28. Theron
28
THERON
I stand at the head of the Merchant Guild's grand table, surrounded by the finest silver cups and imported delicacies money can buy. The contract sits before me, its fresh ink glistening - my name bold against the parchment, claiming exclusive rights to the southern trade routes.
Marcus' face twists as he raises his cup in a forced toast. "To Blackhorn Trading Company's... innovation." The word drips with venom. Several of his supporters shift uncomfortably in their seats, their horns catching the lamplight as they exchange glances.
"Your father would be proud," Elder Thornhaven rumbles, clapping my shoulder. His massive frame towers even over mine, adorned with gold rings that mark decades of successful trades.
But all I can think of is how Lyra would have squeezed my hand under the table, her tiny fingers warm against my palm. How Kai would have peppered me with questions about the island's strange beasts, while Mira begged for stories of the sea.
"Tell us your strategy, Blackhorn." A younger merchant leans forward, his fresh horn-rings marking him as newly elevated. "How did you secure the southern chiefs' support?"
I take a slow drink, buying time. The imported wine tastes flat. "Persistence. Respect for their customs." My voice sounds distant to my own ears, mechanical. "Understanding their needs."
The irony isn't lost on me. I can navigate delicate negotiations with foreign powers, but I couldn't keep one small human healer from walking out my door.
Servants weave between the gathered merchants, replacing empty plates with exotic fruits and spiced meats. The scents that should make my mouth water only remind me of Lyra experimenting in the kitchen, trying to recreate healing recipes from distant lands.
"A toast!" Someone calls out. "To the most profitable trade deal of the season!"
Cups raise. Horns gleam. Wealthy merchants who once sneered at my common background now smile and scrape. Everything I've worked for, everything I thought I wanted.
But without three sets of eyes lighting up at my return home, without gentle hands checking me for injuries after long journeys, without that copper hair catching the sunset as she waits on the front steps... what's the point of any of it?
Marcus swirls his wine, his steel-gray fur bristling with barely concealed malice. "Such a shame about your... domestic situation. As I tried to tell you, my wife knows several excellent governesses that could help. Pure-blooded minotaur, of course. Not some human playing at being a proper lady."
He's pushing me again, this time where everyone else can watch. And I don't care about letting my ruthlessness out if it'll teach him to keep his fucking mouth shut.
The merchants around us fall quiet, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"Those poor calves." Marcus adjusts his gold horn rings, a calculated gesture. "They need a real mother figure. Someone who understands our ways, our traditions. Not some herb-witch who'll fill their heads with human nonsense-"
The chair crashes behind me as I surge to my feet. Seven feet and two inches of fury tower over the table, my shadow falling across Marcus's suddenly still form. The rings in my horns catch firelight as I lean forward, letting him see every hard-earned mark of my success.
"Say another word about my family." My voice drops to a rumble that vibrates the silverware. "Just one more word."
Marcus's blue eyes dart to the other merchants, seeking allies, but finds none. Even his usual supporters stare into their cups, unwilling to back this particular fight.
"I only meant-"
My fist slams the table. Plates jump. Wine sloshes. "You meant to do what you always do. Poison everything you touch with your bile." The words tear from my throat, years of accumulated rage breaking free. "You lost Cassandra to me. You lost the southern trade routes. And now you dare speak of my children?"
The gathered merchants press back in their chairs as my bulk casts longer shadows. Some of them have seen me in the arena. They know what happens when I lose control.
"Their mother," I snarl, "will be someone who loves them. Someone who sees their worth beyond their bloodline. Someone nothing like you or your poisonous ideas of 'tradition.'"
"Theron-"
I shake my head. We've done this over and over. I'm sick of it. He wants to put on a show for the guild? Fine. I'll give them a damn show.
"Let's go outside now." Marcus' eyes widen. "I challenge you."
Maybe it's the "commoner" in me, but I want to put this to a fucking end. And even though most merchants, anyone who isn't willing to get their hands dirty, don't challenge a rival, it is the minotaur way.
It's the only way for me to put an end to all of this.
The guild's courtyard fills within minutes, torchlight casting long shadows across ancient stone. Merchants crowd the covered walkways, their horn rings glinting as they jostle for position. No one wants to miss this - a formal challenge hasn't been issued in the guild for over a decade.
I strip off my formal jacket, the cool evening air raising gooseflesh on my arms. Across the fighting circle, Marcus removes his own finery with deliberate slowness, each movement calculated to project confidence.
"Terms?" Elder Thornhaven steps between us, his weathered face grave.
"When I win," Marcus's steel-gray fur bristles as he stretches, "Blackhorn Trading merges with my company. Under my leadership, naturally."
