13. Theron
13
THERON
T he moon hangs high outside my study window, but I can't focus on the trade agreements spread across my desk. All day, Lyra's presence has pulled at my attention like a lodestone. The way she played with the kids in the garden, making them laugh as they ran around together. How she'd organized the kitchen stores with quiet efficiency, bringing order to chaos. Even now, the memory of her copper braid catching sunlight as she hung herbs to dry makes my fingers twitch.
It's been a few days since Mira called her Mama, and while I can tell that it got to her - especially when I sat in the garden as she cried - I don't think she's taken it lightly. They mean just as much to her as she's come to mean to them.
With all my thoughts tied up in Lyra, I know sleep won't come. I push back from my desk and head downstairs instead, drawn by the warm glow spilling from the kitchen doorway. The wooden floors creak beneath my hooves – they always do, no matter how carefully I step.
Lyra stands at the counter, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She's shed her practical day dress for a simple nightgown, and something primitive in my chest growls at the sight of her so unguarded in my home. The curves of her shoulders catch the lamplight as she reaches for herbs hanging from the ceiling rafters.
"Can't sleep?" Her voice is hushed, mindful of the children upstairs.
"Too much on my mind." I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. The kitchen feels smaller with both of us in it, though I tower over her slight frame.
She turns, a steaming cup in her hands. "Tea helps. Would you like some?"
I nod, watching as she pours a second cup. When she hands it to me, our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm. Her bright green eyes meet mine, flecks of gold catching in the lamplight. Neither of us moves. Neither of us looks away.
The cup trembles slightly in her grip. My thumb brushes against her knuckle, and her breath catches. The kitchen feels too warm, too close. Too intimate.
We settle at the kitchen table, the tea warming my hands. Lyra sits close enough that her scent – herbs and sunshine – mingles with the steam rising from our cups.
We've spent countless nights together in the garden, talking about little things. So I'm not surprised when she turns to me and says, "How did you and Cassandra meet?"
I wonder if she's trying to see if I miss my late wife - or if I'm just hoping she wants to know. "Our families planned our engagement. I met her at the party."
Lyra's face is shocked, and I can't help but laugh. It makes it easier for me to keep talking, for me to tell her something that I think she needs to hear.
So she knows that there is no one else I want but her.
"I never wanted an arranged marriage," I find myself saying. The words spill out before I can stop them. "But that's what was expected. Join two trading houses, secure both our futures."
Lyra's fingers curl around her cup. She doesn't interrupt, doesn't offer empty platitudes. Just listens.
"Cassandra came from old money, old traditions. The kind of family that traces their bloodline back generations." I take a long drink, letting the herbs soothe my throat. "Being married to a new merchant – even a successful one – was beneath her. I still had common blood."
"That must have been difficult." Lyra's voice carries no judgment, just quiet understanding.
"She never let me forget it. Every dinner, every social gathering, every moment we shared... there was always this wall between us." My grip tightens on the cup. "She'd been promised to Marcus Steelhorn since childhood. When our families arranged our match instead, she..." The bitterness of those memories rises like bile. "She made sure I knew I was her second choice. He's never gotten over it, either."
Lyra reaches across the table, her small hand resting near mine. Not touching, but close enough that I feel her warmth.
"The worst part?" My voice roughens. "When she was dying, after Mira came into this world... her last words weren't about love or regret. She asked me to love our children enough to make up for her. And I don't think she meant because she was going to be gone. I think she was finally admitting she never had."
"Oh, Theron." The way she says my name – soft, aching – breaks something loose in my chest. Lyra has always had an effect on me no one else has, and it's only getting worse.
"I've never told anyone that." I stare into my cup, watching ripples form in the amber liquid. "How do you tell people the mother of your children couldn't love them?"
"By trusting someone enough to share the weight." Lyra's fingers brush mine, feather-light. "You don't have to carry it alone anymore."
The kitchen windows begin to lighten, hinting at dawn's approach. Our tea has long gone cold, but neither of us moves to leave. Something in the quiet hours has cracked open between us, letting truth spill out.
Lyra tells me about traveling with a band of humans and learning about herbs, about saving anyone who needs it regardless of race or status. I tell her about my mother and what it was like growing up for me.
"I always wanted to make my family everything. A home where children's laughter echoed through every room. Where meals weren't formal affairs with perfect manners, but chances to share stories and plans." My throat tightens. "Where love wasn't measured by bloodlines or tradition."
"You've given that to Kai and Mira." Lyra's eyes hold mine, fierce and certain. "I see it every day – in how you listen to Kai's endless questions about trade routes, how you carry Mira on your shoulders even after exhausting days."
