Prologue

  Long before becoming a monster, he had a family.

  Not the typical wife and kids though—no, he chose his family, or rather his family chose him.

  Five of them, bound not by blood but by battle.

  They were one piece of a much larger band called the Brothers of Arkadia.

  They were not chosen for their subtlety—unlike some. They were loud, strong, and certain of their place in the world.

  They were sent to defeat the strongest monsters the gods could throw at them.

  That’s why this job was perfect for them. A monster to kill, a reward to claim, and the prospect of a goddess’s boon. What more could they ask for?

  Granted, none in living memory had bested the deadly Minotaur at the heart of the labyrinth—but none had been as well trained or as prepared as they. Their unit had already defeated enemies that bested lesser men, including the Calydonian Boar, one of Echidna’s own.

  No. They would defeat this beast, then spread the reward throughout the troop, for that was their way. They were no mere army or sellswords—even if that was the label given to them—they were brothers. The Brothers of Arkadia.

  But this—this was their night before battle. Not one of rigorous training or final preparations, but of celebrating. Of enjoying life to the fullest.

  Because living—not dying—was always the goal.

  Even if everyone knew it was not always the outcome.

  They sat at a tavern—the center of it all—occupying a large round table with drinks overflowing and food piled high. This was their time, their calm before the storm.

  They were five—stout and strong. Bodies built by countless battles, scars gleaming in the firelight, each one a map of the journey that had brought them here.

  Yet their voices were strong, their laughter contagious as they drank and sang, enjoying life to the fullest while it was still theirs to enjoy.

  Kallion Hammer-fall roared loudest of them all—as was typical of him. Beleron Axe-hand easily traded boasts—then fists—with the locals. Also a common occurrence.

  Tithikos Spear-singer wagered coins with anyone unlucky—or drunk—enough to believe he played fair. With his loaded dice, he won every time.

  “Listen up…” a drunkard called to those gathered, his ale sloshing across the floor. “These ‘brothers’ may share coin and fights easily enough—but I hear they share their beds as well!”

  Half the room erupted with laughter; the other half went silent.

  It was a common insult, one they’d heard a thousand times before. It was also mostly true—but that didn’t make the intent any less barbed.

  Yet Kallion simply grinned and slung a thick, heavy arm around the brother beside him. “Aye. A bed, like battle, is best shared. Do you take your missus when marching through the snow? No? When you start losing toes, the wife at home provides little warmth. But a brother at your side—then you can keep not only your toes warm, but your blanket as well.”

  Those who had laughed before went quiet—considering—while those who had been silent before now took to chuckling under their breath. The face of the man who’d offered the barb turned away.

  This, too, was their norm, and the jibes and quips all a part of the game.

  Smiling—awkward as always beneath Kallion’s heavy arm—the quietest of the brothers sipped his drink and played along. He was no one special, had no title, and wielded no weapon with particular skill—yet they had adopted him, taught him, and treated him as an equal.

  For him, simply being among these legends was more than enough reward. They were his family, and he would bleed and die for any one of them. What they shared in their quiet moments was their choice. The warmth, comfort, and devotion they held for one another needed no name. It was simply family.

  ***

  The next morning arrived, and they geared up—ready for whatever awaited them.

  The Labyrinth, and the Minotaur at its heart.

  The large, ominous iron gates swung open as they approached. The guards merely nodded as the brothers passed—granting permission, but also offering a silent farewell.

  For none who entered ever returned.

  The brothers loosened their weapons, stretched their muscles, and stepped through. They had a contract to fulfill, a monster to slay, and a legacy to build.

  They navigated the twisting corridors, Rekos Dagger-hand guiding them with his uncanny sense of direction. Marble walls wound through an indecipherable path until, at last, the turns abruptly ceased.

  Then a wall before them began to unfold—the stone sliding over itself, revealing a doorway wide enough for all of them 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 a fountain, its water tinkling merrily—a stark contrast to the violence about to erupt.

  In a concert honed by years of training, weapon met shield.

  —Clash—

  The chorus echoed through the corridor as each man shouted, “Brothers!”

  —Clash—

  “Arkadia!”

  —Clash—

  “To victory!”

  Their battle cry rang out—raising awareness, heightening spirit, and announcing their threat.

  The beast’s nostrils flared with steam, its hoof scraping against the stone in anticipation. There was no fear visible in the beast's stance, but nor was there in the men. This was what they were, what they did. This was their life.

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

  As they advanced, so too did the Minotaur.

  The two sides met mere feet inside the chamber.

  They crashed together, the sound like thunder. Horn on steel ringing through the domed structure.

  But the line held.

  Weapons flashed. Blood sprayed.

  Time and again, the monster charged. Its attacks were seemingly tireless. Its anger relentless. It was wounded, bleeding—yet undeterred.

  And each time it charged—whether with horn, hoof, or hand—the brothers met it with practiced synchrony.

  They would advance. Another step forward. Another clash. Another charge brought to a halt. Then they’d push on.

  They could feel the certainty of victory in the air. Their strategy and teamwork were flawless. It would be a long battle, they all knew—one of attrition rather than brute strength—but a battle won, no matter how, was still a victory.

  But perhaps the gods had other plans.

  A slip of Beleron’s foot on the blood-slick floor.

  His shield wavered—

  —and then all hells broke loose.

  ***

  Beleron crashed to the floor—the line broke.

  Into the beast's left flank, Kallion’s hammer pounded, but a heartbeat later a massive, hide-covered hand caught him across the chest and sent him flying.

