5. Theron
5
THERON
I lean against the kitchen doorframe, my arms crossed over my chest as I watch Lyra guide Mira's tiny hands in sprinkling herbs over the roasting meat. The kitchen's warmth seeps into my fur, carrying the rich aroma of rosemary and thyme.
"Like this?" Kai stretches up on his tiptoes, carefully measuring dried basilisk root into a wooden spoon. His serious expression mirrors the one he wears during his lessons.
"Perfect." Lyra's copper braid swings as she nods. I hate how I keep staring at it, how I want to untangle that braid and see her long strands flowing around her face. "That'll give the sauce just the right kick without overwhelming it." She winks at him, and a small smile breaks through his solemn demeanor.
Fuck, that does something to my heart.
"I help too!" Mira bounces on her stool, silver-white fur glowing in the lamplight. Her enthusiasm nearly tips her over, but Lyra's steady hand catches her before I can move.
"You're my best helper." Lyra adjusts Mira's position with practiced ease. "Now, what comes next in our recipe?"
"Salt!" Mira claps her hands.
"That's right, little one." Lyra's green eyes meet mine over Mira's head, warm with understanding. She doesn't coddle Mira like the servants do, doesn't treat her like she might break. Instead, she's found ways to let Mira participate while keeping her safe.
Kai shifts closer to his sister, measuring spoon forgotten as he steadies her stool. The protective gesture is so familiar it aches – he's been looking out for her since she could crawl. But tonight there's something lighter in his movements, less burden and more brotherhood.
The tightness that's lived between my shoulder blades since Cassandra's death eases slightly. These dinners used to be exercises in proper etiquette and cold conversation. Now, watching Lyra turn simple meal preparation into an adventure for my children, I realize how wrong I've been to keep their worlds so separate.
"Papa!" Mira waves a herb-covered hand. "Come taste!"
Lyra looks up then, our eyes meeting, and I lose myself in her for a moment. In those bright green irises and that soft smile on her lips. I almost expect a sharp remark from her, something I've come to love, but I shake myself out of it as I step forward and let Mira hold a spoon out to me.
"Incredible!" And I notice how my daughter lights up. I pick her up, spinning her around, and she giggles.
"Here." Lyra hands me a bowl. "This can go in the dining room."
I follow Mira into the dining room, my steps measured to match her careful pace. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, catching dust motes that dance in the air – windows Cassandra kept shrouded in heavy drapes to "maintain proper atmosphere." Now the dark wood of the dining table gleams, polished to a shine that reflects the fresh wildflowers scattered across its surface in simple clay vases.
"Look what I made, Papa!" Mira holds up her own bowl, her amber eyes bright with pride. Her silver-white fur practically glows in the natural light, so different from the shadowy formality that used to rule this room.
My throat tightens. Three years ago, servants would whisk the children away before dinner, leaving only the echo of tiny hooves on marble floors. Cassandra insisted proper noble children dined separately until they could maintain perfect table manners. The massive table felt like an ocean between us, drowning conversation in protocol and propriety.
Now Mira's taking another step, her movements steady where they once faltered. The sound of Kai's laugh drifts from the kitchen – a sound that used to earn sharp reprimands about proper decorum. I turn toward the window, pressing my knuckles against the cool glass. These walls held so much silence before. Now they ring with life, with the casual clatter of dishes and spontaneous giggles.
"Everything alright?" Lyra's soft question carries from the doorway.
I can't face her yet, not with my eyes burning like this. My children are thriving under her care, blooming like the fresh-cut flowers she scatters through our home. The changes run deeper than opened curtains and scattered toys. There's joy here now, real and unrestrained.
"Papa?" Mira tugs at my sleeve. "Did I do good?"
I pick her up, giving her a soft small. "You did so good."
I settle her into her chair, taking a seat in the center next to her. I don't want to feel an ocean away from my table, and the warmth in me only spreads as Lyra and Kai join us, too. Laughter and conversation fill this room as we load our plates.
"What were you like when you were my age, Papa?" Kai's question catches me off guard, his blue eyes – so like his mother's yet filled with such different warmth – fixed on me with earnest curiosity.
I set down my fork, the savory aroma of the roasted meat momentarily forgotten. "I was..." The memories surface like bubbles in still water. "I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, actually."
"You did?" Mira's amber eyes widen, matching my own. She leans forward, nearly knocking over her cup before Lyra's quick hand steadies it.
"My mother taught me to cook." The words come easier than expected, loosened by the casual intimacy of the moment. "She'd let me stand on a stool, just like you did today. Said a merchant should know what goes into everything he sells."