"Not enough. They deserve–" I swallow hard. "They deserve someone who can give them more than what I can." Because I'm too broken to do so properly, to even save my own daughter.
Lyra leans forward, close enough that I catch the gold flecks dancing in her green eyes. "Do you know what Mira told me yesterday? She said helping me gather herbs made her feel like she had a mother again." Her voice softens. "I've spent years moving between settlements, healing whoever needed me. But I never felt like I belonged until–" She catches her breath. "Until your children started running to greet me every morning. Until Kai began saving interesting rocks to show me. Until Mira started falling asleep in my lap during storytime."
Morning light spills through the windows now, painting everything in soft gold. It catches in Lyra's hair, turns her skin luminous. She's so close I can see the slight tremble in her lips as she speaks.
"I've always wanted a family to pour my heart into," she whispers. "Not just patients to heal and move on from. A home. Children to love. A place to plant roots and watch them grow."
I'm about to tell her she has that here, that maybe she could have so much more here with them - with me - but I don't get the chance.
The kitchen door creaks, and Mrs. Bramble's familiar footsteps break our moment. Her steel-gray bun appears first as she bustles in, already wearing her pristine black dress and white apron despite the early hour.
"Oh!" She stops short, but the surprise in her voice doesn't match the knowing gleam in her brown eyes. "I didn't expect anyone to be up yet."
Lyra rises from her chair, smoothing her nightgown. "I should get ready. The children will be awake soon."
My skin burns where her hand brushes my shoulder as she passes. The touch lingers, ghost-like, even after she's gone. I grip my teacup harder, trying to ground myself in its solid weight.
Mrs. Bramble hums as she starts her morning routine, pulling out pans with practiced efficiency. The sound is too cheerful, too knowing. She's worn that same expression since Lyra first arrived – like she's watching seeds she planted finally break soil.
"Don't start," I growl, but there's no heat in it.
"I haven't said a word, Master Theron." She cracks eggs into a bowl, her movements quick and sure. "Though if I did, I might mention how nice it is to see you sharing tea with someone again. The kitchen's been too quiet these past years."
I push back from the table, my chair scraping against the floor. Standing doesn't help – I can still feel the phantom warmth of Lyra's presence, still smell herbs and sunshine in the air. The walls of pretense I've built crumble like sand. Every smile she's given my children, every gentle touch as she tends Mira's heart condition, every quiet moment of understanding between us... they've all been hammer blows to my defenses.
Damn it all. I can't keep pretending this is just gratitude anymore.
Especially not hours later when I go in search of Lyra and my kids. I'm tired of staring at trade routes and staying away from them. I don't care about what's proper or if I feel like Lyra is far more worthy of their attention than I am. I want to spend time with them.
Once I find them, I pause in the doorway, sun warming my back as I take in the scene before me. The solarium, once my mother's pride, has transformed under Lyra's care. Green tendrils climb the latticed windows, and potted herbs line shelves that stood empty for years. The musty air that lingered here has been replaced by the scent of growing things and fresh earth.
I didn't even know she had been doing this.
Lyra sits cross-legged on a worn cushion, copper hair escaping her practical braid as she gestures with the book in her lap. Mira leans against her side, silver-white fur gleaming in the sunlight, while Kai sprawls on his stomach at her feet. Their faces are rapt as she gives each character a different voice, bringing the story to life.
"But the merchant's daughter was clever," Lyra reads, her eyes sparkling. "She knew the dragon's weakness wasn't gold or jewels, but–"
"Riddles!" Mira bounces, then catches herself as Lyra steadies her with a gentle hand.
"That's right, little one." Lyra tucks a strand of hair behind Mira's ear, so natural it makes my chest ache. "Always remember, strength comes in many forms."
Kai props his chin on his hands. "Like how you're strong because you know which herbs heal people?"
"Exactly." She ruffles his black fur, and he doesn't pull away like he usually does with others. "And you're strong because you take such good care of your sister."
The scene strikes something deep in my heart. It's not just how she tends Mira's condition or guides Kai through his questions. It's the way she's woven herself into our lives, bringing warmth to cold corners. How she matches my children's needs without dimming their spirits. The solarium itself stands as proof – she hasn't erased my mother's memory, but honored it by bringing life back to her favorite space.
I lean against the doorframe, unwilling to break the moment. Lyra glances up, catching my eye. Her smile, soft and unguarded, hits me like a physical force. Gods help me, I'm falling for everything about her – her fierce independence, her gentle strength, the way she's made my house feel like a home again.