The labyrinth did not echo with screams today. It echoed with hoofbeats.
In a wider cavern where the walls were scarred by ancient violence, the Minotaur waited. He was a mountain of muscle and hate, clutching a double-bladed labrys axe that smelled of dried iron. His breathing was a wet, heavy rasp.
Across the uneven stone floor stood the Centaur. He was younger, leaner, his human torso heaving with exertion, his horse flanks twitching nervously. He held a composite bow, strung taut, and a quiver of ash-wood arrows.
The Charge and the Trap
The Centaur moved first. He didn't charge directly; that would be suicide against the Bull. Instead, he galloped in a wide arc, his hooves sparking against the flint. He loosed an arrow—a blur of motion.
It struck the Minotaur in the shoulder.
Asterion—the Minotaur—barely flinched. The arrow head bit deep, but the muscle was so dense it acted like armor. He roared, a sound that shook dust from the ceiling stalactites, and charged.
For a creature of such bulk, the Minotaur was terrifyingly fast in a straight line.
The Centaur pivoted, his rear hooves skidding for purchase. He fired again—this time aiming for the eye—but the Minotaur raised a massive forearm, snapping the shaft like a twig.
Too close, the Centaur realized, panic rising in his chest. The walls are too close.
Horns of the Labyrinth
The Centaur tried to retreat, to use his speed, but the Minotaur knew this dungeon. He didn't just chase; he herded. He swung the massive axe, not to hit, but to cut off the escape route. The blade carved a deep gash in the limestone, forcing the Centaur to check his stride.
That hesitation was fatal.
The Minotaur lowered his head, the labyrinthine shadows playing across his horns. He slammed into the Centaur’s horse flank with the force of a battering ram.
There was a sickening crunch of ribs. The Centaur screamed—a sound half-human, half-horse—as he was lifted off his hooves and hurled against the wall.
The Final Blow
The Centaur scrabbled to rise, his legs broken, his bow lost in the dust. He looked up to see the silhouette of the Bull towering over him, blocking out the torchlight.
The Minotaur did not gloat. He did not strategize. He simply raised the axe.
The Centaur raised a hand in a futile gesture of defense. "Wait—"
The axe fell.
Silence returned to the dark, broken only by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the victor.