16. Lyra
16
LYRA
T he morning sun bathes the marketplace in golden light as I adjust my herb-filled basket. My braid swings against my back, the healing herbs woven through it releasing their subtle fragrance with each step. The usual bustle of the market surrounds me - the clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the calls of merchants hawking their wares.
Something's different today. Old Gretta, the spice merchant who always saves her best cinnamon for my healing teas, ducks her head when I approach her stall. Her massive horns cast long shadows across her goods as she turns away.
"Gretta?" I step closer, reaching for my coin purse. "I needed to restock-"
"Sold out," she mumbles, though I can clearly see the fresh spices laid out before her.
Frowning, I move to the next stall. The herb merchant who typically jokes about my "tiny human hands" being perfect for sorting delicate dried flowers won't meet my eyes either. As I walk past a cluster of well-dressed minotaur ladies, their silk skirts rustling, I catch fragments of their conversation.
"...living in that house..."
"...just another of Blackhorn's servants..."
"...probably warming his bed..."
My cheeks burn, but I keep my chin high. The basket handle digs into my palm as I grip it tighter. A flash of steel-gray fur catches my eye - Marcus Steelhorn, his black horns gleaming with gold rings, stands near his usual gathering of merchants. His cold blue eyes meet mine for a moment, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.
Two younger merchants near him watch me pass, their whispers carrying clearly. "Heard she's not even paid, just kept like any other human pet."
I stop at the next stall, my knuckles white around my basket handle. The merchant there, who'd sold me meqixste bark just last week with a friendly smile, now stares at his ledger as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
These people know me. They've seen me heal their children, tend their elderly, deliver their babies. Years of building trust and respect, and Marcus has poisoned it all with a few well-placed whispers.
The whispers follow me down the street like a toxic cloud. My last hope lies in Master Brimwell's apothecary - he's never cared about politics or gossip, only the quality of herbs and the knowledge of those who purchase them.
The bell chimes as I push open his door. The familiar scent of dried herbs and healing tinctures wraps around me, but something feels wrong. Master Brimwell's shoulders stiffen at the counter, his gray-furred bulk blocking access to his rarest herbs - the ones he usually lets me examine freely.
"I need snowblossom root," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"We don't serve your kind anymore." His words hit like a physical blow. "Find somewhere else."
"My kind?" My fingers dig into my basket. "I've bought herbs here for years. I saved your grandson when-"
"Times change." He won't meet my eyes. "Best you leave."
"The hell she will." Maya's voice cuts through the tension as she strides in, her silver-blonde hair gleaming in the shop's dim light. The scar on her right hand stands out stark white against her skin as she plants both palms on Brimwell's counter. "Since when do you let Marcus Steelhorn's coin dictate who you serve?"
Brimwell's ears flick back. "This isn't about-"
"Save it." Maya's gray eyes flash. "I've already heard about his little scheme. I sell around here, too, Brimwell. Offering merchants better trade rates if they shut Lyra out. Threatening to raise shipping costs for anyone who keeps serving her or anyone helping Blackhorn." She leans forward. "How much did he pay you to turn away the best healer in Karona?"
The truth of Marcus's manipulation hits me like ice water. All this because he wants to force Theron's hand? Is he punishing him or is this some merchant's feud? I don't understand it.
Brimwell's tail lashes once, betraying his discomfort. "You don't understand the pressure-"
"I understand perfectly." Maya's voice could freeze flame. "And I'll remember who stood their ground and who folded like cheap parchment when this is over."
Maya links her arm through mine as we leave Brimwell's shop, her presence a shield against the market's hostility. "Come on. I've got fresh meqixste bark at my farm."
"You don't have to-"
"Don't start." She squeezes my arm. "That's what friends are for."
Each step past shuttered stalls and turned backs chips away at the confidence I've built over five years in Karona. The copper threads in my braid catch the sunlight - a gift from Theron last week, woven through with the same gentle care he shows in everything.
My throat tightens as I think of Cassandra's portrait hanging in the main hall. I've passed it countless times, but now, her perfect features seem to mock me. Light brown fur groomed to silk, delicate features set in aristocratic lines, those striking blue eyes that Kai inherited. Everything a proper minotaur lady should be.
"I can hear you thinking." Maya's voice breaks through my spiral. "Stop it."
"You didn't see their faces." I gesture at the nearly empty street ahead - merchants suddenly finding urgent business elsewhere as we approach. "Years of building trust, gone because Marcus decided I'm a convenient weapon against Theron."
"Since when do you care what Marcus thinks? Or anyone for that matter?"
"I care what he can do." My fingers twist in my skirts. "Theron's already fighting an uphill battle in the merchant council. Having a human..." I swallow hard. "Having me, it makes everything harder for him."
A group of noble ladies crosses the street rather than share the sidewalk with us. Their silk skirts swish as they hurry past, whispering behind ornate fans. One glance at my herb-stained dress and practical boots tells me everything about where I stand in their eyes.
Cassandra's face floats in my mind again - perfectly composed, perfectly proper, perfectly minotaur. Everything I can never be.
"Maybe caring about him means knowing when to step back," I whisper, more to myself than Maya.
Maya admonishes me, but I can't shake the idea out of my head. Not even after she gives me the bark and sends me back to the house. I keep it together through the rest of the day before slipping out to the garden after dinner, avoiding Theron altogether.
The garden's shadows offer little comfort as I sink onto the stone bench, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The herbs I'd so carefully tended mock me with their vitality - thriving despite being transplanted from their native soil, just as I'd thought I could.
A gentle hand touches my shoulder. Mrs. Bramble's familiar rirzed herb scent wraps around me as she settles beside me, her black dress rustling against the bench.
"Now then," she says, pulling a handkerchief from her ever-present apron pocket. "What's all this about?"
"I'm ruining everything." The words spill out between hiccups. "The whole market turned against him because of me. Marcus is using me to-"
"Marcus Steelhorn," Mrs. Bramble sniffs, "has been trying to ruin Theron since he was still just a boy. He'll find any excuse. But you can't let him tear you two apart." She pats my hand, her weathered fingers strong and sure.
"Maybe it's better," I whisper.
She turns to me. "Did I ever tell you about Thomas?"
I shake my head, wiping my eyes.
"He was a merchant's son. Seven feet tall, fur like burnished copper." Her brown eyes grow distant. "We met at the docks - I was delivering linens, he was checking cargo manifests. He'd quote poetry while helping me carry my baskets." A soft smile plays across her lips. "His family had other plans, of course. Proper minotaur wife, proper bloodline. He chose duty over love."
"What happened to him?"
"Married some noble's daughter. Had three children. Died young - merchant ships are dangerous things." She straightens her pristine apron. "I've spent forty years wondering 'what if.' What if we'd been brave enough to choose love over tradition?"
Heavy footsteps in the doorway make us both turn. Theron fills the frame, his black fur silvered by moonlight, amber eyes intense as they fix on my tear-stained face.
Mrs. Bramble rises with remarkable grace for her age. "Well, these old bones need their rest." She squeezes my shoulder as she passes. "Don't make my mistake, dear."
She slips past Theron with a knowing look, leaving us alone in the garden's growing darkness. And thankfully, he doesn't press. I'm sure he knows why I'm upset, but Theron just sits with me in the garden like he does every night.
And I savor it. Because I don't know how much longer I'll have him.