7. Theron
7
THERON
I adjust my formal jacket for the hundredth time, the fine fabric suddenly feeling too tight across my shoulders. The quarterly Merchant's Guild dinner always brings out the worst of the politics, and Marcus will be circling like a vulture. He's been insufferable since securing that spice contract with the southern territories. He thinks it makes him a better merchant than me, but he's really just an ass.
"Papa, is your neck itchy too?" Kai tugs at his own stiff collar, his young face scrunched in discomfort. Despite his tender age, he stands straight-backed in his formal attire, trying to mirror my posture.
"Here." I kneel down, loosening his top button. "Better?"
He nods, then his blue eyes dart to the staircase. "Oh..."
I follow his gaze and forget how to breathe. Lyra descends the stairs in the green silk gown I'd commissioned on impulse last week when I decided to take the whole family with me. It's not uncommon for others to. I've just never done so.
The deep forest color catches the lamplight, making the fabric shimmer like sunlight through leaves. Her copper hair, usually practical in its herbal-woven braids, falls in loose waves past her shoulders. She's left most of it free, with just two small braids crowned around her head.
My chest constricts at how the gown highlights her petite frame while somehow making her seem taller, more regal. The effect is... devastating.
How am I going to be able to do anything but stare at her all night?
Mira squeals from her perch on the bottom step, her silver-white fur gleaming against her purple dress. "You look like a princess!" She claps her small hands together.
Kai, ever serious, shakes his head. "No, she looks like one of the forest spirits from her healing stories. The ones who help lost travelers."
A blush colors Lyra's cheeks, but her chin lifts with characteristic determination. "Well, I feel more like a child playing dress-up." Her green eyes meet mine, gold flecks dancing. "Though I suppose that was the point - to look the part of a proper merchant's..." She trails off, uncertainty flickering across her face.
The word 'wife' hangs unspoken between us. My hands itch to touch her, to trace the curve where the silk hugs her waist. Instead, I clear my throat. "You look..." Beautiful. Enchanting. Perfect. "...suitable for the occasion."
Her eyebrow arches, a familiar spark of challenge in her expression. Before she can respond, Mira tugs at the gown's skirt. "Can I have one just like it when I'm big?"
I lift her into my arms. "You can have whatever you want." I know I spoil her, but I can't help it. Not when I know I won’t have to worry about her collapsing from excitement tonight - all because of Lyra.
I look over Kai and back up to Lyra, swallowing hard. She looks even more beautiful now. This is going to be a long night. But I'll try to hold it together.
"Let's go."
The dining hall buzzes with the usual mix of business talk and barely concealed rivalries. Marcus settles into the seat across from me, his steel-gray fur immaculate as always. Those gold rings in his horns catch the light with each calculated tilt of his head.
"Theron, I heard the southern route's been giving you trouble." His cold blue eyes flick to Lyra beside me. "Though I suppose with your... domestic situation, business concerns might take second place these days."
I grip my fork tighter, but Lyra's hand brushes my arm under the table. The touch steadies me.
"Actually," Lyra leans forward, her voice carrying just enough to draw attention without seeming to try, "I've been fascinated by the trade implications of the southern healing houses. Their method of processing goldroot bark preserves the medicinal properties far longer than traditional techniques."
Marcus blinks, clearly thrown off script. Other merchants pause their conversations, turning to listen.
"The preservation method doubles the herb's shelf life," she continues, "which means ships could transport larger quantities without risk of spoilage. Particularly useful for those longer southern routes, wouldn't you say?"
I hide my smile behind my wine glass. She's been paying attention to more than just my children's scrapes and fevers.
Old Hornsworth, three seats down, strokes his graying beard. "You know your herbs, young lady. We lost a whole shipment last season to moisture damage."
"Perhaps," Lyra's eyes sparkle with that fierce intelligence I've come to admire, "a partnership between healing houses and merchant vessels could benefit both? The houses get wider distribution, the merchants get expert advice on proper storage..."
The conversation flows from there, with even the most traditional merchants leaning in to hear her insights. Marcus sits back, his carefully planned barbs forgotten as trade possibilities are discussed.
I should be watching my rivals, reading their reactions, planning counter-moves. Instead, I can't take my eyes off Lyra. She moves between conversations with grace, equally comfortable discussing treatment methods with the human merchant's wife to her left and debating profit margins with the minotaur trade minister across the table. The green silk of her gown shifts like living leaves as she gestures, her copper hair catching the lamplight.
She belongs here, I realize. Not because she's trying to fit in, but because she's carved out her own space between our worlds.
