Page 33 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
18
DAEGAN
The morning air carries the promise of autumn, crisp enough to make my breath visible in small puffs as I step out of the house. The sun barely clears the rooftops, painting everything in shades of gold that remind me of better days at sea. My boots crunch softly against the frost-touched ground, and I can't help the grin that spreads across my face as I glance back at the windows glowing warm behind me.
Soreya's up. Really up, not just the fever-addled half-consciousness of the past few days. The clarity in her hazel eyes this morning, the way she met my gaze without flinching—it's like watching someone come back to life. And that conversation, by the Lady, that conversation. My chest still feels tight with the memory of her words, the careful way she offered something I'd been too afraid to hope for.
Maybe we could take it slow?
Slow. I can do slow. Shit, I'd wait decades if that's what she needed. The woman just buried her first love and birthed his child, then had some fool of a sea captain come stumbling into her life and falling for her. Of course she needs time. Of courseshe needs space to figure out how to want someone new without feeling like she's betraying what came before.
But she wants to try. That's what matters. That's what has me walking like I'm floating six inches off the ground.
Taran was perfect this morning too—alert and curious, those amber eyes so much like Korrun's tracking my movements around the room. When I picked him up, he didn't fuss or cry. Just settled against my chest like he belonged there, one tiny fist wrapping around my finger with surprising strength. The trust in that gesture, the complete faith that I'll keep him safe, it's humbling in ways I'm not sure I have words for.
My nephew. My family. The thought still catches me off guard sometimes, how quickly they've become the center of everything. Two months ago I was captain of my own ship, answerable to no one but wind and tide. Now I'm planning my days around feeding schedules and nap times, checking on fruit trees and learning which songs make a fussy baby settle. The transformation should terrify me—I've never been one for roots, for staying in one place long enough to call it home.
Instead, it feels like the missing piece I never knew I was looking for.
The market won't be busy this early, which suits me fine. I need to pick up supplies—more of that tea Mirath recommended for Soreya's recovery, fresh vegetables since we've been living on whatever I could throw together quickly, maybe some of those honey cakes from the baker's stall that make her eyes light up. Simple things. Domestic things. The kind of routine pleasures I used to scoff at as landlubber nonsense.
Funny how perspective changes when you have people depending on you.
I'll stop at Mirath's first. She'll want to hear that Soreya's fever broke completely, that the color's back in her cheeks and she managed to keep down a full bowl of broth this morning.The healer's been checking on us every day, bringing remedies and offering the kind of blunt wisdom that comes from years of patching people back together. She's been Zukiev blessed, really. Don't know what we would have done without her steady hands and sharper tongue keeping us all in line.
The narrow road leading to her shop stretches ahead, familiar cobblestones worn smooth by countless feet. I've walked this path dozens of times now, but today everything feels different. Brighter. Like the world has shifted into sharper focus now that the weight of uncertainty has lifted from my shoulders. Soreya's going to be all right. More than all right—she's going to heal, to find her way back to the woman I glimpsed in stolen moments between grief and exhaustion.
And maybe, if I'm very careful and very patient, she'll let me be part of that journey.
The thought warms me from the inside out, better than any ale or hearth fire. I've spent years chasing horizons, always looking toward the next port, the next adventure, the next profitable run. But this feeling, this bone-deep contentment that comes from knowing exactly where I want to be and who I want to be with—this is better than any treasure I've ever hauled across the waves.
My boots echo against the cobblestones, the sound bouncing off narrow buildings that huddle close together like old friends sharing secrets. The morning light filters through the gaps between rooftops, creating patterns of gold and shadow that shift with each step. It's peaceful. Quiet in the way that speaks of a neighborhood just beginning to stir, shopkeepers preparing for the day, families gathering around breakfast tables.
Too quiet.
The realization hits me like a bucket of cold seawater. My steps slow, instincts honed by years of dangerous ports and questionable cargo beginning to prickle along my spine. Thisroad is never completely empty, even this early. There should be sounds—shutters opening, voices drifting from windows, the distant clatter of carts heading to market. Instead, there's only silence broken by my own footsteps.
I pause, letting my eyes scan the narrow alley mouths that branch off from the main road. Nothing moves. Nothing seems out of place. But the feeling persists, that crawling awareness that comes from being watched by unfriendly eyes. It's the same sensation that kept me alive in ports where asking the wrong question could get you a knife between the ribs.
My hand drifts toward the blade at my hip, fingers closing around the familiar weight of the hilt. Old habits. Korrun always said I was too paranoid, too quick to see threats in empty shadows. But Korrun never spent his nights in taverns where honest merchants feared to tread.
The rustle comes from behind me—soft fabric against stone, the whisper of careful movement. I start to turn, muscles already coiling for action, but they're faster than I expected. Rough hands seize my arms before I can clear my weapon, drag me backward toward the mouth of an alley I'd dismissed as empty.
Three of them. Maybe four. Hard to tell in the chaos of bodies and grabbing hands. They move like they've done this before, coordinated and efficient, but they've made one crucial mistake. They think size means helplessness. They think one big minotaur surrounded by smaller humans is easy prey.
They've never fought a sea captain.
My elbow drives back hard, connecting with ribs that give way with a satisfying crack. The man behind me grunts and loosens his grip just enough for me to spin, my other fist catching a second attacker across the jaw with enough force to send him stumbling. These aren't skilled fighters—they're thugs, street muscle hired for intimidation rather than warfare.
But they have numbers. And they have surprise. Before I can press my advantage, a third man swings something heavy at my legs. I manage to stay upright, but it throws off my balance long enough for them to regroup.
"Hold him steady," someone snarls, and I catch a glimpse of a scarred face twisted with the kind of hatred that goes deeper than simple robbery.
This isn't random. This is personal.
I roar, the sound echoing off the narrow walls as I throw my full weight against the hands trying to restrain me. My father's training kicks in—lessons learned in the practice yard behind our childhood home, where he taught both his sons that size means nothing if you don't know how to use it. Korrun always favored brute strength, overwhelming opponents with sheer force. I learned to be quicker, more adaptable, using my reach and leverage to maximum advantage.
A knee comes up toward my stomach. I twist, letting it glance off my hip while my own knee drives upward, catching someone in the ribs hard enough to double them over. My fist follows, an uppercut that snaps their head back and sends them crashing into the alley wall.
