Chapter 2

He was napping.

Ben had gathered a mound of vines, scrunching them into a makeshift pillow and leaning his back against the cold stone wall. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was the best he could find in the dome he was forced to remain in. With nothing to do and nothing to look forward to, a midday nap was simply a way to pass the endless time.

In his half-sleep, fragments of his old life flickered past. Swords and shields. Holding the line in Minos’s army, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of his division.

The dream shifted—drinks, travels, laughter, lovers… scattered flashes from his years as a sword for hire.

Then it sharpened. He was bracing his shield against the charge of the Crommyonian Sow, its massive tusks slamming into him with bone-jarring force. He felt the impact, felt the world jolt around him—until something deeper stirred. A familiar sense told him he wasn’t dreaming.

The movement was real.

The wall of the dome was shifting open, once again admitting another victim.

A familiar pit hollowed his stomach as he realized exactly what the next few minutes would bring. He wanted nothing more than to remain on the ground—to offer himself as an easy victim. Well… for as easy as fighting a Minotaur could ever be. But that was not allowed.

Instead the lifting sensation began, tugging his spirit loose from his body. With it came a flicker of relief. He rose away from himself, weightless, aware enough that the instincts had seized control below.

He watched his body rise—fists clench, horns dip forward, a hoof pawing at the slate floor. He hated these moments—halfway between separation and attachment—when he could feel the body gearing up for slaughter, every motion practiced, inevitable. A parody of a bull ready to charge.

Still, he reminded himself, there was one mercy here for the victims. Nut when the fight ended, he would glimpse the world outside the maze once more. That was the moment he longed for. This was the only mercy the curse allowed. 

He floated, a ghost staring down at his own body, tense and ready to kill whoever appeared.

And he waited.

And waited.

And waited still.

Where was this victim? Where was the next poor soul who would find death at the horns of the Minotaur?

Ben looked and saw… no one.

Finally, the familiar pull began, drawing him back into his body. But the wall… it remained open. Something had changed. There was no one here—no one but himself. This… this was different.

He re-entered his body, disoriented, blinking until his consciousness settled back into place. His head swung in a slow arc, scanning the chamber. No one in the hall. No one in the dome. Nothing out of place.

‘How curious—what is going on here?’ he wondered.

“And I thought my sack was big!” a squeaky, strangely accented voice piped up, interrupting his thought.

At the same moment, Ben felt a small, blunt poke at a very tender place. 

His eyes dropped between his legs. Steam blew from his nostrils as the beast inside readied for battle.

The familiar tug gripped him, his spirit beginning to rise free—yet when he looked down, there was nothing there. Nothing except… a leaf.

It shifted as though caught by a phantom breeze, then fluttered away. The tug released, and he found himself firmly anchored in his body once again.

He watched the leaf flutter toward the fountain, frowning in confusion. The wall behind him still stood open. He could feel a bestial rage within. He knew it—instincts that took over and guided his body while he remained absent. But this time he was beside it, his consciousness present rather than detached as usual.

He narrowed his eyes, observing, seeking an answer to this strange mystery. He focused on the leaf, the apparent cause of his unusual situation. It was unlike the jagged, many-pronged leaves sprouting from the vines. Its shape was simple: round, tapering to a tip, with a single stem at its base. A tree leaf. Yet there were no trees here. Of that, he was almost certain.

It drifted around the fountain in lazy arcs, turning in the air as if riding some unseen current. This could be no natural breeze, not within this sealed chamber. And yet the thing circled again and again as if caught in a small whirlwind, never once touching the floor.

Ben stood rigid, nostrils flaring, the curse’s rage keeping his body tense—expectant. He knew that whatever this was, it was no accident of nature. Yet no explanation came, so his mind remained intact as he stayed still and simply observed.

“So this is the mighty fountain of Adrasteia. I’ve seen prettier,” the small voice from before said again—this time from farther away.

Ben shook his head, muscles taut as the war inside him raged. Someone was here. He could hear them. And yet… there was only the drifting leaf.

The bestial rage demanded blood, demanded violence, but the rational part of his mind—the part that was still Ben—saw nothing more than a leaf riding a phantom breeze.

He clung to that oddness, forcing his focus there, using it to keep the murderous compulsion at bay. But at the same time, he did not forget the wall to his prison still stood open. Different. This was different. Perhaps even a chance—something he could—

The leaf dipped suddenly, diving toward the fountain’s surface.

“NO! Don’t!” he bellowed. His voice—so rarely used—tore from his throat and rolled through the chamber, reverberating off the stone, utterly breaking the silence.

The leaf halted midair, as if frozen.

Ben lifted his arm in a pleading gesture, words spilling before he even realized he was speaking. “The water is cursed. It grants eternal life and enormous strength—but the price is this form, this prison.”

The leaf hovered inches above the surface… then slowly drew back.

The monster inside didn’t see—but it knew. There was someone, something, tethered to that leaf. The rage rose, the need to kill swelling in its chest, and Ben felt himself wrenched upward, torn from his body.

‘NO!’ he screamed inwardly, struggling to soothe the beast, forcing himself to see only a leaf—just a leaf, nothing more.

The leaf floated away, riding an unseen current, drifting slowly and deliberately from the fountain.

“I see,” the now somewhat familiar voice mused, still calm and curious. “I’ve never considered a form like that before. It’s intriguing. Nice and strong.”

Ben’s skull throbbed, blood rushing louder in his ears with every passing second, every word spoken by the invisible assailant. His thoughts began to fray; he felt himself slipping away, his grip on his body loosening.

“But I’m pretty sure it’s not a form I’d want permanently,” the voice went on—playful now, almost careless.

The leaf glided toward the open wall—the door back to the maze—then dropped, as if whatever wind or spirit had carried it simply vanished. It landed lightly on the stone floor and lay still.

