11. Theron
11
THERON
T he morning sun barely crests the horizon when Mira bursts into my study, her silver-white fur practically glowing in the early light.
"Papa! Can we go to market? With Lyra too?" Her amber eyes, so like my own, shine with hope.
My quill pauses over the ledger. The thought of being seen publicly with Lyra makes my chest tighten. Not because I'm ashamed - far from it. But the whispers will start again, and I've spent years building walls against those voices.
"Please?" Mira tugs at my sleeve. "Kai wants to learn about herbs, and I want to see the ribbons."
I glance at my daughter's eager face, then to Kai hovering in the doorway. His serious expression softens when our eyes meet.
"Lyra said she'd teach me which plants help Mira breathe better," Kai adds quietly.
And just like that, my resistance crumbles. "We'll ask her when she wakes."
"I'm up." Lyra comes into view behind Kai, and fuck, seeing her is like being punched in the gut. She's so damn beautiful. "And I would love to go."
One look at that smile, at my kids begging faces, and I'm up, getting us all ready to leave. Because, for the first time, I realize that making them happy is all I want.
The market square buzzes with activity as we make our way through the stalls. Lyra's arm fits perfectly through mine, her copper hair catching the sunlight. She's so small beside me that I find myself shortening my stride to match hers.
Mira perches on my shoulders, her tiny hooves occasionally drumming against my chest in excitement. "Look Papa! The ribbon merchant has silver ones today!"
"Perfect match for your fur, little one," Lyra calls up, reaching to steady Mira when she leans too far forward.
Kai walks beside Lyra, pepper-bombing her with questions about every herb and root they pass. His black fur, so like mine, bristles with concentration as she explains each one's properties.
"This one helps with chest congestion," Lyra points to a purple-stemmed plant. "And these berries boost the blood."
I catch myself watching her more than the market - the way she seamlessly handles both children's questions, how naturally she moves beside me. The stares from other market-goers fade into background noise against the sound of my children's laughter and Lyra's gentle voice.
"Papa, down please," Mira pats my horns. "I want to look at the ribbons with Lyra."
A flash of movement catches my eye - Marcus Steelhorn and his cronies lounging by their stalls, their gazes fixed on Lyra with predatory interest. My jaw clenches. The silver rings on my horns catch the light as I shift, angling my body between them and her.
"Such a pretty little thing," Marcus drawls, loud enough to carry. "I'm surprised you still have the human pet, Blackhorn."
My fingers tighten around Mira's legs where she still sits on my shoulders. Her tiny hooves press against my chest, sensing my tension. The market's cheerful buzz fades to a dull roar in my ears.
"Papa?" Kai's voice wavers, his black fur bristling as he picks up on the threat.
A warm touch on my forearm draws my attention down. Lyra's green eyes meet mine, flecks of gold catching the sunlight. Her fingers squeeze gently, grounding me.
"They're not worth it," she murmurs, lips curving into that knowing smile that makes my chest ache. "Besides, I believe someone promised to show me the best herb stall in the market?"
The tension bleeds from my shoulders despite myself. She's right - starting a fight in the middle of the market would only prove what the whispers say about me. That I'm nothing but a common merchant who married above his station, too rough for proper society.
Mira's excited squeal breaks through my dark thoughts. "Lyra, look! The ribbon merchant has ones with little flowers stitched on them!"
"Those would look lovely in your fur, dear heart." Lyra's voice carries nothing but warmth, as if Marcus and his sneers don't exist. Her hand stays on my arm, thumb tracing small circles that ease the last of the growl from my throat.
I force my grip on Mira to gentle, though I can't quite make myself step away from my protective stance over Lyra. Her quiet strength beside me speaks louder than any cutting remark from Marcus ever could.
The children's clothing stall beckons with its colorful display of tunics and small boots. Mira tugs Lyra toward a dress with silver embroidery while Kai lingers by the practical wear, his eyes fixed on a sturdy leather vest.
A group of young minotaurs loiters near the stall's edge - all from prominent families based on their horn rings and tailored clothes. My shoulders tense as their gazes lock onto my children.
"Look who it is," one of them sneers. "The commoner's brats."
Kai's ears flatten against his head. Mira shrinks behind Lyra's skirts.
"Heard your father's taking up with a human now." Another youth steps forward, his steel-gray fur marking him as Marcus's eldest. "Guess it makes him feel better about his water-thin blood."
