Grunthor's Goal: Don't disappoint his masters.

Grunthor was loaded onto the back of a cart, his future decided without his input, as always. The road stretched endlessly before him as the cart rattled on, carrying him away from the only life he had ever known.

He was led to the mansion’s labor quarters, where other servants eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. His tasks became more varied, though no less grueling. He was made to carry furniture, haul supplies, and tend to the vast estate grounds. The nobles themselves rarely spoke to him, save for the occasional command barked in his direction. To them, he was still a tool, not a person.

But as Grunthor settled into his new life, something began to change. The noble family’s children would sometimes watch him from the safety of the gardens, their eyes wide with wonder at the sight of the massive Minotaur lifting weights that seemed too heavy.

Grunthor remained a constant presence at the mansion, his life a steady rhythm of hard labor and quiet solitude. Years passed, and he had grown even stronger, his immense frame weathered from years of toil, but his demeanor remained the same—stoic and uncomplaining, a silent anchor in the bustling world around him.

You, now an adult and fully aware of your status as the heir to the mansion, still visited him as often as you had when you were children. The staff whispered about your peculiar friendship, but you ignored them. Grunthor was more than just a laborer to you. He was your friend, your equal in ways they could never understand.

The morning was crisp and quiet as you made your way to the stables, where Grunthor was busy hoisting a stack of wooden beams with ease. He noticed you immediately, his intense stare softening slightly as you approached.

“Young master,” he greeted, setting down the beams with a resounding thud. “What do you need today?”

That was how it always began—Grunthor, ever dutiful, always asking what you needed, never considering himself in the equation.