21. Theron
21
THERON
T he morning sun filters through the dining room's tall windows as I scan the urgent message for the third time. The trade routes to the south - completely open. No competition. The potential profits make my head spin, but the timeline...
"Papa, don't go." Mira's tiny hands clutch my forearm, her big amber eyes - so like mine - brimming with tears. The sight twists something in my chest.
"It's only for a few weeks, little one." I stroke her dark curls, so different from her mother's straight blonde hair. "You'll barely notice I'm gone."
"A few weeks?" Kai pushes his porridge away. "You're never gone that long."
I catch Lyra's gaze across the table. She's trying to keep her expression neutral, but worry creases the corners of her bright green eyes. Her fingers fidget with the herbs braided into her copper hair - a nervous habit I've noticed.
"We'll be alright," she says softly, though her small frame tense. "Your father will be back soon enough."
Neither of my kids look very convinced, and I'm just grateful she's willing to
Mira crawls into my lap, her small body barely covering one of my thighs. Kai pretends to be too old for such displays, but he edges his chair closer to mine.
"I have to go." My voice softens as I wrap an arm around Mira. "But I'll bring back shells from the southern beaches. And new charcoals for you, Kai."
"Promise you'll be careful?" Lyra's question carries more weight than she probably intends. Her hands grip her teacup too tightly, knuckles white against the porcelain.
"I always am." I meet her gaze steadily, watching the gold flecks in her eyes catch the morning light. "The household will be in good hands while I'm gone."
After breakfast, I retreat to my chambers to pack. My weathered travel chest sits open on the bed, its brass fittings gleaming dully in the morning light. The familiar routine of gathering supplies does nothing to settle the unease in my gut.
I fold my best trading coat - can't look shabby in front of potential partners - but pause when a dried sprig of rirzed herb falls from the collar. Lyra must have slipped it in. The gentle scent reminds me of her quiet humming as she worked, her afternoons spent drying and blending herbs.
Mira's latest drawings spill from my ledger as I pack it. Bright splashes of color depicting our family - my horns always exaggerated, her own figure tiny beside mine. She draws Lyra with a crown of flowers these days. I tuck the pages carefully between contracts and manifests.
A letter from Kai catches my eye, his careful script filling the page with updates about his studies. My boy tries so hard to be grown up, to fill the spaces I leave behind. The thought sits like lead in my stomach.
The chest fills steadily - spare clothes, navigation tools, trading licenses. Each item feels heavier than it should. My fingers brush the silver rings on my horns, counting them by habit. They are supposed to be a sign to others of my strength, my success, but what is it all worth if I have to leave my family behind?
Movement in the doorway draws my attention. Lyra stands there, arms full of dried herbs wrapped in cloth.
"For seasickness," she explains, not meeting my eyes. "And some healing poultices, just in case."
The bundles join my other supplies, their sharp green scent mixing with the leather and metal. Her small hands linger on the chest's edge, and I fight the urge to cover them with my own.
Instead, I focus on securing the latches, each click echoing in the growing silence between us.
Soon enough, I'm on the ship, heading around the edge of the continent, left alone with my thoughts. And I do something that I never thought I would do. I try to write a letter.
Soon, sheets of parchment scatter across the desk like fallen leaves, each one started with Dear Lyra before being crumpled and discarded. I'm not even sure why I'm trying to do this.
I pull out fresh parchment, the scratch of my quill mixing with the creak of timber and distant waves.
Dear Lyra,
The sunset here paints the clouds in shades that match your hair. I caught myself searching the market in Port Westerly for those herb bundles you always weave into your braids...
The letter joins its brothers in the waste bin.
And yet, I dive into another attempt.
The children would love the flying fish that dance alongside the ship. Mira would call them silver birds, I think. And Kai - he'd want to know exactly how high they leap, probably try to measure it somehow...
That one burns in the lamp flame.
I'm not sure what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. I guess I don't know how to live my life without looking for her to share it with, without seeing my children's wonderment in everything.