My blood boils. One step and I'll-
But Kai moves first. My son draws himself up, shoulders back, chin lifted - a mirror of my own stance in the trading halls. His small horns catch the sunlight as he faces down the bullies.
"My family's different," he declares, voice clear and strong. "And we're happy. Which is more than I can say for yours, always complaining about your father's temper."
The words hit like a physical blow - not at the bullies, but at me. When did my serious, quiet son grow so fierce? So proud?
Lyra's hand finds Mira's, drawing her forward to stand beside her brother. My daughter's silver-white fur gleams as she straightens her spine, tiny face set in determination.
The sight steals my breath. These are my children - not broken by whispers and stares, but stronger for them. And there's Lyra, her copper braid swinging as she steps behind them both, one hand on each child's shoulder. The three of them form a perfect picture, one that makes my chest ache with a feeling I haven't dared name.
Somewhere between herb lessons and market visits, between nightmares soothed and scraped knees bandaged, we've become more than just a household. We've become a family.
Marcus' son scoffs, but the group slinks off, leaving the rest of us alone. And I stare at my son in awe.
I guide us toward the art merchant's stall, watching Kai's eyes light up at the display of charcoal sticks and thick paper. Cassandra always insisted drawing was beneath a proper minotaur's dignity - but I can't forget finding his hidden sketches tucked between ledger pages, quick studies of ships and sea birds that showed real talent.
"Which ones would you like?" Lyra kneels beside him, her fingers tracing the different qualities of paper. "These thicker sheets would hold up well to charcoal."
Kai hesitates, his black fur ruffling. "Are you sure it's okay, Papa?"
"More than okay." I rest my hand on his shoulder. "Art is as much about precision as trading - good practice for both."
Mira bounces on her toes. "Can I have colors? Please?"
"Of course, little one." Lyra helps her examine the pigment sticks, explaining how each shade is made. Her copper braid falls forward as she bends to Mira's level, and something catches in my chest at how naturally she touches my daughter's hand, guides her small fingers over the supplies.
No flinching from Mira's hooves. No awkward distance like the tutors who treated my children as obligations. Just pure, gentle attention as she helps Mira select her favorites.
"Look Papa!" Mira holds up a silver stick that matches her fur. "Lyra says I can draw our family!"
Our family. The words echo as I watch Lyra help her into a new dress at the clothing merchant's stall, her movements sure and tender. She adjusts the fabric with practiced ease, never treating Mira's small size as a flaw to be hidden. When my daughter twirls, making the skirt flare, Lyra's laugh rings clear and true - no trace of shame at being seen caring for a minotaur child in public.
She fits with us , I realize. Like she was meant to be here, teaching Kai about herbs and helping Mira find her confidence. The thought spreads warmth through my chest, dangerous and sweet as honey wine.
By the time we get home, everyone is exhausted. Lyra disappears with the kids so they can take a nap before dinner, and I'm not too eager to let them go. But I force myself to put away my new items instead.
I'm arranging the day's purchases in my study when a small package catches my eye, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. My fingers brush the careful knots as I unfold the note tucked beneath.
For your mother's garden. - L
The paper falls away to reveal seeds - not just any seeds, but the exact variety of climbing roses my mother cultivated before her death. The ones I'd mentioned in passing weeks ago while showing Lyra the overgrown garden beds.
My throat tightens. I'd been staring at those thorny vines during our walk, remembering how Mother would weave the blooms into elaborate displays for feast days. Lyra had listened, really listened, as I described the way the petals caught morning light.
The seeds rest in my palm, so small yet weighted with memory. Mother would have liked Lyra, I realize. Would have appreciated her quiet strength, her way of healing not just bodies but hearts.
Like how she steadied Mira's hands at the market today, showing her how to tie ribbons in her fur without once mentioning that most minotaur children her age would have mastered it already. Or how she drew Kai out of his shell with questions about his drawings, treating each sketch like a masterpiece worthy of study.
I sink into my chair, rolling the seed packet between my fingers. The study feels different now - less a refuge from whispers and more a space where new memories wait to be made. Where Lyra's copper braid catches lamplight as she sorts herbs at my desk, where my children's laughter echoes instead of silence.
When did this happen? When did this tiny human woman with her herb-stained fingers and knowing smile become as essential as breathing? The question hangs in the quiet evening air, unanswered but undeniable.
The seeds crinkle in my grip. Such a small thing - yet it speaks volumes about how deeply she sees, how carefully she listens. How naturally she's woven herself into the fabric of our lives.