Chapter 21 Brynn
brYNN
The square pulses with life around me, a living tapestry of sound and color that makes my chest tight with something I can't quite name.
Lanterns bob overhead like captured stars, their warm amber light washing over faces flushed with joy and rirzed wine.
The air thrums with music—Veyra's harp weaving silver threads through the deeper notes of Korin's homre, while someone keeps time on a small drum that echoes like a heartbeat through the crowd.
I've never seen Ikuyenda like this. Growing up, it was just me and my mother in our cramped cottage, making do with what little we had.
After the raids, I was too busy surviving in a new town to celebrate much of anything.
And these past ten years with Rhea, I've been so focused on keeping our heads above water that festivals felt like luxuries I couldn't afford—not just the coin, but the hope they represented.
But tonight... tonight everything feels different.
Maybe it's the way Rhea and Nya dart between the dancers, their hands linked, faces bright with pure delight.
Maybe it's watching Nya bloom these past weeks, her cheeks pink with health instead of pale with exhaustion.
Or maybe it's the man standing beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, his presence a steady anchor in the swirling celebration.
Ciaran shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing mine, and that familiar flutter starts low in my belly.
He's been doing this all evening—small touches, gentle gestures that speak louder than words.
His hand finds the small of my back as we move through the crowd, fingers splaying warm through the fabric of my dress.
When the wind picks up, carrying snow that should chill me to the bone, I realize I'm perfectly warm.
Not just from the fires scattered around the square, but from something deeper.
Magic, subtle and constant, wrapping around me like an invisible cloak.
He's been keeping me warm all night without my even asking. Without making a show of it or expecting gratitude. Just... caring for me in a way that makes my throat tight with emotions I'm not ready to name.
"Look at them," I murmur, watching the girls spin past in a whirl of dark hair and breathless laughter. Rhea's teaching Nya some complicated dance move, both of them stumbling and giggling when they get the steps wrong.
"They're perfect together," Ciaran says, and there's something in his voice that makes me glance up at him. His violet eyes catch the lantern light, soft with affection as he watches our daughters. "Nya's never had a friend like Rhea."
Our daughters. The words hit me like a physical force, and I have to look away before he sees too much in my expression.
Because that's what they've become, isn't it?
Not just Rhea and her new friend, but sisters in all but blood.
The way they curl up together when Nya's feeling poorly, how Rhea automatically brings an extra blanket when we visit the inn, the fierce protectiveness in my daughter's eyes when anyone looks at Nya sideways.
And the way Ciaran looks at Rhea—like she's already his. Like he's been waiting his whole life for a little girl who chatters about everything and nothing, who brings him pressed flowers and terrible poetry, who lights up when he teaches her new words in the old tongue.
My heart clenches, equal parts joy and terror. This is what I wanted for Rhea. A father figure who actually cares about her, who sees her intelligence and encourages her dreams instead of just tolerating her existence. But wanting it and trusting it are two very different things.
The music shifts, Veyra's harp taking on a more complex melody that has couples pairing off around the square.
I watch them move together, bodies swaying in perfect rhythm, and feel that old familiar longing rise in my chest. I've never been one for dancing—too self-conscious, too afraid of making a fool of myself.
But tonight, with the lanterns casting everything in gold and the wine warm in my veins, it looks like the most natural thing in the world.
"Dance with me."
Ciaran's voice is low beside my ear, and I startle, heat flooding my cheeks. Did I speak my thoughts aloud?
"I don't dance," I say automatically, the same response I've given to every invitation over the years.
"Neither do I, usually," he admits, extending his hand. "But tonight feels different."
It does. Everything about tonight feels suspended between reality and dream, like we've stepped into one of the stories I tell Rhea before bed. The kind where ordinary people get extraordinary endings, where love actually conquers all the practical concerns that usually keep me up at night.
Before I can second-guess myself, I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine, warm and sure, and he leads me toward the other couples without giving me time to panic. The touch of his hand at my waist sends heat spiraling through me, and when he pulls me closer, I can smell the faint scent of ink on his skin, the rirzed oil he uses in his hair.
"I'm going to step on your feet," I warn, even as my body seems to know exactly what to do.
"I'll survive," he says, and there's something in his smile that makes my knees weak.
