Page 5 of The Minotaur’s Little Peach

DAEGAN

T he Siren's Call cuts through the silver-topped swells like a blade through silk, her hull responding to every shift in wind and current with the grace of a creature born to the waves rather than built by mortal hands.

Salt spray kisses my face as I adjust the rigging, the familiar burn of rope against my palms grounding me in the rhythm of shipboard life.

"Ease her off a point to starboard," I call to Jorik at the wheel, my voice carrying easily over the whistle of wind through canvas. The ship responds immediately, her bow swinging into the sweet spot where wind and sail sing in perfect harmony.

My crew moves around me with the easy confidence of men who've sailed these waters long enough to read the sea's moods better than their own wives'.

Tam scrambles up the ratlines to adjust the topsail, while Brek coils lines with the methodical precision that keeps us alive when storms turn deadly.

They barely need my direction anymore—a fact that should fill me with pride but instead leaves me oddly restless.

"Cap'n." Harrow approaches, his weathered face creased with something between concern and amusement. "You've been staring at that horizon like it owes you money. Everything shipshape up there in that head of yours?"

I flash him my most disarming grin, the one that's gotten me out of trouble in more ports than I care to count. "Just appreciating the view, old man. When's the last time you saw water this blue?"

"About every damn day for the past fifteen years." He squints at me with those sharp gray eyes that miss nothing. "But I ain't seen you this distracted since we pulled out of Karona."

Karona. Even the name of Milthar's capital sends something warm and complicated through my chest. Three months since we left port, chasing favorable winds and profitable cargo routes across the eastern seas.

Three months since I've set foot on solid ground that smells like home instead of foreign spices and unfamiliar stone.

"Ship's running smooth," I deflect, checking the set of the mainsail for the dozenth time today. "Crew knows their business. Maybe I'm just getting old."

Harrow snorts. "You're thirty-two, you dramatic bastard. Save the existential crisis for when you've got gray in your beard."

Thirty-two and feeling every year of it lately. The wanderlust that once drove me from port to port, always chasing the next horizon, has dulled to something closer to routine. Even the thrill of a well-negotiated trade deal or the satisfaction of outrunning storm clouds feels muted somehow.

The real truth sits heavy in my cabin below—Korrun's latest letter, ink still sharp enough to cut. Words that paint pictures of a life so different from mine it might as well exist on another world entirely. A life with roots deep enough to weather any storm.

"I'll be below," I tell Harrow, who just nods and takes his position near the wheel like he's been expecting this.

My cabin feels smaller than usual as I duck through the low doorway, the familiar space suddenly cramped despite having housed me comfortably for years.

Charts cover every available surface, their edges curling from salt air and constant handling.

But it's the letter spread across my writing desk that draws my attention—thick parchment that bears the unmistakable scrawl of my brother's careful handwriting.

Dae,

You're going to laugh, but I've been practicing my penmanship. Soreya says my letters look like they were written by an ursain with a grudge against the alphabet. Can't argue with her there.

Speaking of Soreya—remember how I told you we've been talking about the future? Well, the future decided to arrive a bit ahead of schedule. She's pregnant, brother. We're having a baby.

I keep writing that sentence and staring at it, like the words might rearrange themselves into something that makes more sense.

But there it is. I'm going to be a father.

Can you believe that? This big, clumsy bastard who breaks half the dishes he tries to wash is going to be responsible for a tiny human being.

Soreya glows, Dae. I know that sounds like romantic nonsense, but I swear on our father's horns that she actually glows. Happy looks good on her in ways I didn't know were possible. And when she looks at me like I hung the moons myself—by the Lady, brother, I never knew I could feel this complete.

I've been thinking about names. Traditional ones, of course, but also wondering if we should consider something that honors both our cultures. Soreya laughs when I suggest minotaur names, says she can barely pronounce half of them. Fair point.

The baby isn't due for months yet, but I've already started planning everything. A proper nursery, savings for their education, connections to make sure they have opportunities neither of us got growing up. I want to give them the world, Dae. The whole damn world.

I know you're probably reading this in some distant port, planning your next run to Zukiev-know-where. But if you ever get tired of chasing horizons, you've got family here. A nephew or niece on the way who's going to need an uncle who can teach them about adventure and faraway places.