Each port brings new temptations. In Coral Bay, I find delicate shells in impossible spirals that would look perfect woven through copper-red hair. The market in Southhaven overflows with healing herbs I've never seen before - plants that would make those green eyes of hers light up with curiosity.
My business correspondence grows shorter, more perfunctory. Instead, I fill pages with descriptions of everything I wish I could share. How the morning mist turns the harbor into a dream world. The way local children play games with painted stones that Mira would adore. Stories of clever merchants that would make Kai lean forward in his chair, eager to learn.
But it's the quiet moments that fill most pages - thoughts I can't voice aloud. All of them filled with Lyra. How her fearlessness both irritates and captivates me. The way she stands up to me despite barely reaching my chest. Her hands, so small yet so capable, whether brewing medicines or wiping away Mira's tears.
These letters pile up in my sea chest, bound with string and hidden beneath ledgers. Each one carries words too raw, too honest to send: I miss your stubborn chin lift when you disagree with me. I miss how you hum while working. I miss the scent of herbs that follows you through my home - our home.
The business deal that brought me here seems hollow compared to what I left behind.
A sharp rap at my cabin door breaks through my brooding. "Ship approaching, Captain needs you on deck."
The southern winds whip my coat as I emerge. Through the spyglass, I spot a familiar flag that makes my blood run cold - Marcus Steelhorn's personal merchant vessel. What in blazes is he doing this far south?
"Quite the coincidence, finding you here." Marcus's smirk stretches across his face as he boards via gangplank, his steel-gray fur gleaming with oils and his horns dripping with gold rings. The sight of him sets my teeth on edge.
"No coincidence at all, I'd wager." My voice comes out as a low growl.
He circles me like a predator, those cold blue eyes calculating. "You always were clever, Blackhorn. Though not clever enough to see through that forged trade notice."
My fists clench. "What game are you playing?"
"While you're chasing phantoms in the south seas, your household lies unprotected." He adjusts his silk cravat with manicured fingers. "Such a shame about that new human woman you've taken in. The council might need to... investigate her fitness as a caretaker for noble-born children."
The deck boards crack under my hooves as I advance. "If you dare touch them-"
"You'll what? You're already a week away from home, exactly as planned." His smile widens, showing too many teeth. "Your reputation or your family, Blackhorn. By the time you make it back, either your trade contracts will be in shambles, or that pretty little human will have…met my friends on the council. Your choice."
The ship's railing splinters in my grip. Every instinct screams to throw him overboard, but that would only prove his point about "violent merchant stock" to the council. Marcus knows exactly how to play this game - he's had years of practice wielding propriety as a weapon.
I turn to the Captain. "Plot a course for home. Full sail."
"Running back to your human?" Marcus laughs. "And here I thought you had your father's business sense. Seems you inherited his weakness for their kind instead."
My response is lost in the crack of canvas as the crew scrambles to change course. Let Marcus have his moment of triumph. Some things matter more than pride or profit.
The southern wind whips through my fur as I stand at the helm, my silver rings catching the harsh sunlight. Each nautical mile north feels like an eternity. Marcus's words echo in my head, mixing with memories of copper hair and defiant green eyes.
"We're losing the favorable winds." The Captain's voice carries across the deck. "The southern route-"
"To hell with the southern route. I want to get home. Now ."
He doesn't argue. No one has ever seen me like this. I've spent years building up my reputation, proving that I am worthy of the merchant rank. Now I'm throwing it all away for a human healer who barely reaches my chest.
The thought brings an unexpected smile to my face. Father would understand, I think. He chose duty over love and regretted it until his dying day. I watch the horizon, remembering his haunted eyes whenever he spoke of the human woman he left behind.
I've spent years building walls, protecting myself with gruff words and stern looks. Yet somehow Lyra slipped through them all, armed with nothing but herb bundles and that stubborn tilt of her chin. The thought of Marcus's cronies threatening her, having anyone go after her...
A growl rumbles in my chest. Let them try. Let them come after my family with their proper bloodlines and ancient traditions. They'll learn why merchants who cross me never try twice.
My father chose duty. I choose love.