5. Rian

5

RIAN

M y broad hands clench into fists as I watch Natalie walk past the Hungry Minotaur with that greasy Munchin’ Morsels rep, their heads bent together conspiratorially. Red-hot anger courses through my veins, my minotaur instincts screaming at me to charge after her, to grab her by the shoulders and make her see reason. How could she do this?

I inhale deeply, trying to calm the beast within. This comes with being a minotaur; incredible strength and size, coupled with uncontrollable territorial aggression. Instinctively, I’ll do anything to protect what’s mine.

I’m such a fool. The first person I’ve felt an attraction to since Astrid immediately stabs me in the back. It proves what I know—all I need is Jessa and the life we have.

I refuse to let her destroy everything I’ve built here.

Squaring my shoulders, I head back out, switching the sign on the door to “back soon!”, and make my way to the office of my old friend Finnian Silverleaf, one of the sharpest legal minds in town.

Finn’s office is exactly as I remember it—towering bookcases line the walls, stuffed to the brim with thick, leather bound legal tomes. The spicy scent of incense mingles with the musty smell of old books. Finnian sits behind a massive desk, his long fingers steepled under his chin as he regards me with his shrewd emerald eyes.

“Rian, my friend,” he says, rising to clasp my hand. “What brings you here in the middle of the day? Is everything okay?”

The story comes pouring out of me in a torrent of frustration.

I pace the room like a caged animal as I recount Natalie’s actions, the threat that Munchin’ Morsels poses to my livelihood, my family.

By the time I finish, my chest is heaving. I force myself to sit across from him, and take a deep breath.

“Finn, you’ve got to help me,” I plead, bracing my hands on his desk. “There must be some legal way to stop this sale. I can’t lose the Hungry Minotaur, not like this.”

Finnian leans back in his chair, gazing sightlessly at the row of legal books behind me, thinking.

“Well, there might be something… Hmm…” He hops out of his chair and grabs a book from the bottom corner of the shelf to his right, flipping it open on the desk and paging through. “I think I remember… There’s an obscure property law that’s rarely invoked these days, which I always thought was interesting. I need to look back and see what it says…”

He’s silent for a few moments, flipping through pages. I clear my throat.

“Sorry.” He looks up. “I’ll need a minute to find what I’m looking for. Why don’t I come by the bakery once I do? Save me a pumpkin muffin?”

“Of course. And…” I pause, hope flaring painfully in my chest. “Do you really think this law could stop her from selling the place?”

Finnian taps his fingers on the book in front of him. “I’m not sure. It’s a long shot, but it could give you grounds to challenge the sale. Or at least slow things down, buy us some time to figure out a more permanent solution.”

Relief floods my veins. It’s not a complete victory, but it’s a start.

“That’s great, Finn. Really, I can’t thank you enough,” I say fervently.

“I’ll come by later and we can discuss the details. We’ll need to bring the matter before the town council,” Finnian explains. “They’re the only ones with the authority to invoke this law.” He grins suddenly, a sly glint in his eye. “Lucky for you, the council meets tomorrow night. I’d start preparing your case if I were you.”

My head is full of arguments and points to bring in front of the council as I leave Finn’s office.

I won’t let Natalie and Munchin’ Morsels destroy Astrid’s and my dream. Not without one hell of a fight, at least.

Back home at our apartment above The Hungry Minotaur, I enter Jessa’s bedroom, a basket of freshly laundered clothes balanced on my hip.

The enchanted posters papering her walls shift and swirl, reflecting my daughter’s mercurial tween moods. Amid the scattered remnants of her childhood—a worn teddy bear, a half-finished fairy castle—sits Thrasher’s tank, tucked into the corner.

I pause to peer at the little bubbledragon. He blinks back at me with iridescent eyes, his dark scales shimmering like black opals. He puffs out a perfect, glistening bubble at my stare. The bubble floats lazily around the large enclosure before popping against a hunk of driftwood.

Shaking my head with a smile, I turn back to the laundry. I methodically fold each shirt, each pair of shorts, and tuck them neatly into Jessa’s dresser drawers. As I place the last folded shirt inside, the door flies open, slamming against the wall.

Jessa stands framed in the doorway, her face flushed. “Dad!” she says, her voice shrill. “What are you doing in my room?”

