Page 56 of Nanny for the Minotaur

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.

29

LYRA

The summer breeze carries the scent of crushed herbs and fresh-baked bread through the festival grounds. I arrange my display of medicinal plants, tucking sprigs of herbs into neat bundles. My fingers work automatically while my mind drifts, wishing that I wasn't alone working this stall today.

Having my own practice at the Healing Festival should be a dream. But I've learned dreams aren't worth having without them to share it with.

A group of minotaur children dash past my stall, their hooves kicking up dust. One small calf trips, scraping her knee. I reach for my healing salve before their mother can even call out.

"Here, let me help." I dab the mixture on her wound. The little girl's eyes widen as the scratch fades.

"Thank you," she whispers, then bounds away to rejoin her friends.

My chest tightens. Mira would love the colorful banners and flower garlands decorating the square. She'd probably beg to wear one of those crowns the vendors are selling. And Kai - he'd be asking about each herb's properties, soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

"Remarkable healing properties in that salve," an elderly minotaur matron comments, examining my display. "Where did you study?"

"I learned from a band of wandering healers." I demonstrate how to grind moonflower petals into a fine powder. The crowd nods appreciatively, but their polite interest feels empty compared to Kai's intense focus when I taught him to identify healing herbs last week.

A child's laugh rings out across the square. For a moment, it sounds just like Mira's giggles when I tell her stories during her treatments. I almost turn to look for her silver-white fur before remembering she's home resting.

The festival continues around me - demonstrations, sales, networking opportunities I should be grabbing. But my hands keep straying to the pocket where I keep the drawing Mira made me, stick figures holding flowers under a bright blue sun. Next to my herbs sits the leather-bound notebook where Kai carefully copies down healing recipes, his neat childish script filling the pages.

I've spent years working toward this moment, my chance to establish myself as a respected healer in the city. Yet all I can think about is rushing home to check on my two favorite patients.

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