All of those things, yes. But more than anything, I wanted to understand. To know this creature—this person—whose existence challenged everything I thought I knew about the world.
“I want to continue,” I finished lamely. “With the ladder discussion. And… anything else you’re willing to share.”
Something in his expression shifted—a subtle relaxing of tension I hadn’t even noticed was there. Had he expected me to flee?To scream? To expose him to the handful of people in this quiet café?
“Very well,” he said. “Though I maintain that your ladder needs a complete redesign, not merely repairs.”
I nodded, watching as he resumed sketching alternatives on a blank sheet from my folder. His hands moved confidently, creating clean, architectural lines. It was hypnotic, watching those massive fingers work with such delicacy.
He’s an architect. A builder. Not a monster in a maze.
The thought struck me with unexpected force. The minotaur of myth was a prisoner, a beast, a metaphor for man’s bestial nature trapped within the confines of civilization. But Rion was… an artisan. A creator. Someone who texted ladder specifications and drew detailed construction plans in café booths.
The contradiction was dizzying.
“How did you learn to build?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
He paused, pen hovering above paper. For a moment, I thought he might refuse to answer, might insist we stick to ladder talk. But then his shoulders lowered slightly, a gesture of subtle concession.
“I have always known how to build,” he said. “It is… in my nature. The way bees know how to construct hives or birds know how to weave nests.” He resumed drawing, adding measurements to his sketch. “But I have refined the skill over time. Learned new techniques, new materials.”
“Over time,” I repeated. “How much time?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “More than you might think.”
“And there are others like you? Other minotaurs?”
His pen stilled again. “Some. Not many.”
“And other… creatures from mythology? Are they real too?”
He looked up then, meeting my eyes directly for the first time. The impact was startling—those amber-brown depths seemed to contain centuries, millennia of knowledge. Of living.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Though most prefer not to be called ‘creatures.’”
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s fine. You’re… adjusting.” He returned to his drawing. “Most humans never have to. Or they choose not to.”
The implication hung in the air between us. Most humans never learn about beings like him. I was an exception, whether by accident or design.
A shiver ran through me, though not entirely from fear. There was something else mixed with the adrenaline in my veins now—a heady sense of discovery, of privilege, of doors opening to worlds I’d only read about.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
He looked up, puzzled. “For what?”
“For not leaving when I saw your…” I gestured vaguely towards his head. “For staying. For answering my questions, even the rude ones.”
He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He placed it on the table between us and carefully unwrapped it, revealing what appeared to be homemade cookies.
“You’re welcome,” he said, nudging the bundle towards me. “Would you like one? They’re oatmeal with raisins and walnuts.”
I stared at the biscuits, then back at him, momentarily speechless. Of all the surreal elements of this encounter—the horns, the revelations about mythology being real—somehow, the most disorienting was the fact that the minotaur across from me had brought homemade baked goods to our meeting.
My laughter bubbled up unexpectedly in a sudden release of tension. “You bake?”
A flicker of something that might have been embarrassment crossed his features. “Is that surprising?”