We move together slowly at first, finding our rhythm. He's a better dancer than he claims, leading with subtle pressure that guides me without overwhelming. When I stumble slightly, he steadies me with gentle hands, never making me feel clumsy or foolish.
"See?" he murmurs, his breath warm against my temple. "You're a natural."
I laugh, the sound escaping before I can stop it. "You're a liar."
"Maybe," he agrees, spinning me in a careful circle that makes my skirts flare. "But you're smiling."
I am. I can feel it stretching across my face, probably looking ridiculous, but I can't seem to stop. When was the last time I felt this light? This free? Not just from responsibility or worry, but from the careful walls I've built around my heart.
The music flows around us, and I let myself sink into the moment.
Into the press of Ciaran's hand at my back, the way his eyes never leave my face, the careful way he holds me like I'm something precious.
Other couples blur past in my peripheral vision, but they feel distant, unimportant.
There's only this—the music, the man, the magic of a winter night that feels suspended outside of time.
"Mum!"
Rhea's voice cuts through the haze, and I blink back to awareness. She and Nya are rushing toward us, faces flushed with excitement, dragging a laughing Eda between them.
"Can we go with Eda?" Rhea asks, bouncing on her toes. "She said we could help her clean up the bakery and maybe make extra pastries for tomorrow and sleep over!"
My first instinct is to say no. It's late, they're overstimulated, and Nya especially needs her rest. I'm sure Eda does, too, after all the cooking.
But then I see the pure joy in both their faces, the way Nya is practically vibrating with excitement despite the late hour.
She looks healthier than I've seen her since they arrived, and the thought of cutting short this perfect night makes my chest ache.
"Please, Mum?" Rhea adds, those hazel-green eyes pleading. "Eda said she'd teach us how to make the special Ikuyenda cookies with the sugar flowers."
I glance at Eda, who's trying and failing to hide a knowing smirk. There's something in her expression that makes me think this wasn't entirely the girls' idea, but before I can analyze it too closely, she nods.
"They'll be perfectly safe," she says, her voice warm with genuine affection. "And frankly, I could use the help. These old bones aren't what they used to be."
I look to Ciaran who gives me a shrug and a soft grin. "I'm okay with it if you are."
The girls bounce together, already planning their adventure, and I find myself nodding before I can overthink it. "Alright, but—"
"We'll be good!" Nya interrupts, throwing her arms around my waist in an impulsive hug that steals my breath.
She's been doing that more lately—seeking physical comfort from me like I'm already family.
Like she's already mine. Something I'd love if I'm being honest. Having two perfect little girls? Who wouldn't want that?
My heart clenches as I smooth her dark hair, soft and silky under my fingers. When did this little girl become so important to me? When did the thought of her leaving start to feel like losing a piece of myself?
"I know you will," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Have fun."
Rhea hugs me next, her familiar weight grounding me even as my heart aches strangely at letting them go. It's only for one night, but watching them walk away with Eda, their small hands clasped together, feels like watching my entire world shift on its axis.
"They'll be fine," Ciaran says softly beside me, but there's something in his voice that makes me look up at him sharply.
His expression has changed. The easy joy of moments before has been replaced by something more serious, more intense. Nervous energy radiates from him, and his hands flex at his sides like he's trying to decide what to do with them.
My breath catches in my throat. I know that look. I've seen it in my mirror often enough—the expression of someone gathering courage for something that could change everything.
"Brynn," he says, my name rough on his tongue. "There's something I'd like to talk to you about."
The bottom drops out of my stomach. This is it. The moment I've been dreading and craving in equal measure, the conversation that will either build something beautiful or destroy the fragile happiness we've found.
Fear coils tight in my gut, warring with a desperate hope I'm terrified to acknowledge.
Because part of me—the part that's been carefully locked away since Cyprien left—wants this.
Wants him to say the words that will make this real, make us real.
But the larger part, the part that remembers what it felt like to be abandoned with a child and nothing else, whispers warnings I can't ignore.
What if he changes his mind? What if this is just a winter distraction, something to pass the time before he moves on to wherever poets and writers go next? What if I let him in completely and he realizes I'm not worth staying for?
My hands tremble as I clasp them together, and I force myself to meet his eyes even as my heart hammers against my ribs. The lanterns cast his face in shifting patterns of light and shadow, but I can see the nervousness there, the way his throat works as he swallows hard.
"What is it?" I whisper, though I'm not sure I'm ready for the answer.