Chapter 17 Brynn
brYNN
Eda's bakery glows warm against the winter night, its windows fogged with sugar and heat from the ovens that have been working overtime for Ikuyenda preparations.
The sweet scent of rising dough and spiced honey cakes drifts out every time the door opens, mixing with the crisp bite of snow in the air.
"Are you absolutely certain they'll be fine?" Ciaran asks for the third time, his violet eyes fixed on the bakery's cheerful interior where Rhea and Nya are already elbow-deep in flour, their giggles audible even through the thick wooden door.
"They'll be perfect," Eda assures him, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. "Rhea's been coming here every week for years. She knows where everything is, how to bank the fires, when to check the rising loaves. And having Nya here will only make it more special."
Through the window, I watch my daughter showing Nya how to knead dough, their heads bent close together as they work.
Nya's face is bright with concentration and joy, her small hands mimicking Rhea's confident motions.
The sight makes something warm unfurl in my chest—the way they've taken to each other, the easy companionship that's developed between them.
"They're making Ikuyenda sweet breads," I add, trying to ease the worry lines creasing Ciaran's brow. "It's tradition. The girls who help with the all-night baking get to take the first loaves to their families in the morning. Rhea's been looking forward to this for weeks."
"And now she gets to share it with Nya," Eda says with the kind of fond smile she reserves for the children she's watched grow up. "Trust me, Master Delyth. They'll be too busy giggling and sneaking tastes of honey to get into any real trouble."
Ciaran's shoulders remain tense, and I can practically feel his reluctance radiating off him like heat from a forge.
He's barely let Nya out of his sight since they arrived in Eryndral, hyperaware of every breath she takes, every sign of strain or fatigue.
The idea of leaving her overnight, even in the capable hands of someone as trustworthy as Eda, clearly goes against every protective instinct he possesses.
"The other girls will be here too," I point out gently. "Veyra's youngest sister, the cooper's twin daughters. It's not just Nya and Rhea alone."
"Besides," Eda adds with a knowing look, "you look like you could use a night to yourself. When's the last time you did something just for you?"
The question seems to catch him off guard, and I watch his expression shift from worry to something more complicated. Guilt, maybe, or the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from months of single-handedly carrying the weight of someone else's wellbeing.
"Go," I tell him, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. "Work on your poems. Sleep through the night without listening for every sound. They'll be fine."
He looks at me then, really looks, and I can see him weighing my words against his fears. Whatever he sees in my face must reassure him, because his shoulders finally start to relax.
"All right," he says, though it sounds like the words cost him something. "But if anything happens—"
"I'll send someone to fetch you immediately," Eda promises. "Though the only emergency you're likely to face is two little girls with stomachaches from eating too much sweet dough."
We say our goodbyes, and I watch Ciaran give Nya careful instructions about listening to Eda and not staying up too late, his hands gentle as he smooths her dark hair back from her face. The tenderness in the gesture makes my chest tight with something I'm not ready to name.
Then we're walking back toward the inn together, our breath visible in small puffs that dissipate quickly in the cold air.
The streets are quieter now, most families settled in for the evening, though warm light spills from windows and the occasional sound of laughter drifts from the houses we pass.
"I should let you get to your writing," I say when we reach the inn's front door, though something in me rebels against the idea of saying goodnight.
The conversation at the lake earlier has left me feeling raw and unsettled, like I've been turned inside out and don't quite know how to piece myself back together.
"I suppose," he agrees, but he doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he stands there in the snow, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Thank you. For convincing me to let her stay. I know she'll have a wonderful time."
"She will. Rhea's been talking about teaching her the traditional songs they sing while the bread rises. I think you'll find a very happy little girl tomorrow morning."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I hope so. She's been... different here. Happier. Healthier. I haven't seen her laugh this much in years."
The weight behind those words settles between us, and I think about everything he told me at the lake.
About Syrelle and her addictions, about the loneliness of being trapped in a marriage that was never really a partnership.
About what it means to watch someone you care about slowly destroy themselves while you stand helpless on the sidelines.
"Goodnight, Ciaran," I say softly, because if I don't leave now, I'm going to do something foolish. Like invite myself up to his room, or ask him to walk with me longer, or any number of things that would prove I'm making the same mistake all over again.
He nods, understanding something in my tone. "Goodnight, Brynn."
But as I turn to go, I find myself thinking about him alone in that small room, bent over his notebook with only lamplight for company.
About the worry that's probably already creeping back in now that Nya is out of his sight.
About the poems he'll try to write while his mind churns with all the reasons he should have insisted on bringing her home.
Three hours later, I'm still thinking about it.
I've cleaned the shop twice, reorganized my supply shelves, and attempted to read the same page of my account ledger four times without absorbing a single number. The apartment feels too quiet without Rhea's chatter, too empty without the comfortable routine of our evening preparations.
But it's more than that. It's the memory of Ciaran's face when he talked about being abandoned, about not being enough for someone who was supposed to love him. It's the recognition I saw in his eyes when he talked about loneliness, about building walls to protect yourself from disappointment.
It's the way he looked at me when he said he wasn't going anywhere.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm gathering food from my kitchen—fresh bread from yesterday's batch, a wedge of sharp white cheese, a bottle of wine I've been saving for no particular occasion.
My hands move with purpose even as my mind races with doubts, wrapping everything carefully in clean cloth and tucking it all into a basket.
The night air hits my face like a slap when I step outside, sharp and clean and full of the promise of more snow. But I pull my cloak tighter and make my way through the quiet streets toward the inn, my boots crunching softly on the thin layer of powder that's accumulated since this afternoon.
I find him exactly where I expected to—sitting on the wooden bench outside the inn's main entrance, hunched over his notebook with a lamp balanced precariously on the armrest beside him.
His magic shimmers around him like a heat haze, keeping the falling snow from settling on his dark hair and protecting him from the worst of the cold.
He looks up at the sound of my footsteps, and a smile curves his mouth—surprised but genuinely pleased, like I've given him an unexpected gift.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, closing the notebook and setting it aside.
"Couldn't stop thinking," I admit, settling beside him on the bench. The warmth of his magic extends to include me immediately, wrapping around my shoulders like an invisible blanket. "Thought you might be having the same problem."
"You thought right." He glances at the basket in my lap with raised eyebrows. "What's all this?"
"Bread. Cheese. Wine." I start unpacking items onto the space between us. "I figured if we're both going to be awake anyway, we might as well make the most of it."
His expression softens as he takes in the impromptu feast, and I catch something that looks almost like relief in his violet eyes. Like he's been hoping for exactly this kind of distraction but hasn't known how to ask for it.
"This is perfect," he says quietly, accepting the wine bottle when I offer it. "Thank you."
We eat in comfortable silence at first, passing the bottle back and forth and watching the snow fall in lazy spirals through the lamplight.
The bread is still soft from yesterday's baking, the cheese sharp enough to make my mouth water, and the wine warms me from the inside out in a way that has nothing to do with Ciaran's magic.
"Tell me about your childhood," I say after a while, surprising myself with the request. "Before all the complications. What made you happy when you were young?"
He considers this, tearing off another piece of bread and chewing thoughtfully.
"Books," he says finally. "I was one of those children who disappeared into stories and forgot the world existed.
My mother used to find me curled up in the strangest places with a book—under the kitchen table, in the barn loft, once in a tree so high she had to coax me down with promises of dinner. "
I can picture it easily—a young Ciaran with ink-stained fingers and wild hair, so absorbed in whatever tale had captured his imagination that he forgot about everything else. The image makes me smile.
"What about you?" he asks. "What did little Brynn dream about?"