"Was she tall like you?" Kai asks, his serious expression softening with interest.
A chuckle escapes me. "No, she was barely taller than Lyra. But she could command a room full of traders with just a look."
"Like how Lyra makes the mean herb-seller give her fair prices?" Mira pipes up, making Lyra laugh across the table.
"Something like that." I catch Lyra's eye, appreciating how she listens without pushing, her presence as natural as breathing. "Mother's specialty was spiced bread. She'd trade recipes with the caravan leaders, said good food opened more doors than gold."
"Can we make her bread?" Kai's question stirs something deep in my chest.
"I..." I clear my throat. "I haven't thought about that recipe in years. After she died, I-"
"Perhaps we could try to recreate it together?" Lyra's gentle suggestion bridges the sudden silence. But there's such kindness in her eyes as she watches me that it has me swallowing back emotion I thought I had crushed. "Between all of us, we might discover something close."
"I help!" Mira declares, her silver-white fur catching the lamplight as she bounces in her seat.
Looking around the table – at Kai's thoughtful nod, Mira's excited wiggle, and Lyra's understanding smile – I realize this room has transformed. No longer a stage for formal performances, but a place where memories can be shared, where new traditions can take root alongside the old.
"I think..." I reach out to ruffle Kai's black fur, so like my own. "I think Mother would have loved that idea."
Instead of retreating to my study as fast as I can, I linger through dinner and helping get the kids into bed. It's clear to me that so much of the house, so much of them, has started to come back to life.
I think that's what possesses me to climb the narrow stairs to the storage room once I leave their beds instead of going to my own, each step creaking under my weight. The lantern's flame casts long shadows across the walls, turning familiar corners into unknown territory. Up here, away from the warmth of the kitchen and the lingering scent of tonight's dinner, the air carries the musty weight of forgotten things.
My horn scrapes the low ceiling as I duck through the doorway. Dust particles dance in the lantern light, stirred by my movement through this tomb of discarded memories. Cassandra's influence lingers here – everything meticulously labeled and sorted, even the things she deemed unworthy of keeping.
The crate I'm looking for sits in the far corner, marked "Common Items - K.B." in her precise handwriting. My fingers trace the letters before I lift the lid. The wood protests, joints stiff from disuse.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed linen, lies the wooden horse. My hands – steady enough to sign contracts worth thousands in gold – tremble as I unwrap it. The carved mane still shows traces of the deep cherry stain Mother used, though the legs are worn smooth from years of play. She'd carved it during the long winter when fever kept me bedridden, telling stories of wild herds that roamed the northern plains while her knife shaped each detail.
Kai had loved it instantly. I remember his tiny hands clutching it during story time, galloping it across his blankets. Until Cassandra found him playing with it one afternoon.
"A merchant's toy," she'd said, voice sharp with disappointment. "Our son deserves better than common trinkets."
The horse had disappeared that day, along with other pieces of Kai's childhood deemed too ordinary for her noble aspirations. I'd let her do it, too worn down by her constant disapproval to fight another battle.
I brush dust from the horse's carved eyes. In the lantern light, the wood seems to hold warmth, as if remembering the small hands that once loved it.
The carved horse feels light in my hands as I descend the stairs, my steps quieter than usual despite my size. More treasures fill my arms – a set of painted wooden blocks, a cloth dragon with one wing lovingly mended, a tiny tea set Mother gave me that Kai once served imaginary drinks from.
I pause outside Kai's door, arranging the toys in a careful display. The horse stands guard in front, its worn surface catching the hall lamp's glow. My fingers linger on its mane, remembering how Mother would tell me to always sand with the grain. "Like petting a real horse," she'd say, her hands guiding mine across the wood.
The floorboards creak under my hooves as I move away. No note needed – Kai will understand. He's always been too perceptive, watching everything with those blue eyes that see far more than a six-year-old should.
The next morning, I leave my study door open, spilling lamplight into the hallway. I reach for the handle out of habit, the motion as familiar as my morning coffee. But my hand falls away. Through the gap drifts Mira's giggle, followed by the gentle murmur of Lyra's voice from downstairs. The sound winds through the house like a warm breeze, carrying the scent of fresh-baked bread and herbs.
I step back, studying the heavy oak door that once served as my shield. The brass handle gleams from years of use, polished by countless mornings of shutting out the world. Now it stays open, letting in scattered toy soldiers and crayon drawings, letting in life.
My shoulders relax as Kai's voice joins the others, his serious tone giving way to a child's laugh. The sound echoes off walls that used to swallow such joy, transforming my refuge into just another room in a house that's finally becoming a home.