Page 21 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
Friend. The word settles strangely in my chest, carrying implications I'm not ready to examine too closely. But Soreya doesn't correct him, doesn't explain our actual relationship or the circumstances that brought us together. She just smiles and accepts the compliment as if it were perfectly natural.
We continue through the market, stopping at various stalls as needs arise. Soap from the chandler's booth, thread for mending clothes, a small pot of honey that makes Taran gurgle with what might be anticipation when he catches the scent. Each transaction follows a similar pattern—I assess the goods with the practiced eye of someone who's learned to spot quality and deception in equal measure, while Soreya watches with growing amusement as vendors realize they're dealing with someone who knows their trade.
"You're enjoying yourself," she observes during a lull between purchases.
"It's been a while since I've been able to use these skills on land," I admit. "Most of my recent negotiations involved cargo manifests and port fees. This feels more... personal."
The word hangs between us, loaded with meanings I hadn't intended to voice. Personal because these purchases matter to our small household. Personal because I'm learning to care about thread quality and honey prices in ways that have nothing to do with profit margins. Personal because somewhere in the space between arriving in Milthar and this moment, I've started thinking of Soreya and Taran's needs as my own.
We're approaching the far edge of the square when the atmosphere shifts subtly, like the pressure change that precedes a storm. The feeling raises the hair on my arms, triggers instinctshoned by years of reading crowds for signs of trouble. I scan the area automatically, looking for whatever's changed.
That's when I see him.
The minotaur stands across the square like a boulder in a stream, completely still while the crowd flows around him. He's massive even by minotaur standards—easily matching my height but built with the kind of heavy muscle that speaks of a lifetime spent in physical pursuits. Dark brown fur streaked with gray covers broad shoulders, and his stance radiates the kind of patient menace that comes from absolute confidence in one's ability to inflict damage.
But it's his eyes that stop my breath. Gold and unblinking, they're fixed on our small group with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. Not casual observation or idle curiosity—focused assessment, the way a predator studies prey before deciding whether to strike.
Every survival instinct I've ever developed screams at once. This isn't random. This isn't coincidence. This is someone who came here specifically to watch us, someone who knows exactly who we are and why we matter.
"Soreya," I say quietly, not taking my eyes off the watching figure. "We need to leave. Now."
She starts to turn toward where I'm looking, but I step sideways, using my body to block her view while steering her toward a narrow side street that leads away from the square. My hand finds the small of her back—protective, guiding, but not forceful enough to cause alarm.
"What's wrong?" she asks, but she doesn't resist my direction, trusting my judgment even without understanding the reason for it.
"Just being careful," I tell her, which is the truth without being the whole truth. No need to frighten her with specifics when I don't even know what those specifics are yet.
The side street accepts us like a refuge, its narrow confines offering the psychological comfort of walls and limited sight lines. I resist the urge to look back, knowing that checking over my shoulder will only confirm to our watcher that I've spotted him. Better to seem oblivious while we put distance between ourselves and whatever threat he represents.
I don't need to know. I just need to protectmyfamily.
11
SOREYA
The days that follow settle into a rhythm I hadn't expected—something softer than the raw survival I've been managing since Korrun's death. Daegan moves through our small house with the kind of quiet assurance that speaks to years spent navigating cramped ship quarters where every step matters. He never crowds my space or assumes authority over routines I've built, but his presence fills the empty corners in ways I'm only now beginning to understand.
"Hand me that pot," I say without thinking, nodding toward the heavy cast iron vessel that holds our evening stew. My arms ache from carrying Taran most of the day, and the simple request slips out before I can second-guess it.
Daegan lifts it easily, those rope-scarred forearms flexing as he moves the pot from counter to table. No commentary about my inability to manage it myself, no suggestion that I should have asked sooner. Just smooth competence that makes the task disappear.
These small moments accumulate like drops of water wearing smooth stone. When Taran fusses during his afternoon feeding, I find myself passing him to Daegan without theinternal debate that used to accompany such decisions. Those broad, sea-weathered hands cradle my son with surprising gentleness, and the baby settles almost immediately against his uncle's chest.
"He likes the deep voice," I observe, watching Taran's eyelids grow heavy as Daegan hums some half-remembered sailing song.
"All babies do. Something about the vibration through the ribcage—felt it myself when I was small enough for Korrun to carry me." His smile carries warmth without the sharp edge of grief that such memories usually bring. "Course, I was never as calm as this one. Drove our parents to distraction with my squalling."
The image makes me laugh—this composed, self-assured man as a demanding infant, wearing out adults with his protests. "I can't picture you as difficult."
"You didn't know me then. I had opinions about everything and no filter for expressing them." His eyes crinkle with amusement. "Still do, just with better timing now."
These conversations weave themselves into the fabric of our days, punctuating the practical business of maintaining a household and caring for an infant. I learn that Daegan judges the weather by the way his old injuries ache, that he categorizes port cities by the quality of their bread, that he's never owned anything he couldn't carry in a single sea chest.
Mirath's visits become weekly affairs rather than daily check-ins, a change she announces with characteristic bluntness.
"You don't need me hovering anymore," she says, gathering her healing supplies into her worn leather satchel. "Between Daegan and your own stubborn competence, you're managing just fine."
The observation stings slightly, carrying implications of abandonment that my grief-raw emotions want to nurture intofull resentment. But watching Mirath's satisfied expression as she surveys our small kitchen—noting the well-stocked pantry, the clean surfaces, the general air of domestic stability—I realize she's not pulling away out of indifference. She's stepping back because I no longer need constant supervision to function.
