دانلود رمان انگلیسی “عروس پرستار بچه مینوتورها”

The weight of grief sits heavy on my shoulders as I trudge up the cobblestone path to Iris’ home. My sister—my brilliant, fierce, stubborn little sister. Gone. Just like that. The morning sun mocks my sorrow, shining bright and cheerful like it hasn’t the decency to recognize that the world has lost one of its brightest flames only days ago. I pause at the door, my massive frame suddenly feeling fragile. My fingers trace over one of the bronze rings adorning my left horn—Iris’ gift on my thirtieth birthday. “For the most successful merchant in Milthar,” she’d said, eyes twinkling with pride. Now those eyes are closed forever. Taking a deep breath that does nothing to steady my nerves, I push the heavy oak door open. The hinges creak in protest. Inside, two healers in their white cloaks stand conversing in low tones with a pair of maids. They all turn at my entrance, their faces a mixture of sympathy and wariness—probably wondering if the giant minotaur filling their doorway might collapse in grief. Then I hear it—a high-pitched wail cutting through the somber atmosphere. My ears prick forward instantly, swiveling toward the sound like twin weathervanes finding true north. “The baby,” I whisper, my voice unexpectedly hoarse. “The baby survived.” One of the maids, a plump human woman with silver-streaked hair, steps forward. “Master Ironhoof, we’ve been expecting you. Yes, your nephew lives, though it was a close thing.” My hooves carry me across the room without conscious thought. “Take me to him.” “Of course.” The maid nods, leading me down the hallway. “We’ve done our best, but he’s been fussy since—” She stops, choosing her words carefully. “Since your sister passed. He seems to sense that something’s missing.” “Smart kid,” I mutter, ducking my head to avoid scraping my horns on the ceiling beams. Iris always teased me about my size, said she’d build me a proper door one day. Now she never would. The nursery is small but well-appointed—Iris had prepared for this child with her typical thoroughness. A mobile of carved wooden animals hangs above a hand-crafted crib. The second maid stands beside it, gently rocking its occupant. “Here he is,” she says as we approach. “Ellis, your uncle has come to meet you.” I peer down into the crib, my breath catching at the sight. He’s tiny, even for a newborn, with tawny fur so like Iris’. Soft little nubs where his horns will eventually grow peek through the fluff on his head. His eyes—gods above—they’re gold like mine, wide and curious despite his distress.