9. Theron
9
THERON
T he cards snap against each other as I shuffle with more force than needed, Dex's knowing smirk burning into my skull from across the table. Steam rises from our untouched ales, the tavern's usual evening crowd providing a comfortable background noise.
"You're going to bend those cards if you keep that up." Dex leans back, his bronze horn rings catching the lamplight. "Though I suppose anything's better than listening to your try and act like you can't stand the 'presumptuous human healer' who's taken over your household."
My hands still. "I don't rant."
"Oh?" He scratches his chin, green eyes twinkling. "What was it you said last month? 'That woman reorganized my entire kitchen without asking.' And the month before that? 'She's teaching my children herbs instead of their lessons.'" His impression of my deeper voice is terrible. "Funny how I haven't heard a single complaint lately."
The deck creaks under my grip. "She's... competent."
"Competent?" Dex's massive frame shakes with laughter. "Your house hasn't looked this alive since—" He stops, his expression softening. "Well, it's been a while."
"Don't."
"Theron." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "It's been nearly four years. Cassandra wouldn't want?—"
"You don't know what she'd want." The words come out as a growl.
"Maybe not." Dex's usual playful demeanor falls away. "Or maybe I'm right and she wants for you to love those kids enough for both of you. But loving them doesn't mean you have to stay alone. And don't tell me you haven't noticed how Lyra looks at you."
"She's human." I deal the cards with sharp movements.
"And? Times are changing, old friend. Besides..." He picks up his cards, arranging them with careful precision. "When was the last time you smiled before she came along? Really smiled?"
The question hits harder than I expect. My chest tightens as I think of Lyra's laugh this morning, the way she'd stood toe-to-toe with me despite barely reaching my chest, insisting the children needed more time outside.
"It would dishonor Cassandra's memory."
Dex slams his cards down. "That's shit. You know what would dishonor her memory? Letting guilt over a marriage neither of you wanted keep you from finding happiness."
I stare at the forgotten cards, my throat tight. The tavern's warmth suddenly feels stifling, and I loosen my collar. "That's not the guilt that eats at me…" I finally admit. "It's that I… I never loved her."
And I know that if I replace her, I'll feel nothing but relief. That would dishonor my late wife's memory.
The words hang between us, heavy with years of unspoken truth. My fingers trace the silver rings on my horns – merchant's marks that Cassandra had sneered at during our wedding day.
"She was so... proper. Every gesture calculated, every word measured. Even with the children." I take a long drink of ale. "I'd come home to find Kai hiding in the study because his mother said his laughter was unseemly. Found Mira's drawings crumpled in the waste bin because ladies don't sketch."
Dex's usual jovial expression softens. "I remember. You started wearing those high collars, speaking like some stuffed-horn nobleman."
"Had to. She'd..." The memory stings. "She'd correct my 'common' speech at dinner. Said I embarrassed her in front of the other merchants' wives."
"And now?"
My chest tightens as I think of breakfast this morning – Lyra perched on two cushions to reach the table properly, teaching Kai to braid herbs while Mira giggled at her brother's clumsy attempts. The way she'd touched my arm, casual and warm, when asking me to pass the bread.
"That's what makes it worse." I drag a hand down my face. "With Lyra, it feels... real. Like I finally understand what everyone else meant about family. And I can't—" My voice breaks. "I can't stop feeling guilty that my children are happier with a stranger than they ever were with their own mother."
"Theron." Dex's massive frame leans forward, his green eyes serious. "I watched you disappear behind those merchant masks. Watched you measure every word, every gesture, until I barely recognized my friend. But now?" He gestures at my rolled sleeves, my loosened collar. "When's the last time you worried about looking 'common' before Lyra?"
The question hits like a physical blow. I can't remember.
I leave the tavern before Dex can pry open any more wounds. The walk home through darkened streets does nothing to settle my thoughts, each step echoing with uncomfortable truths.
The manor's familiar silhouette looms ahead, but something's different tonight. Light spills from the library windows, painting golden rectangles across the front garden. Strange – the children should be in bed by now.
My boots fall silent as I approach the open library doors. The sight inside freezes me mid-step.
Lyra's curled in my mother's ancient reading chair, copper-red hair escaping its practical braid. Her usual earth-toned dress is wrinkled, pockets still bulging with the day's collected herbs. Both children nestle against her like puzzle pieces finding their home. Kai's black fur contrasts sharply with his sister's silver-white, his gangly frame protective even in sleep. Mira's tiny hand clutches Lyra's skirts, her face peaceful in a way I rarely see.
