Page 4 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach

SOREYA

T he familiar chime of Master Theren's shop door echoes behind me as I step back onto the cobblestone street, the weight of my empty fruit basket swinging light against my hip.

The morning's harvest sold better than expected—the early pears fetched premium prices, and the late-season tizret fruit practically flew off the shelves.

Enough coin to keep us comfortable for another week, with a little extra besides.

But instead of turning toward home, my feet carry me in the opposite direction, down the narrow lane that leads to Mirath's shop, the only healer I'd trust. I've been putting this visit off for days now, telling myself the strange queasiness in my mornings is nothing more than something I ate, or perhaps the stress of watching Korrun come home increasingly battered from training sessions.

The nausea that greets me each dawn, though—that's harder to dismiss. And the way certain scents make my stomach lurch, smells that never bothered me before. Yesterday, the aroma of frying dripir from a nearby kitchen sent me stumbling to the washbasin, retching until my eyes watered.

The healer's shop squats between a blacksmith and a cloth merchant, its painted wooden sign depicting a stylized herb crown that's faded from years of weather.

Dried bundles of rirzed and goligan hang from the eaves, filling the air with their mingled fragrances—usually soothing, but today they make my stomach flutter nervously.

"Soreya." Mirath, who became my closest friend when I was working down here at the shops, looks up from her mortar and pestle as I enter, her face creasing into a smile.

Her thick black curls are wild, but her dark eyes brighten when she sees me.

"Been a while since you've darkened my doorway.

That minotaur of yours keeping you too healthy? "

Heat rises in my cheeks at the casual assumption in her words— that minotaur of yours . Even after two years, hearing someone acknowledge our relationship so matter-of-factly still catches me off guard. In the best possible way.

"Something like that." I set my basket down carefully, suddenly uncertain how to begin. "Actually, I was hoping you might... examine me? I've been feeling a bit off lately."

Mirath's expression sharpens with professional interest. She sets aside her work, dusting herb residue from her palms. "Off how? Specific symptoms, or just general unease?"

"Nausea. Mostly in the mornings, but sometimes other times too. And I'm tired—more tired than I should be." I hesitate, then forge ahead. "My monthly bleeding is late. Nearly three weeks now."

Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline, and something knowing flickers across her features. "I see. Well then, let's have a proper look at you."

The examination is thorough but gentle, Mirath's practiced hands checking pulse points and pressing carefully along my abdomen.

She asks questions in a steady, clinical voice—when did the symptoms start, how severe is the nausea, any changes in appetite or sleep patterns.

She's got a touch of magic, so she can feel things others can't.

With each question, a possibility I've been trying not to consider grows more solid, more real. My heart hammers against my ribs as she completes her assessment, stepping back with an expression that's equal parts professional satisfaction and barely contained excitement.

"Well?" I ask, though part of me already knows.

"Congratulations," she says, and the word seems to echo in the small space. "I'd estimate you're about six weeks along. Everything feels perfectly normal for this stage."

"Six weeks along." The words spin around my mind. "Am I?—"

Mirath grins at me. "You're pregnant, Soreya."

Pregnant.

The word hits me like a physical force, stealing the breath from my lungs. For a long moment, I can only stare at her, the rush of possibility colliding with sheer disbelief. A baby. Korrun's baby. Our baby.

"You're certain?" My voice comes out as barely a whisper.

"As certain as I can be without magic to confirm it, and the signs are all there." Mirath's smile softens, making her look even younger. "Given how happy you two seem together, I assume this is welcome news?"

Welcome. Such a small word for the explosion of joy and terror and wonder currently reorganizing my entire understanding of the future. I press both hands to my stomach, amazed that something so momentous can be happening without any outward sign.

"Yes," I manage, and then with more certainty, "Yes, it's very welcome."

Mirath dispenses advice about nutrition and rest, warns me about foods to avoid and symptoms that would warrant immediate attention.

I nod and murmur agreement, but her words seem to reach me from a great distance.

All I can think about is Korrun—how his face will look when I tell him, what he'll say, how those massive hands will feel pressed against my belly.

I practically float out of the shop, Mirath's final congratulations following me into the street. The walk home passes in a blur of anticipated joy, my feet moving without conscious direction while my mind spins through a dozen different ways to share the news.

By the time I reach our backyard, I'm nearly vibrating with excitement. The front door stands slightly ajar—Korrun must have come home early from training. I can hear the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone coming from the back garden, the familiar sound of him sharpening his practice weapons.

I drop my basket just inside the door and hurry through the house, my heart racing with anticipation. The back garden opens before me in late afternoon light, all golden warmth and dancing shadows from the fruit trees we planted together.

And there he is.

Korrun sits on the low stone wall that borders our property, his massive frame bent over a training axe as he works the whetstone along its edge.

