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2. Rian

2

RIAN

I glance up from kneading the honey-cardamom dough as the bell on the door tinkles merrily. Ecco and her friend, a statuesque blonde at her side, are heading out after their quick snack.

It was her—Natalie.

She’s been living rent free in my head ever since we met at Ecco’s cottage the other day.

My hands slow on the dough. Natalie is stunning, confidence oozing from every pore. Tall for a human woman, with a slender frame and stylish blonde bob that just brushes her jawline. She wears bold red lipstick, a slash of vibrant color against her pale skin. Without realizing it, my mind drifts, wondering if that lipstick ever gets mussed up, smeared by passionate kisses...

I shake my shaggy head, snapping myself out of it. Gods, Rian, get a grip . Pining over a stranger like some horny teenager. It’s pathetic.

Focusing intently on the dough, I pummel it with more force than necessary. Clearly, I’ve been alone too long if I’m getting hot and bothered by a flash of red lips. I just...I haven’t felt drawn to anyone since Astrid. Haven’t wanted to.

It’s fine. I’m fine on my own. I have my daughter Jessa, I have the bakery. Plenty to keep me busy. Fulfilled. Who has time for intimacy and entanglements? Certainly not this minotaur.

There are too many cinnamon buns to frost, anyway.

The familiar rhythm of baking takes over my mind for a while, the sweet scent of autumn spices filling my nostrils. Speaking of spices...I frown, remembering again that I’m running low on some key ingredients.

Time to do inventory.

In the back storeroom, I examine the labeled jars lining the shelves. My frown deepens as I see how depleted some of Myrtle’s signature spice blends are getting, especially her tingly tart apple pie mix and the smoky, savory herbs she crafted just for my famous scones.

Those blends are the secret to some of my most popular dishes.

Myrtle, my kooky witch of a neighbor, started gifting me personalized spice mixes years ago. Always said baking was like magic—a mix of hard work and that intangible extra spark. We used to spend hours in her fragrant kitchen, experimenting and taste-testing.

When she got sick last year, dear old Myrtle made massive batches of my favorite blends for me. Enough to last.

Only now they’re not lasting.

I sigh heavily, the sound unnaturally loud in the cramped space. I’ve been putting off searching for replacement spices. It feels too final, like really saying goodbye. Admitting Myrtle is gone and not coming back.

No sense delaying the inevitable, though. I need those spices. They’re critical to what makes The Hungry Minotaur’s baking so memorable, so magical.

Tomorrow then. I’ll head to the Monster Market and see what I can find to start replicating Myrtle’s blends.

The thought sits like a cold lump in my gut, but I can’t avoid it forever.

Squaring my shoulders, I head back to the kitchen. Those cinnamon buns won’t frost themselves. And if my thoughts keep straying to a certain blonde newcomer, well, no one else has to know.

As the late afternoon sun slants through the bakery windows, I pack up the day’s unsold pastries and breads. Jessa should be wrapping up her after-school activities at the town hall by now.

Balancing the bags of pastries in my muscular arms, I lock up, then stride down the quaint street.

The town hall is a stately brick building, its steps worn from generations of use. On weekends, it transforms into a place of worship for anyone who seeks it. I head around back to the ever-stocked community food pantry, a regular destination.

“Rian, hey!” Rowan Hartley, the pantry’s most devoted volunteer, greets me with a warm smile. Her auburn hair is tucked into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her bespectacled face. “Wow, quite a haul today!”

“Afternoon, Rowan,” I rumble, setting the bags down. “You know me, always end up making extra.”

Truth is, I do it on purpose. I hate the thought of hungry folks in town, magical or otherwise. If my leftover baking can fill some bellies and hearts, all the better.

“You’re too good to us,” Rowan says, already sorting the goods.

“Just doing what I can. See you tomorrow?”

“You know it!”

Nodding, I circle back to the hall’s main entrance. Jessa waits for me there, her backpack slung over one shoulder as she practices some new martial arts moves she’s just learned. At twelve, she’s starting to come into her own, a perfect blend of her mother and me.