The musicians strike up a familiar tune, and Mira's amber eyes light up. She tugs at my sleeve, her silver-white fur practically glowing in the warm lamplight.
"Papa, can we stay? Please? Just one dance?"
I should say no. She's had a long day, and her heart condition means we need to be careful. But there's such hope in her small face, such yearning to be part of this world that often excludes her.
"Very well. One dance." I scoop her up, setting her tiny hooves on my feet. "I'll teach you the Warrior's Welcome. It's slower than the others."
Lyra watches from her seat, lips curved in a soft smile as I position Mira's arms. "Keep your right arm up, like you're holding a shield," I explain. "The left arm sweeps out - that's your sword arm."
Mira giggles as we begin the basic pattern. Her small form trembles with excitement, but I support most of her weight, letting her focus on the movements rather than staying upright.
"Now we turn - slowly - and the shield arm comes down while the sword arm rises." I guide her through the motion. Her silver-white fur brushes against my black as she follows my lead, concentrating with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster.
"Like this?" She sweeps her arm in a careful arc.
"Perfect." The pride in her eyes makes my chest tight. We move through another turn, and her breathing stays steady. No wheezing, no strain. Just pure joy as she masters each new step.
Kai appears at my elbow, his natural grace making the dance look effortless as he demonstrates the next part for his sister. "See? The shield becomes the sword, and back again. It's about balance."
Mira copies him, her movements growing more confident. When we complete the pattern, she beams up at me. "I did it! I really did it!"
For this moment, she's not the fragile daughter everyone whispers about. She's just my little girl, dancing with her father, her face glowing with accomplishment.
The movement catches my eye - a flash of green silk and copper hair. Lyra watches us from across the room, her fingers twisted in her skirts. The expression on her face steals my breath: raw longing mixed with something deeper, more vulnerable than I've ever seen her allow. Her usual quick wit and sharp comebacks are stripped away, leaving only pure emotion as she watches me dance with my children.
When our eyes meet, she startles like prey sensing danger. Her gaze drops to her lap, a blush staining her cheeks. But that unguarded moment burns in my memory, lodging somewhere beneath my ribs.
The evening winds down, and we pile into the carriage for home. The gentle sway of motion soon has both children nodding off. Mira curls against Lyra's left side, silver-white fur stark against the green silk. Her small hand clutches a fold of Lyra's dress even in sleep. Kai leans against Lyra's right shoulder, his usual serious expression softened in slumber.
The lamplight through the carriage windows catches the copper highlights in Lyra's hair as she absently strokes Mira's head. Her other hand rests on Kai's shoulder, thumb moving in small, soothing circles. The sight hits me like a physical blow.
She's not just their healer. She hasn't been for a long time.
The truth I've been avoiding rises up, impossible to ignore: this small human woman with her fierce independence and gentle hands has become essential. Not just to my children's well-being, but to mine. The way she challenges me, matches my temper with her own fire, soothes hurts I didn't know I carried - it's woven itself into the fabric of our daily life.
The comfortable fiction that she's merely an employee, a caretaker for my children, lies in ruins. Now I have to decide what to do about it. If I want to act on the thoughts that have been swirling in my head all night or keeping that distance between us.
I carry Mira first, her silver-white fur ghostly in the dim hallway light. Her small form weighs nothing in my arms, lighter than any minotaur child should be. She doesn't stir as I lay her in bed, tucking her favorite quilt around her shoulders. My hand dwarfs her face as I brush back a stray tuft of fur.
Kai proves trickier to manage. Even at six, he's all gangly limbs and sharp angles. I shift him carefully against my chest, mindful of my horns as I navigate the doorway to his room. He mumbles something about books as I set him down, his serious expression finally peaceful in sleep.
As I come back out, I find Lyra in the hallway, her copper hair falling in those beautiful waves I want to run my hands through. She's removed her shoes and looks more relaxed now, nearly disheveled in her gown and mussed hair. Those bright green eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before darting away.
"They didn't even stir?" Her voice comes soft, mindful of the sleeping children.
"Out cold. Mira's breathing was steady all evening."
"Good. The new tonic seems to be helping."
We stand there, the space between us charged like the air before a storm. The hallway feels too narrow, too intimate. Her scent - herbs and honey and something uniquely Lyra - fills my lungs with each breath.
"Well..." She shifts her weight, but doesn't move. "Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight." I don't move either.
One heartbeat. Two. Three. Her fingers tighten on her shoes. My hands ache to reach for her.
Finally, she turns toward her door. I force myself to do the same, every step away from her a physical effort.