Ben’s spirit tore free. He hovered above himself—unmoored—forced to play the role of spectator. His Minotaur body lunged toward the fragile speck of green on the white stone.

A swift stomp. His hoof came down, sharp edge grinding against slate, twisting, crushing the leaf to pulp.

It was quick—there was no blood, no gore. And as the last fragment smeared away, he returned to his body, feeling the curse subside as he reentered his flesh. Yet this time there was a different emotion. He was used to the slight sense of satisfaction left by the rage, but now he noticed a tinge of disappointment as the curse’s energy settled back into place, dormant for now.

The precious moment he longed for—to view the world beyond the maze—didn’t come. And stranger still… the wall remained open.

Blinking, fully back in his body, Ben lifted his hoof. The leaf beneath was crushed—smeared into the stone.

Yet nothing had changed.

No… that wasn’t true. Something had.

The rage was gone. The need to guard the fountain, to slaughter all intruders was gone. The compulsion to drag bodies to the pit, to feed its hunger remained silent.

He was himself. Or at least, as much of himself as he had been since drinking from the fountain so long ago.

He looked around. There was no one. Not even a floating leaf. There was nothing out of place. The fountain still trickled merrily, as though nothing had happened at all.

Ben couldn’t believe it. He didn’t understand. He stared into the shadows, half-expecting a dagger to thrust from the dark or a blade to burst from his chest from a hidden enemy he couldn’t perceive.

Yet all was still.

Cautiously, he peered down the open corridor.

Then he stepped. Nothing happened.

Another step. Still nothing.

Before he realized it, he was outside the dome, standing fully in the corridor of the maze. His mind reeled. He didn’t understand what was happening—but he knew one thing with certainty: if he ever hoped to leave this place alive rather than dead, he had to act now.

He braced to run… then froze.

Something deep inside him stirred, whispering of how the Labyrinth worked—what it meant for this corridor to stand open while the dome remained accessible. His instincts, sharpened by his former life, spoke now as well. He remembered the time he had stood here before, just before facing the Minotaur that once waited within. 

And then he knew: the wall never opened without purpose. The maze guided someone here to be slaughtered. Which meant someone was here, someone who had entered and still remained close. Otherwise, the path would already be closed.

“If none remain here, this exit will close. If you can hear my voice, then flee, count yourself lucky, and never return. This is my curse to bear,” he said into the empty corridor. There was more he wished to say—to speak to someone about the loneliness, the boredom. Simply to speak with another human. It had been so long.

He drew in a breath. The air moved around him, brushing against his fur—a sensation he had rarely known in this body. He was usually gone, lifted free, whenever the walls opened. Even if a breeze had touched him then, he would not have felt it. But now… now the air stirred the fur on his arms and around his neck. His nostrils flared, drinking in every new scent, for this was the only chance he’d get.

He lifted his gaze and saw the sky—open, endless, and real. The warmth of the sun fell across his brow, and a single tear slipped free at its beauty… and at his loss.

But he knew the moment was fleeting. He knew he must return. The Minotaur’s place was here, the eternal guardian of Adrasteia’s cursed fountain.

So he inhaled deeply one last time, pulling the world into himself. Then he turned, his steps heavy, back toward the fountain. He would resume his vigil. He would hold the curse, so no one else would have to.

But as he moved to re-enter—his hoof struck something solid.

His head, which had been turned to see the sky one last time, spun—his muzzle almost bashing into stone.

The wall… it had reformed, leaving him outside the dome, standing in the maze.

His heart thundered, each beat reverberating through his chest as he stared at the sealed wall. His way back—was gone. His prison—shut behind him. His chance at freedom—now standing before him.

“I guess that curse of yours didn’t expect someone like me to show up,” came the small accented voice from earlier.

Ben blinked, whipping his head about, but saw no one.

“No surprise, really. I traveled a long way. The magics are different where I’m from. Even your old gods can’t see that far.”

He froze, uncertain how to react. There was no mistaking it now: someone was here. Yet the rage—the Minotaur’s bloodlust—remained still, quiet.

“So…” the voice teased, now from his left, further down the corridor, “is the curse broken? Or do you have to leave the maze completely? Because you don’t look like you’re about to kill me anymore.”

He was unsure of anything at the moment. He blinked and tried to speak, but his throat felt parched. He coughed, then finally managed to whisper, “I… I don’t know.” His voice was weak and unsure, but it was the honest truth.

“Only one way to find out then,” came the reply.

From beyond the corner where the corridor bent to the right, a figure walked out. But this wasn’t a normal person; it wasn’t a human.

It was another Minotaur.

Ben felt his lower jaw drop.

This new Minotaur was slightly shorter, much chunkier, and had an odd coloration to his fur.

Its hide was a dark brown, fading to a more tannish color around its center—emphasizing the creature’s rotundness.

The tan coloration flowed up to the face, but left a mask of the darker brown covering its eyes, and streaking down its snout.

But then Ben looked closer and could see other subtle differences, showing it wasn’t a Minotaur at all.

For starters, the ears were round and perky, with a similar ring of tan fur around the edges, and its hands were… paws, with short and stubby fingers with small claws at the ends of each one.

But the most glaringly obvious difference was the tail.

Ben had a tail; it was long and slender with a patch of stringy hair at the end. It had a mind of its own—something he’d never really been able to tame.

But this new creature’s tail was… poofy! It wiggled and roamed behind it, its fur ringed with additional tan stripes cutting through the dark brown, ending with that same tan color at the tip.

“Ta-da! What do you think? Did I nail it?” the false Minotaur said—but in a very non-Minotaur way. The voice was the same as before: squeaky, with a strange accent Ben had never heard.