Soft brown fur covers her petite frame, small horns just beginning to curve atop her head. She’s dressed simply in leggings and a t-shirt, clothes that can take a beating from flour and kicks alike.

Spotting me, Jessa grins and throws a few energetic punches, showing off.

“Looking fierce, kiddo,” I say as she skips over for a hug. “Good day?”

“The best! We learned about the history of elven runes and I got my high kick above my head finally and Jyn said I’m a natural!”

Her chatter washes over me, soothing as a lullaby as we walk home hand-in-hand. Jessa’s been moody lately, sometimes her usual talkative self, but sometimes barely answering my questions as I ask about her day.

From the conversations I’ve had with Jessa’s friends’ parents, I know I’m not alone in this experience. Twelve is a confusing time, especially for girls—or so Karisse’s mom has assured me. I wonder sometimes if this would’ve been easier to navigate if Astrid was still alive, if she’d see the changes in our daughter and take them in stride.

If it would be easier to have a tween if I also had a partner by my side.

I’m glad to see Jessa in good spirits today, at least. She karate chops lampposts and fire hydrants as we pass.

Love swells in my chest, so strong I almost ache with it. Ducking to avoid a low-hanging sprite-lantern, I squeeze Jessa’s small hand in my large one. She beams up at me, for a golden moment looking just like my little girl, not the almost-teenager she’s become.

What more could a minotaur ask for?

The next morning dawns bright and hectic. Jessa gapes at the Monster Market’s colorful splendor as we approach. I can’t blame her. The place is a living kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells.

Stalls stretch as far as the eye can see, manned by every type of being. The market sets up in a large field twice a week, bringing magical and monstrous folk from all over the realm to hawk their wares. Some of the stall spaces are permanently installed here, and some of them are temporary tents and tables set up by their proprietors.

A hulking troll proudly displays an arsenal of enchanted swords while a gaggle of pixies flit about, bearing trays of glittering love potions. Delicious scents—sizzling meats, fresh herbs, smoky incense—mingle in the air.

“There’s some new stuff today,” Jessa breathes, dark eyes wide and eager as she takes it all in. I keep a hand on her shoulder as we wade in, the crowd parting at the sight of me looming above them all.

She’s still my little girl in so many ways, awed by the market’s wonders. I wish I could bottle up this enthusiasm and save it for the years ahead. My heart twists with pride and wistfulness as I steer us towards the spice merchants, trying to appreciate the moment, rather than getting caught up in thoughts of Jessa growing up.

Overloaded tables groan under the weight of gleaming jars and woven baskets, the air dancing with exotic aromas and the sounds of the merchants hawking their wares.

I examine the options with a keen eye. Glittering black peppercorns that emit dragon smoke. Sunset-orange filaments that smolder gently. Indigo salt crystals that sparkle like stars.

Each one reminds me of Myrtle’s carefully curated blends. She could draw the best flavors out of even the plainest ingredients, crafting alchemical symphonies. I can almost hear her now, gushing about the properties of this root or that leaf.

“What do you think, Dad?” Jessa asks, holding up a jar of iridescent saffron. “For your cinnamon rolls?”

“Good eye,” I say, inspecting the delicate threads. Their floral scent is dizzying. “Let’s give them a shot.”

We move down the row, assembling a collection of spices to experiment with back at the bakery. It’s a start. They might not be Myrtle’s blends, but I have to begin somewhere.

As I haggle with an ambitious dryad over a jar of mint, a flash of color catches my eye. Turning, I spot a vibrant flier tacked to a nearby post. Jessa notices my distraction and reads it aloud.

“24th Annual Elderberry Falls Cook-Off Competition, Calling All Culinary Clans! Ha, every year they make such corny posters…”

I grin down at her, a tingle of anticipation chasing up my spine. Our favorite event of the year, Jessa’s sarcasm notwithstanding.

The town family cook-off is an elaborate, multi-week competition, not for the faint of heart. For five weeks, we spend every weekend in a tent at the town hall, cooking and baking our hearts out. Only families are allowed to participate, although of course Elderberry Falls welcomes any group of people who deem themselves a family; all definitions of the term are welcome. We’re especially encouraged to get children involved and participating. It’s a magical time for them.

