Page 13 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
"That's better." Mirath's approval is gentle, careful not to push too hard or too fast. She's learned to measure progress in spoonfuls and breaths, in moments when I respond to her voice instead of staring through her like she's made of glass.
Outside, the city moves on as though Korrun's absence is just another shift in the air. I can hear the market vendors calling their wares, the clip-clop of equus hooves on stone, the distant roar of the colosseum crowds cheering for new fighters. Life continues with brutal efficiency, indifferent to the fact that the most important person in the world is gone.
Inside, I drift from room to room like a ghost, unable to touch his belongings without feeling splintered. His training harness still hangs by the door, the leather darkened by years of sweat and sun, and I can't bring myself to move it. The familiar scent of him clings to the worn straps—salt and steel and something uniquely his that no amount of time seems able to wash away.
Mirath suggested once, carefully, that we might pack some things away. Make space for the baby's needs. I'd stared at her with such venom that she'd backed down immediately, her hands raised in surrender. Those belongings are all I have left of him. The physical proof that he existed, that he lived in this space and loved me and planned a future that included teaching our child to fight and laugh and love with the same fierce intensity he brought to everything.
Some nights, the baby kicks hard enough to wake me, and I lie in the dark with my hand on my stomach, willing Korrun to feel it too. Wishing he were here when he seemed even more excited than me about this pregnancy, when he'd spend entireevenings with his ear pressed to my belly, waiting for any sign of movement. He'd been so patient, so gentle, mapping every change in my body like it was sacred territory.
"Did you feel that?" I whisper to the empty room, my palm pressed against a particularly vigorous kick. The baby seems to respond to my voice, settling into a gentler rhythm that feels almost like comfort. "Your papa would have loved that. He would have called you a little fighter."
The words hang in the darkness, unanswered. There's no warm presence beside me, no rumbling chuckle or careful hands joining mine. Just the terrible silence and the growing certainty that I'm going to have to do this alone.
During the day, I watch Mirath bustle around the small space with determined efficiency. She's taken over the herb garden completely, her skilled hands coaxing new growth from plants that were starting to wither under my neglect. The scent of rirzed and fresh greenery fills the air, a sharp contrast to the stale grief that seems to cling to everything else.
She's reorganized the kitchen too, moving things to more convenient heights for when the baby comes. Making practical preparations for a future I can't quite believe in. Her movements are quick and purposeful, but I catch her sometimes pausing by the window, staring out at nothing with an expression that mirrors my own lost look.
This is costing her too. Not just the time and energy of caring for someone who's more burden than companion lately, but the emotional weight of watching me disappear piece by piece. She loved Korrun in her own way—loved how he made me laugh, how he brought me fresh fish from the market because he knew I wouldn't eat properly without someone looking after me. She's grieving too, but she's buried it under the immediate necessity of keeping me alive.
"Mir." My voice cracks from disuse, making her look up from the herbs she's hanging to dry. "You should go home. Sleep in your own bed."
"I'm fine here." Her response is automatic, but I can see the exhaustion in every line of her compact frame. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually eat the soup instead of just moving it around the bowl."
She's not wrong. Left to my own devices, I'd probably forget to eat entirely. The hunger seems distant, unimportant compared to the gnawing ache in my chest. But the baby kicks again, insistent, reminding me that my choices affect more than just myself now.
The afternoon light slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. In a few hours, the sun will set and I'll face another night in a bed that feels too large, too empty, too full of memories. Another night of lying awake and wishing for things that can never be, reaching for warmth that isn't there.
The baby shifts again, a rolling motion that makes my breath catch. Soon they'll run out of room in there, will need to make their entrance into a world that's already proven itself capable of terrible things. A world where their father's absence will be the first lesson they learn about loss.
But right now, in this moment, they're safe. Protected by my body and Mirath's fierce determination and the stubborn love that refuses to die even when everything else has. It's not much, but it's something. A small flame in the darkness that refuses to be extinguished.
6
SOREYA
The pain starts as a low ache in my back, like someone's pressing their knuckles against my spine. I try to ignore it, focusing instead on the herb tea Mirath brought me, but the sensation spreads and deepens until it wraps around my entire middle like a vise.
"Mir." My voice comes out strangled as another wave hits, stronger this time. The cup slips from my hands, sending warm liquid across the bed linens. "Something's wrong."
She looks up from her mortar and pestle, dark eyes sharp with instant attention. Takes one look at my face and sets her work aside with careful precision. "How long have you been feeling this?"
"Just started." But even as I say it, another contraction builds, stealing my breath and making my vision blur at the edges. This isn't the gentle warning I expected. This is urgent and demanding and completely beyond my control.
Mirath moves with the swift efficiency of someone who's done this before, gathering supplies I didn't even know she'd prepared. Probably in the months I’d been living like a ghost. Clean linens, sharp tools, bottles of something that smellsmedicinal and strong. Her movements are calm, practiced, but I catch the tension in her shoulders as she realizes how fast this is moving.
"The baby's not waiting for a convenient time," she says, helping me shift positions as another wave of pain crashes over me. "This little one's got their own schedule."
The hours blur into a haze of agony and effort. Pain becomes the entire world—sharp, relentless, demanding everything I have and then more. Mirath's voice cuts through the fog, steady and sure, telling me when to breathe, when to push, when to rest. Her hands are cool against my fevered skin, anchoring me when the intensity threatens to tear me apart.
"I can't." The words rip from my throat during a brief lull between contractions. Sweat stings my eyes, mingles with tears I don't remember shedding. "I can't do this without him."
"You're already doing it." Mirath's voice carries absolute conviction, her cinnamon-brown hands steady as she checks my progress. "You're stronger than you know, Soreya. The baby needs you to be strong now."
But I want Korrun here. Want his massive presence filling the room, his rumbling voice talking me through each wave of pain. Want his hands holding mine, his amber eyes bright with excitement and fear and overwhelming love. He should be pacing the floor, should be asking Mirath a dozen questions she doesn't have time to answer, should be here to catch his child when they finally decide to make their entrance.
Instead, there's just me and the mounting pressure and the terrible certainty that I'm doing this alone.
The final push feels like it's splitting me in half, like my body is trying to turn itself inside out. Mirath's voice cuts through the roar in my ears, urgent now, telling me the head is crowning, telling me one more push will do it. I bear down with everythingI have left, pouring all my grief and love and desperate hope into this last effort.