  A hooked spear lodged in the monster’s right thigh, but with a single swing it snapped the shaft with ease. The wound did not stall the Minotaur in the least.

  Instead, it roared, a deep echoing sound that made the air in the room vibrate—then it charged.

  Horns punctured steel and flesh, finding their mark—and then Tithikos dangled limply in the air, his face a rictus of surprise and pain, until the Minotaur wrenched its powerful neck and effortlessly shook him free.

  The three remaining uninjured men stood stunned for a moment—save Rekos.

  His daggers flashed from behind, striking what would have been vital spots on any man—but this was not a man, and the beast did not fall.

  A sword, now shaking in quiet hands, stepped into the space where Kallion had stood and swung with strength and precision. His attack struck, carving a deep gouge into dark hide—spilling entrails to the floor. The wound did not stall the Minotaur in the least.

  A hoof crushed armor as the beast stepped forward onto the fallen Beleron, collapsing plate into ribs, bending steel inward and leaving the man choking beneath the full weight of it.

  With a leap from behind, Kallion rejoined the fight—his hammer meeting skull. The Minotaur stumbled forward, but did not waver.

  Then the wielder of the hammer was hurled away again by a powerful backhand swat, this time striking the wall.

  There was a loud thud, a strangled cough, then the sound of a helm hitting the floor.

  Kallion did not rise again, his last breath ragged and wet.

  The chamber became a whirlwind of weapons, horns, hooves, and blood as the two remaining men struggled to bring the beast down.

  They fought on, flanking the monster and striking again and again. But Rekos and his daggers required closeness, and closeness meant risk.

  A massive hand caught him mid-lunge. The beast kicked him backward, and Rekos struck the floor hard, sliding across stone as leather squealed beneath him. His body came to rest yards from the battle, unmoving.

  Then there was one.

  He was the least of them. The un-titled. 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.

  He fell back, not retreating, but gaining distance.

  The monster paused as well, its breaths finally ragged and shallow—but it turned toward him, releasing a gurgling roar, and began to charge, as if sensing victory.

  But it, too, was grievously wounded.

  So as it lunged forward—one leg buckled.

  And the monster crashed to the floor.

  Its muzzle split against the marble. A torrent of blood spilled from its bovine mouth, adding to the sea already coating the floor. Several large teeth broke loose and fell with small clacks.

  Yet it pushed itself up with thick, corded arms and tried to push forward still.

  In desperation, he swung. Years of training guided the sword’s strike, but his strength was gone. The blade glanced off a horn and clattered away.

  The two remaining warriors faced one another—the man, accepting his end; the monster, panting, bleeding, but eyes still burning fierce and wild.

  The moment stretched as the two of them stared at one another, heartbeats hammering.

  Then the creature blinked, and its eyes shifted from pools of inky darkness to something more alive.

  The rage—so fierce only moments before—drained away, leaving something—no… someone—wearily content looking back.

  For a fleeting instant, the monster’s sanity returned.

  They looked at one another, seeing the same person behind the eyes, only cast in different forms.

  A single tear traced down the beast’s cheek.

  “Thank you,” came the garbled, hoarse whisper through its broken mouth.

  Then the monster’s eyes rolled back, and the Minotaur collapsed to the floor—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.

  He recalled the myth behind the fountain, its waters said to grant the boon of Adrestia: great strength beyond mortal men—and eternal youth.

  His gaze fell upon his comrades—his friends, lovers, and brothers—and he knew he had to continue on.

  For them.

  Through sheer will he crawled—slid, mostly—across the blood-slick floor.

  He reached the edge and began to climb. The rise 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 his crimson-covered reflection stared back at him as he dragged himself over the rim.

  He didn’t take the time to look—to truly see his face, to bask in his humanity one last time.

  Forever after, he would wish he had.

  Instead, he plunged into the crystal-clear water.

  The next moments were a blur of agony and ecstasy unlike anything he’d known.

  His body healed, then shattered. Again and again.

  Wounds closed, but bones broke. Skin regrew only to tear open and then reform.

  He writhed in the waters, thrashing when conscious, for what felt like days—as the fountain healed him, only to reshape him again.

  Finally, true unconsciousness claimed him.

  He floated face-up in the basin and let sleep overtake him.

  His dreams were filled with war and blood, but also the touch of his brothers.

  When he woke, he was no longer himself.

  He lifted his hands—only to find them covered in dark brown hide.

  His gaze dropped to his hooved feet, then his trembling fingers traced the curve of horns now crowning his head.

  A soft whisper seemed to speak into his mind. ‘Welcome to your eternity.’

  Days later—after committing the most terrible of tasks—he stood once more before the fountain. This time, he took in his reflection as it stared up from the slightly rippling surface.

  The waters had fulfilled the myth, in a way. He possessed strength beyond any mortal now. He also knew he would live forever—but the price… it was far too high.

  For to gain these boons, his life had been forfeit. He was now trapped within the Labyrinth, cursed with the fate of the monster they had slain.

  Its final words took on new meaning. The thanks it had spoken had been sincere—they had freed it from its prison. A prison he had unknowingly bound himself to.

  He stared, his bovine face wavering in the water’s reflection. Tears fell, adding to the rippling surface and further distorting his view.

  “My brothers are gone. My life is over. I, Benakrios of the village of Mykon, am no more. He died defeating the beast he became. From now on… I am simply Ben. The monster. The Minotaur.”

  A final tear fell. It rippled outward, unnoticed, its rings quickly swallowed by the restless waters of the fountain.