I blink, taken aback. “I was just putting away your laundry, sweetie. I thought I’d help?—”

“Well, don’t!” she snaps, stamping her hoof. Her eyes flash with adolescent indignation. “This is my room, my space!”

“Jessa, take a breath,” I say, trying for a soothing tone. “I was just?—”

“Take a breath? Do you think I’m a four-year-old? Ugh, you’re even folding my underwear? Gross, Dad!” She snatches a pair of polka-dot panties from my hands, her cheeks burning crimson under her fur.

Any composure starts to wither away, my temper fraying. I draw myself up to my full height, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You know, if you want to be in charge of your own laundry, you need to actually do it,” I hear myself say. “I’d be more than happy if you took it off my plate. I can guarantee you that I do not want to be folding up your panties.”

Jessa’s eyes narrow to slits. “Oh my gods , Dad, you did not just say the word panties. You are so embarrassing! Get out of my room!”

I sigh loudly, frustrated by how she’s speaking to me and frankly unsure how to navigate these invisible rules she’s creating.

“Actually,” she huffs, “don’t bother. I’ll go.”

Before I can think of what to say next, she whirls and storms out, slamming the door behind her with a theatrical bang.

Rattled, I sink onto the edge of her unmade bed. My head drops into my hands as I exhale a breath. Parenting is a journey, I know, not a destination… but what if I’ve lost the map entirely? I’m drowning here, flailing to find my footing in this strange new world of door slams, eye rolls and secrets.

But what do I know about being a twelve-year-old girl? About the social pressures, the physical changes, the emotional roller coaster? I’m a middle-aged single dad, bumbling my way through raising a daughter on my own.

Groaning, I heave myself up. I leave the unfinished laundry, trudging out of the room on leaden hooves. The gulf between Jessa and me seems to grow every day that she inches toward being a teenager, and I hate it.

I head into my study, the warm wooden tones and familiar scent of old books offering a momentary respite from the emotional maelstrom that is my pre-teen daughter. Framed photos of Jessa and me at various stages of her childhood line the shelves along the wall, interspersed with a few precious snapshots of my late wife, Astrid. My gaze lingers on one that shows her radiant smile.

Sinking into my desk chair, I let out a heavy sigh. What I wouldn’t give for Astrid’s guidance, her gentle wisdom, and unwavering support.

The familiar ache of absence settles in my chest. Some minotaur women carry a gene that increases the likelihood of maternal mortality. Astrid was one of them. We knew the risks but thought the reward outweighed it. We were minotaurs after all; our kind are breeders, with large families common.

But then Astrid became a statistic.

Astrid never got to see our daughter grow up, and I can’t expect myself to magically know everything Jessa’s mom would know.

My gaze falls upon a familiar leather-bound journal, Jessa’s name embossed on the cover in intricate, swirling letters. I reach for it, running my fingertips over the designs. The faintest pulse of magic seems to emanate from the binding, betraying the enchantments woven into its creation.

Myrtle had these journals made for herself and Jessa, a way for them to stay connected even when they were apart. Jessa adored Myrtle, spending countless hours in her shop, soaking up her knowledge and basking in her affection. With Jessa’s own grandmother living far away, and only me as a parent in the home, Myrtle became something like a substitute grandma, a fun and wacky confidante who understood the unique challenges of growing up as a young female in a magical world.

I remember Jessa’s raw, overwhelming grief after Myrtle’s passing last year, her desperate desire to purge any reminders of the pain. It took all my gentle coaxing to convince her to keep these precious mementos, knowing that one day, she would cherish them as tangible pieces of Myrtle’s love.

Now, more than ever, I wish Myrtle were still with us. Her guidance and support would be invaluable with the challenges of Jessa’s tween years and the looming threat to my business.

I need someone to talk to, anyone , I realize.

I open the journal to a blank page, the crisp parchment beckoning me. Picking up a pen, I hesitate for a minute before pressing the nib to the paper. The words flow from my heart, a desperate plea to the universe, to any lingering traces of Myrtle’s magic that might still reside within these pages.

I miss you.

As I write, a single tear splashes onto the page, blurring the ink. I don’t know if it’s aimed at Myrtle, Astrid, or the peaceful life I used to have with Jessa.

Either way, I hope the world listens.