Prologue

They were a part of the whole—five of many who made up the Brothers of Arkadia. Yet their small troupe was elite, those chosen for the hardest battles and the fiercest monsters. This was their night before battle—because living, not dying gloriously, was always the goal. 

They sat at the center of it all, a large round table with drinks overflowing and food piled high, for that was where they felt most alive. Five men, stout and strong, their bodies built by years of battle, yet their spirits stayed light.

They had their contract—kill the beast at the center of the labyrinth, bring back its head, and claim the bounty. The king of Knossos had grown tired of the gods and their games and now wanted the labyrinth for himself. So he’d hired them, and they’d come.

Yet there was more than the king’s bounty at stake. The fierce Minotaur at the center guarded the Fountain of Adrasteia—and as legend told, “its waters grant strength beyond mortal men and eternal youth.”

So the five stalwart warriors drank to tomorrow's grand victory. Their celebration was loud and raucous, filling the tavern with both laughter and outrage. For this was their night—perhaps their last—and they would live it as they had the rest of their lives: without care for what others thought, living for the pleasures of now.

Kallion Hammer-fall roared loudest. Beleron Axe-hand easily traded boasts—then fists—with a stranger, while Tithikos Spear-singer wagered coin on his loaded dice, winning every time.

“They share their coin, their fights—and their beds, is what I hear,” a drunkard jeered.

Kallion grinned, throwing an arm around the quietest of them. “Aye. A bed, like battle, is best shared. You and the missus ever march side by side through the snow? You might change your mind when you start losing toes.”

Laughter erupted, the insult turned aside. This, too, was their norm, and they were used to it. They’d marched in half a dozen wars, bled for lords who never knew their names, and all of them knew that the men who stood at their backs were the only ones deserving of their love.

Smiling—awkward as always beneath Kallion’s heavy arm—the quiet brother sipped at his drink and played along. He was no one special, had no title, yet they treated him as an equal. Simply being among them was reward enough. They were his brothers—chosen, not blood—and he would gladly spill his own beside theirs. They were family.

***

The Labyrinth waited for them. Its ominous gates cracked open for their entry. They loosened their weapons, stretched their muscles, then stepped through—a contract to fulfill and a monster to slay.

They navigated the twisting corridors, Rekos Dagger-hand guiding them by his honed directional instinct until the turns gave way to the dome at the maze’s heart. As they drew near, the wall unfolded, stone sliding in and over itself, leaving a door wide enough for all to enter.

A musky wave of dry air washed out as their prize stood ahead, sizing up its latest prey—waiting for them to cross the threshold and enter its domain. Beyond it sat the fountain, its water tinkling merrily—a stark contrast to the violence about to erupt.

Weapon met shield. —clash— “Brothers!” —clash— “Arkadia!” Their shouts rang through the hallway and echoed from the marble dome ahead. The beast’s nostrils flared with steam, its hoofed leg scraping against the stone in anticipation.

Then they stepped forward—practiced, synchronized, unwavering—a perfect wall of steel.

As they advanced, so too did the Minotaur. They met mere feet inside and crashed together with the sound of horn on steel, but the line held.

Weapons flashed, blood sprayed, but again and again the monster charged—tireless, relentless—wounded yet undeterred. Another step forward, pressing farther in. Another clash. Another charge brought to a stop. Another step forward.

Then a foot slipped on the bloodied floor, a shield wavered… and all hells broke loose.

***

Kallion crashed to the floor—the line broke. Beleron’s axe bit deep, but a massive hand sent him flying. A hooked spear lodged in one of the beast’s thighs but was snapped by a glancing blow; then horns punctured steel and flesh, and Tithikos dangled limply until the creature shook him loose to clear its vision.

Rekos’s daggers found vital spots, a sword held by quiet hands flashed, and guts spilled—still the monster would not die.

A hoof struck armor, crushing it into ribs. A hammer met skull, but the wielder and weapon were both sent flying into the wall. The man did not rise again, his last breath ragged and wet.

The chamber became a whirlwind of horns, hooves, and blood until only one man remained—the least of them, the unnamed, the quiet one.

He had fought his fiercest, inflicted many wounds, but now his arms were weak—scraped and torn—barely able to keep his sword lifted. Each breath wheezed through broken ribs, his stance crooked on a broken leg, yet he stood his ground, refusing to let his brothers’ deaths mean nothing.

The monster roared and began to charge, seeing victory at hand. But it, too, was wounded. One leg faltered, and it crashed to the floor. Its muzzle split against the marble, yet it pushed itself up and lunged again.

The sword fell, but his strength was gone. The blade glanced off a horn and clattered away.

They faced one another—the man, accepting his end; the monster, panting and wild.

The moment stretched, heartbeats hammering.

Then the creature blinked, and its eyes shifted. The rage, so fierce a moment before, drained away—leaving something, someone, weary yet content beneath it. For a fleeting instant, the monster’s sanity returned.

They stared at one another, and a single tear traced down the beast’s cheek.

“Thank you,” came the whisper. Then the eyes rolled back, and the Minotaur collapsed—still, and breathless.

***

He collapsed to the floor, his knees buckling and leaving him splayed in the ocean of blood surrounding him. Tears spilled freely now. Memories of his brothers danced through his mind—his life flashing before his eyes as he waited for his own heart to stop beating, as all the others already had.

But it didn’t.

A small sound—water falling into water—broke through his grief and called to him. He turned his head, and past the bodies and blood stood a fountain: its white and gray basin rising from the marble floor, a stone flower at its center dancing with water that spilled over its splayed petals.

Its waters grant strength beyond mortal men and eternal youth. The words drifted through his mind. His eyes fell on his comrades—his friends, lovers, brothers—and he knew he had to continue. For them.

Through sheer will he crawled—slid, mostly—across the slick floor. The climb to the basin was almost more than his body could bear. He didn’t know if it would work, or if it would even be worth the pain, but crimson reflection stared back at him as he pulled himself over the rim and fell into the crystal water.

The next moments were a blur of agony and ecstasy unlike anything he’d known. His body healed, then shifted. Wounds closed, but bones broke. He writhed for what felt like days as the water healed only to shatter him again, reshaping what remained.

Unconsciousness finally claimed him. He floated, face up in the fountain, and slept.

When he woke, it was not as himself. He lifted his hands and saw the dark hide covering his fingers. His gaze dropped to his hooved feet, then his trembling hands traced the curve of horns now crowning his head.

A whisper stirred at the back of his mind. Welcome to your eternity.

Days later—after committing the most terrible of tasks—he stood once more before the fountain. His reflection stared back from the rippling surface. He had gained strength beyond any mortal and would live forever, but the price was too high. Trapped within the labyrinth, cursed with the fate of the monster they had slain. 

Its final words took on new meaning.

“My brothers are gone. My life is ended. Benakrios is no more. I am simply Ben.”