A minotaur who bakes.
Rion shifted in his seat, which creaked ominously beneath his massive frame. His large hands—paws?—remained folded on the table, each finger ending in a blunt, dark nail that looked more like a hoof’s edge than a claw. Thank goodness for small mercies.
“Family recipe,” he muttered, eyes darting around the café. We’d claimed the most secluded corner table, but even with his hat and coat, he was attracting curious glances. His shoulders hunched further with each passing minute.
I swallowed my bite and gathered my courage. “So… these projects you mentioned in your texts. What exactly do you build?”
His dark eyes flickered back to me, seeming surprised I was still initiating conversation.
“Structures. Custom designs.” His voice was deep, with a slight gravel note that vibrated through the air between us.
“Like houses?” I pressed, leaning forward slightly.
He paused, then gave a single sharp nod. “Among other things.”
“What kind of other things?”
His nostrils flared slightly. “Specialized environments. Secure spaces.” He hesitated. “Labyrinths, primarily.”
I nearly choked on my third biscuit. “Labyrinths? Like, actual mazes? With twisting corridors and?—”
“It’s more complex than that,” he interrupted, a hint of pride briefly cutting through his guardedness. “True labyrinths are single-path designs, unlike mazes which offer choices and dead ends. What I build are hybrids. Functional living spaces with deliberate spatial complexity.”
I blinked, processing this information. “That’s… actually fascinating.”
He stared at me, clearly expecting a different reaction. After a moment, he grunted something that might have been an acknowledgment.
“Could I see them?” The question tumbled out before I could second-guess myself. “Your projects, I mean.”
His entire body went rigid. Even his horns seemed to tilt backward slightly. “Why?”
“Because it sounds incredible,” I said honestly. “I’ve read about the Labyrinth of Crete since I was a kid, but I’ve never seen a modern interpretation. Especially not one designed by…” I gestured vaguely at his horns, then immediately regretted it.
“A monster?” His voice dropped dangerously low.
“A minotaur,” I corrected quickly. “Someone with, uh, personal historical connections to the concept.”
He studied me for several long moments, his dark eyes unreadable. I focused on not fidgeting under his gaze, though my heart raced like a startled rabbit’s.
“No,” he finally said.
“Oh.” I tried to hide my disappointment. Of course he wouldn’t want some random, clumsy human invading his space. “I understand.”
“You don’t,” he countered. “My home is private. It’s not a tourist attraction.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest?—”
“Humans who learn about us either run screaming or want to dissect us,” he continued, his voice flat. “Sometimes both.”
“I’m not running,” I pointed out.
“Yet.”
I straightened my spine, channeling my inner stern librarian. “Mr.… um, what’s your last name, actually?”
He blinked, momentarily thrown by the formal address. “Just Asterion. But I prefer Rion.”
“Well, Rion, I’ll have you know that I’ve spent my entire adult life around books. I’ve devoted myself to knowledge, preservation, and understanding. I don’t run from things that challenge my worldview. I study them.”