My jaw clenches. "And when I win, you never come within sight of my family again. No messages. No proxies. No 'chance' meetings at social gatherings. You leave Karona."
Marcus' jaw clenches but he nods. What a fucking fool.
"Witnessed and bound." Thornhaven raises his massive hands. "Challenge issued under the old laws. Victory by submission or unconsciousness only."
The crowd shifts closer as we take our positions. Marcus circles left, his movements fluid despite his softer physique. He's fought before - we all have. It's in our blood.
"You always were too emotional, Blackhorn." He feints, testing my guard. "That's why you'll never be true nobility. Letting a human into your home, raising your pure-blooded children with foreign ideas-"
I don't rise to the bait. Instead, I plant my hooves and wait, letting him waste breath on words. The same patience that built my trade empire will win this fight.
Marcus lunges, leading with his horns. I sidestep, noting how his expensive lifestyle has slowed him. His attack leaves him off-balance - exactly what I need.
My fist connects with his ribs. He stumbles back, eyes widening as he realizes his mistake. I'm not the same merchant who married Cassandra. Years of working alongside my crews, loading cargo and fighting off raiders, have hardened me beyond his soft noble lifestyle.
"Your problem, Marcus?" I advance, my bulk casting a shadow over his retreating form. "You never learned the difference between being born to power and earning it."
Marcus charges again, this time aiming lower. His polished horn rings flash in the torchlight as he tries to gore my midsection. I pivot, grabbing his shoulders and using his momentum to slam him into the ground. Dust billows around us.
"All those fancy rings." I drive my knee into his back, pinning him. "But when's the last time you earned one?"
He bucks, trying to throw me off. His expensive silk shirt tears as he writhes. "Get off me, you common-blooded-"
I wrench his arm behind his back. "Common blood built this city. Common blood loads your precious cargo." Each word punctuates another twist. "Common blood keeps your soft hands clean."
Marcus thrashes, but years of desk work have left him weak. His steel-gray fur is caked with dirt now, his carefully maintained appearance crumbling like his dignity. He tries to roll, exposing his side.
My fist finds his ribs again. And again. Each impact carries the weight of every snide comment, every veiled insult about my children, every attempt to undermine my family's happiness.
"Yield!" He spits blood onto the stones. "I yield!"
But I'm not done. I haul him up by his horn rings - the symbols of status he's so proud of - forcing him to face the gathered merchants. "Look at your 'pure-blood' champion now." My voice carries across the courtyard. "See what his traditions are worth against someone who actually works for a living."
The crowd shifts uncomfortably. Many of them share Marcus's views about humans, about keeping bloodlines pure. But none step forward to help him as I drop him face-first into the dirt.
"The challenge is satisfied." Elder Thornhaven's voice rings with finality. "Marcus Steelhorn is bound by his loss. Let it be recorded."
I leave Marcus lying there, his fine clothes ruined, his reputation shattered. As I retrieve my jacket, I hear him whimper something about his status, his family name. Even now, he can't see past appearances.
That's the difference between us. Everything I have, I built. Everything I love, I earned. And I'll fight anyone who threatens that - with my horns, my fists, or my trading ships.
Blood trickles down my arm as I stride through the darkening streets, but I barely notice the sting. My mind races faster than my hooves against the cobblestones. Merchants and craftsmen clear a path, their eyes widening at my disheveled state. Let them stare. Let them whisper about how Theron Blackhorn beat Marcus Steelhorn into the dirt.
But with each step away from the guild, my rage cools, replaced by a different kind of ache. Lyra's words echo in my head, "Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is admit when you're wrong."
I'd scoffed then, told her she didn't understand minotaur honor. But she'd understood better than I did. While I was defending my family's honor in the arena, she was actually protecting our children by leaving before my stubbornness drove her away completely.
My hooves crush fallen leaves as I cut through the merchant district's central garden. The evening air carries the scent of moonblossoms - Lyra's favorite. She'd point them out on our evening walks, explaining their healing properties while I pretended not to be fascinated by how her eyes lit up.
The white petals glow in the fading light. I pause, remembering how she taught Mira to weave them into chains. "They're like you," she'd said to my daughter, "delicate but stronger than anyone knows."
My fingers, still swollen from the fight, look ridiculous trying to pluck the delicate stems. But I gather them anyway, along with the purple thornhearts she uses in her strongest medicines. The thorns draw fresh blood - a fitting punishment for my pride.
The flowers tremble in my grip. Fighting is easy. Trading is easy. But this? Admitting I was wrong about keeping my heart locked away, about letting fear of loss rule my choices? This is the kind of battle Lyra tried to teach me how to fight.