs Veyra taught us."
I look to Brynn, letting the question hang between us.
This is her choice—she can maintain her careful distance, keep our interactions limited to these public spaces where other people provide buffers and distractions.
Or she can let me into her home again, back into the warm intimacy of shared meals and quiet conversations while our daughters play.
"Please?" Nya adds her voice to Rhea's request, looking between us with hopeful eyes.
Brynn hesitates, and I can see the war playing out across her features. Fear warring with affection, caution battling against the simple desire to make our children happy. Finally, maternal love wins.
"Of course," she says, but she's looking at the girls when she says it, not at me. "But early to bed tonight. Tomorrow will be a long day."
Relief floods through me, warm and sweet as rirzed wine. It's not forgiveness, not trust, but it's not complete rejection either. It's a chance—another opportunity to prove that I'm not the man who hurt her, not someone who takes what he wants and disappears into the night.
As we pack up the flower arrangements and prepare to head home, I catch Brynn watching me again—quick glances when she thinks I'm not looking, her gaze lingering on my hands, my face, the way I interact with our daughters.
There's longing in those stolen looks, carefully hidden but unmistakable once you know what to search for.
She wants this too. Wants me, wants the possibility of something real and lasting between us. But she's trapped by ghosts I can't see, haunted by promises that were broken before I ever walked into her shop.
I think of Syrelle, of the way addiction and ambition poisoned everything she touched, of the nights I spent watching over Nya while her mother disappeared into her own selfish pursuits.
I know what it feels like to want someone who doesn't even care about you, to build your world around someone who sees you as temporary, disposable.
And I think I only wanted Syrelle because I didn't like the idea of Nya feeling neglected by her mother.
I wanted her home for our daughter, not for me.
But I also know what it feels like to choose differently. To put someone else's needs before your own wants, to stay when leaving would be easier, to love without expecting anything in return.
Brynn doesn't know that yet. But I'll show her, day by day, choice by choice, until she believes it in her bones.
I'm not going anywhere. And eventually, she'll see that too.