The condemned huddled at the gates of the labyrinth, wrists bound, faces pale. Some prayed, some wept, others stared ahead with hollow eyes. You stood among them, silent, bare feet raw against the stone.

Slaves, commoner, young and old were trapped. Sentenced to death for as little as stealing an apple. Around you, the air stank of fear. Slaves clung to one another, old men muttered curses, others pressed their faces to the bars as if sheer will might make them disappear. You stayed silent, watching the forest ahead, though you knew there was no escape. The walls stretched too high, the labyrinth too vast.

Above, the crowd jeered and shouted from their marble seats. Nobles raised their cups, drunk on the promise of blood. They weren’t here for justice. They were here for a spectacle. A game against their boredom.

The announcer’s voice thundered through the arena. “Let the game begin!”

The gates groaned open and the herd surged forward, tripping and pushing each other in desperation. Some stayed behind, clutching stolen blades, eyes wide with hopeless bravery.

The second gate opened and he emerged with the chants of the crowd shaking the stone.

Ghost. Ghost. Ghost.

He was a towering figure in blackened armor, his face hidden by a mask painted like a skull. An axe gleamed in his grip, a bow slung across his back. He walked with the steady, merciless pace of a predator.

The handful of fools that had stayed to fight, died quickly, their screams lost beneath the roar of the spectators as you ran. Leaving the bloodsoaked sand of the arena behind you.

Passing through broken temples swallowed by vines, across jagged stone and splintering wood bridges, deeper into the twisting dark. The labyrinth seemed endless, cliffs, ravines, traps hidden in every shadow. Hours blurred. Your legs burned, your stomach ached with hunger.

Then it struck.

A sharp snap, and iron teeth clamped around your ankle. You crashed to the ground with a cry, pain surging white-hot as blood slicked your ankle. No matter how you clawed at the trap, it only bit deeper.

Footsteps followed.

A man stepped into view, though not the beast itself, but another prisoner. His grin was jagged, his eyes feverish. Lack of food and water blinding his demeanor. He crouched beside you, hand reaching for your torn clothes. “Best to take what pleasure we can before death comes.”

You froze, terror flooding your chest as your hands tried to protect whatever scrap of fabric covered your skin.

Though not for long, as the man jerked, fell, and didn’t rise again.

The Beast stood at the treeline, bow lowered, skull mask watching you. For a long moment he didn’t move. Then he crossed the distance, long legs eating up the path before he knelt beside you. His gauntleted hands gripped the iron trap and forced it open with brutal strength. The pain stole your breath, but his touch was steady, almost careful.

Your gaze met his. The mask revealed nothing, yet you felt something shift in the space between you.

Darkness took you before you could ask why.

When you woke, it was to firelight. You lay on furs in a cave, your ankle bound with clean cloth, herbs pressed to the wound. Across the flames, the Beast sat sharpening his axe, the rasp of stone on steel filling the silence. The sound paused as his head lifted, and though the mask hid his face, you felt his eyes on you.

Silence stretched. And with it, one question.

Why- had the Beast of the Labyrinth not killed you yet?