A massive tome about magical beasts lies open across Lyra's lap, her fingers still marking their place. Several more books scatter around the chair's base, evidence of an impromptu story session.
My chest constricts. This is everything I'd wanted for them, everything Cassandra could never give. The warmth, the casual intimacy of family – not the rigid formality of our previous life.
Lyra's head rests at an awkward angle that will hurt come morning. A strand of copper hair falls across her face, and my fingers itch to brush it away. The gold flecks in her eyes are hidden now, but I remember how they spark when she challenges me, how they soften when she tends to Mira's weak heart.
I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't crave the way she's carved out space in our lives, filling corners I didn't even know were empty. But watching her breathe slowly, my children secure in her embrace, I can't remember why.
A floorboard creaks behind me, and I catch Mrs. Bramble's familiar scent – rirzed herb soap and fresh bread – before she speaks.
"They've been like that for hours." Her whisper carries decades of affection. "Miss Lyra insisted on reading just one more story until they all dozed off."
My throat tightens. "I should get them to bed."
"She's nothing like Cassandra." Mrs. Bramble's words slice through my defenses with surgical precision. "That's what's got you standing here instead of going in, isn't it?"
The truth of it hits like a physical blow. Where Cassandra maintained careful distance, Lyra draws them close. Where my wife measured affection in proper doses, this small human woman gives it freely, abundantly.
"That's what terrifies me," I admit, the words barely audible.
Mrs. Bramble's weathered hand pats my arm. "Good. Means you're finally waking up."
I move before the emotion can overwhelm me. Kai stirs as I lift him, his gangly limbs arranging themselves around my neck with practiced ease. His blue eyes – Cassandra's eyes – flutter open briefly.
"Papa?" he mumbles. "We were learning about healing herbs..."
"Sleep, little warrior." My childhood nickname, the one that my mother would call me in moments like this, slips out naturally now. When had that happened?
Lyra's eyes open as I return for Mira. The gold flecks catch the lamplight as she carefully extracts herself from my daughter's grip.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, voice husky with sleep. "They wanted stories about healing plants, and time got away from us."
Mira's slight weight settles against my chest, her silver-white fur gleaming. She burrows closer, small fingers curling into my shirt, and I savor it. I savor every moment that I feel like I'm finally doing right by her.
"Here, let me help." Lyra's already moving toward Mira's room, pulling back covers and arranging pillows. Her hands are sure but gentle as she helps me tuck my daughter in, checking the charm that monitors Mira's heart with practiced care.
Our fingers brush as we smooth the blanket. The contact sends warmth shooting up my arm, and I let it linger longer than necessary.
But Lyra is exhausted, and soon, I'm tugging her to her own room, bidding her goodnight.
Back in my study, I sink into the leather chair that's absorbed countless hours of paperwork and lonely nights. The small drawing sits propped against an inkwell, edges already worn from frequent handling. Kai's careful lines capture more truth than any expensive portrait – our family as he sees it.
My fingers trace the copper-colored strands he'd given Lyra's hair, using the special ink my mother had loved. He'd asked permission first, solemn blue eyes wide with worry about using something so precious. But there was no hesitation in how he drew her – standing between Mira and me, her hand linked with mine while Mira hugs her legs.
The copper ink catches the lamplight, and suddenly I'm remembering my mother's voice.
Love isn't a business transaction, my bull-headed son. You can't calculate its worth or minimize its risks.
She never wanted me to marry Cassandra, but her sisters pushed her. I agreed, for the good of my family. And I paid the price over the years.
My collar feels too tight again. I yank it loose, letting it fall open like I never would have dared with Cassandra watching. The silver merchant rings on my horns catch my reflection in the window – symbols of status that had meant everything to her and nothing to Lyra.
The drawing blurs. Kai hadn't included Cassandra. He'd had every opportunity – her portrait hangs in the main hall, proper and distant even in oils. But in his truth, drawn with a child's untainted honesty, our family has copper hair and herb-stained fingers and laughter that fills empty corners.
I press my palms against the desk, feeling the smooth wood groan under my grip. I've spent years being closed off, pushing everyone away. Somehow, in two months, this tiny human woman has dismantled every wall with nothing but gentle hands and stubborn determination.
The choice stretches before me like a merchant's crossroads – the safe, familiar path of isolation, or the terrifying unknown of letting someone in. Of letting myself want more than duty and proper appearances.
Kai's drawing watches me, copper ink gleaming. He'd colored my face with a smile I haven't worn in years. Until Lyra.