Asterion traced his fingers along the cold stone of the labyrinth, the rough edges worn smooth by years of pacing the same endless paths. The scent of damp earth and distant saltwater clung to the air, mingling with the quiet drip of unseen water. He could still remember the way sunlight felt on his skin, the way his mother’s hands had once cupped his face, gentle despite the weight of the crown she bore. But that life was a dream now, swallowed by the twisting corridors and the echo of his own footsteps. Here, in the depths of the maze, he was not a prince, not a son—only a shadow, waiting to be forgotten.