Sunlight streams through the overhead branches, catching along the polished curve of his horns and turning them to burnished amber.

His concentration is absolute, each stroke of the stone measured and precise.

He's beautiful. This powerful, gentle giant who chose to love me despite every reason the world gave him not to. Who makes me feel safe in a way I never thought possible. Who's about to become a father.

"Korrun." His name escapes me on a breath, barely audible.

His head snaps up immediately, those molten amber eyes finding mine across the garden. The whetstone stills in his hand as he takes in whatever expression I'm wearing—probably somewhere between giddy and terrified.

"What is it?" He sets the axe aside carefully, rising to his full height. "You look... different. Did something happen at the market?"

I cross the space between us on unsteady legs, suddenly uncertain how to begin. How do you announce something that will change everything? How do you hand someone the key to an entirely new future?

"I didn't go straight home after the market," I say, stopping just within arm's reach. "I went to see Mirath. Well, I had her examine me."

His expression shifts immediately to concern, hands reaching for me as if to check for injuries I might be hiding. "Are you hurt? Sick? What did she?—"

"I'm pregnant."

The words fall between us like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples through the afternoon quiet. Korrun goes absolutely motionless, the whetstone slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers to clatter against the stone wall.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, he simply stares at me.

Then his expression splits into something so brilliant, so completely unguarded, that my chest tightens with the force of it.

Pure joy transforms his features, makes him look younger somehow, as if years of careful restraint have suddenly melted away.

"Pregnant," he repeats, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "You're... we're..."

"Having a baby," I confirm, nodding so hard my hair falls across my face.

He gathers me against his chest before I can draw another breath, his laughter shaking both our bodies as he lifts me clean off the ground. The sound is rich and deep and completely uninhibited, bubbling up from somewhere fundamental inside him.

"A baby," he says into my hair, spinning us both in a slow circle. "Our baby. Soreya, we're going to have a baby."

I can barely breathe through the tightness in my throat, overwhelmed by the sheer happiness radiating from him. This is what unrestrained joy looks like on Korrun—this brilliant, consuming delight that makes everything else fade to background noise.

"Names," he says suddenly, setting me down but keeping his arms locked around me. "We need to think about names. Do you think it'll be a boy or girl? Not that it matters, obviously, but—by the Lady, Soreya, we're going to be parents."

His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones as if he needs to touch me to believe this is real. The careful control he usually maintains has completely evaporated, leaving behind this wonderful, overwhelming enthusiasm that makes my heart feel too large for my chest.

"I love you," I whisper, going up on my toes to kiss him properly. "I love you so much."

"And I love you. Both of you." One hand drops to rest flat against my stomach, spanning nearly my entire abdomen. "How long have you known?"

"About an hour." I laugh at his expression—part amazement, part something that might be possessive satisfaction. "I suspected for a few days, but I wanted to be certain before I said anything."

"An hour, and you came straight home to tell me."

It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "Where else would I go?"

Something shifts in his expression at that, going soft and wondering. As if the simple fact that he's my first thought, my first priority, still surprises him somehow.

The rest of the afternoon dissolves into a haze of planning and laughter and endless, gentle touches.

Korrun can't seem to stop reaching for me—brushing my hair back from my face, resting his palm over my stomach as though the life growing there might vanish if he doesn't maintain contact, pulling me close just to feel me breathing against him.

"I'll reduce my hours at the colosseum," he says as we sit together on the garden wall, my back pressed to his chest and his arms wrapped around me. "Focus on private training instead. Better pay, and I'll be home more."

The words paint pictures in my mind—lazy mornings together, shared meals, Korrun here to hold my hair when the morning sickness gets bad. A future bright with possibility, untainted by the constant worry of watching him come home increasingly battered from training sessions.

"You don't have to decide anything right now," I say, though part of me wants to encourage this line of thinking. "We have time."

"Time." He says the word like he's tasting it, finding it sweet. "Months to prepare. To make everything perfect."

His dreams spill out faster than I can follow—a larger house with proper nursery space, savings accounts for the child's future, connections he can make to ensure our baby has opportunities neither of us enjoyed growing up.

The enthusiasm in his voice is infectious, painting our small life in broad strokes of hope and certainty.

For the first time in years—maybe ever—I let myself believe in something without bracing for loss.

Let myself sink into the warmth of Korrun's joy and imagine a future where everything goes right instead of wrong.

Where love is enough to build a life on, and happiness doesn't come with hidden costs.

The sun sinks lower in the sky, casting long shadows across our garden while we talk about names and nursery arrangements and whether the baby will inherit Korrun's size or my more manageable proportions.

His hand never leaves my stomach, fingers splayed as if he's already protecting what we've created together.

And sitting here in the circle of his arms, surrounded by the life we've built and the promise of the life we're creating, I've never felt more complete.