Stay safe out there. The seas can keep you for now, but don't let them keep you forever.

Your brother,

Korrun

P.S. — Soreya sends her regards. She also said to tell you that when you finally come home, she's making you help with the baby's first words. Something about "Uncle Dae has a silver tongue and should put it to good use."

I read the letter for the third time today, my finger tracing the careful loops of Korrun's improved penmanship. The joy practically bleeds through the parchment—pure, uncomplicated happiness that makes my chest tight with something I can't quite name.

Uncle Dae.

The title sits strange and wonderful in my mind, conjuring images I've never let myself entertain.

Teaching a small minotaur how to tie sailor's knots.

Telling stories of sea monsters and distant shores while they sit wide-eyed and captivated.

Watching Korrun try to navigate fatherhood with the same careful intensity he brings to everything else.

My fingers find the small collection of Korrun's letters I keep bundled in my sea chest, their edges soft from handling.

Two years of correspondence that chronicles the slow transformation of my stoic brother into someone capable of writing sentences like "happy looks good on her in ways I didn't know were possible. "

The change started the day he met Soreya, though I didn't recognize it immediately.

His letters had always been dutiful things—updates on his work at the colosseum, questions about my travels, careful inquiries about my health and safety.

Practical communication between brothers separated by an ocean.

Then suddenly they were full of observations about sunlight through fruit trees and debates over which variety of pears made the best preserves.

Stories about a human woman who could match his wit and challenge his assumptions with equal ease.

Wonder at finding someone who looked at his massive frame and saw strength worth trusting rather than threat worth avoiding.

" She makes me want to be better ," he'd written in one particularly unguarded moment. " Not different—she loves me as I am. But better. Stronger. More worthy of the faith she places in me ."

And now they're having a baby. Korrun—my careful, controlled brother who thinks through every decision twice—is about to become a father. The mental image of him cradling something small and fragile makes me smile despite the strange ache in my chest.

I pull out a fresh sheet of parchment and uncork my ink, but the words don't come immediately. How do you respond to news that changes everything? How do you congratulate someone on a joy you're not sure you understand but desperately want to share?

The ship rocks gently beneath me, the familiar motion that's been home for more years than I've spent on solid ground. But for the first time in memory, the movement feels less like freedom and more like distance—an ocean's worth of water between me and the people who matter most.

Korrun, I finally write, Uncle Dae. I like the sound of that.

I've read your letter so many times the crew probably thinks I've lost my mind. Harrow caught me grinning at nothing yesterday and threatened to check my rum supply for tampering. When I told him I was going to be an uncle, he bought the first round.

A baby. Our family is growing, and I'm out here chasing favorable winds like some restless ghost. Part of me wants to turn the ship around right now and sail straight home, but we've got cargo contracts to honor first. Give me six months, and I'll be back in Karona with gifts from half a dozen ports and stories that'll put the little one to sleep for years.

Tell Soreya I'm already practicing my lullabies. Fair warning—they're mostly sea shanties, and some of them aren't entirely appropriate for young ears. We'll work on that.

I'm proud of you, brother. Proud of the life you've built, the love you've found, the father you're going to be. That baby is lucky to have you both.

The letter feels inadequate somehow, too small to contain the rush of joy and longing and fierce protectiveness that Korrun's news has awakened. But it's a start—a bridge across the water that separates us, carrying love and congratulations and promises I intend to keep.

Outside, I hear Tam calling course corrections, the steady creak of rigging under strain, the eternal whisper of wind across water.

The sounds that have been my lullaby for years, but tonight they feel different somehow.

Tonight they sound less like home and more like the space between me and where I want to be.

It'll probably be six months. Maybe a few more.

Long enough to finish this run, settle the crew's contracts, make arrangements for the ship's management in my absence.

Long enough to plan a proper homecoming for a brother who's about to discover that love makes everything—including fear—exponentially larger.

But I should be there before the baby is born, and I can be part of their life.

I seal the letter carefully, already planning its route to Milthar. Then I spread my charts across the desk, tracing familiar shipping lanes with new purpose. For the first time in years, I'm not just planning the next port of call.

I'm planning the journey home.