“You ready to win this year?” I ask Jessa. We’ve been entering this every year since she was six. I’m truly more of a baker than a chef, but I have a feeling this year might be our time.

She shoots me a grin. “Yeah, it’s about time.”

The flier flutters in the breeze, beckoning. I reach out to snag it just as a small figure saunters into view. Jessa straightens up, her expression shifting to something cooler, more remote. I blink at the sudden change.

“Jess! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

The newcomer is a lanky dragonling about Jessa’s age, her ruby scales glinting in the sun. Ember. One of the so-called ‘cool kids’ my daughter has been hanging around lately.

“Oh, hey Em,” Jessa says, voice carefully casual. She throws her braid over one shoulder. “What’s up?”

As the two chatter, I stand there awkwardly, the flier limp in my hand. I don’t miss the way Jessa leans away from me slightly, putting distance between us.

“...sounds wicked boring,” Ember is saying, examining her claws. “Cooking with your dad? What are you, five?”

Jessa forces a laugh, but I hear the nerves threading through it. “Totally. Just a dumb thing for little kids.”

The words land like a punch to the gut, though I keep my expression neutral. I look away over their heads, biting back my desire to jump in, to remind Jessa how much we always love doing the competition together.

Can’t embarrass her in front of her friend, no matter how obnoxious I find said friend. That’d be sure to set Jessa off.

“C’mon, Scribes Comics just got a new graphic novel in from that artist we like,” Ember says, linking her scaly arm with Jessa’s furry one. “Let’s jet.”

“Sure, definitely. I’ll see you at home, dad.”

Jessa doesn’t glance back again as Ember leads her away, the two quickly swallowed by the undulating crowd. I’m left standing there, spices forgotten, the cook-off flier crumpling in my fist.

She didn’t mean it, I tell myself. She’s just trying to act cool for her buddy. Totally normal for a girl her age.

Shaking off the sting, I tuck the flier into my pocket. Moving on autopilot, I pay for the assembled spices and leave the market.

Is this what Jessa growing up looks like? Her pulling away, leaving behind the things we’ve always loved?

I think of the cook-off, its raucous energy and sugar-fueled joy. The way Jessa would practically vibrate with excitement in the weeks leading up to it each year, scribbling ideas and begging to test new recipes. Last year we placed second, so close to victory I could taste it.

I’d thought this time we’d finally snag the trophy. Our names engraved for posterity, the culmination of so many years competing as a duo. As a family.

Now... I’m not so sure we’ll even compete. Did she want to do it, like she told me? Or did she mean what she said to her friend, that it was a “dumb thing for little kids?”

The bell above the bakery door jangles, jarring in the troubled silence of my thoughts. Automatically, I paste on a smile for the waiting customers. Let the familiar rhythms of mixing and kneading soothe my anxiety.

As I work, popping a tray of scones into the oven and carefully shelving all the new spices I’ve purchased, I can feel the tightness in my chest ease from the familiar rhythms.

It’s okay if Jessa isn’t as excited as she used to be about the contest. Things change, that’s natural.

Still, for some reason I can’t let go. Not yet.

With a deep breath, I fish the crumpled flier from my pocket. Smooth it against the counter, tracing the exuberant font with a resolute finger.

I’ll sign us up. Give Jessa a chance to come around, to remember how much fun we’ve always had together. She’s just testing her wings, flexing that teenage rebellion. It doesn’t mean everything has to change.

Doubt nudges, but I push it down.

Pen in hand, I fill out the entry form with a determined flourish. This year’s competition might be different, might be tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that Jessa is growing up, that maybe it’ll be our last effort together as a family, but we’ll make the most of it.

I’ll make sure of it.

Even if she rolls her eyes the whole time, peppers in the sarcastic comments that have been sneaking into her lexicon lately... we’ll still compete. We’ll bake our hearts out, just like always.

With a final stroke of the pen, I seal our fate. Tuck the completed form into an envelope, ready to be mailed.

A declaration of hope, despite the uncertainty looming on the horizon.

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