“That hand... he’s a minotaur?” Molocha breathes, her voice tinged with disbelief as her eyes catch on the black markings curling across his pale skin. Both she and Torus exchange stunned glances, their shock evident. Her gaze flickers between his hand and his face. “You’re a minotaur?” she asks again, her tone a mix of wonder and uncertainty, the markings casting an uncanny shadow over her words.
“N-Yes. I’m a minotaur,” he replies, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. Slowly, he inches his finger closer to the baby. The child, noticing the movement, wraps its tiny hand around the stranger’s finger, grasping it with surprising strength.
Torus and Molocha stand frozen, watching, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
“What’s going on?” Torus finally asks, his voice low, more out of confusion than anger. “Why is crystal forming on your finger?”
Small ice crystals begin to form where the baby’s hand holds the stranger’s finger, slowly creeping upward in delicate frost patterns toward his wrist.
“I’m giving him a slight adjustment,” the stranger explains, his tone calm but purposeful. “His magic receptors… they aren’t functioning properly.”
“His what?” Torus steps forward, brow furrowed.
“His receptors,” the stranger says, glancing back at Torus. “He can’t control his magic output. Did you notice anything unusual when you held him?”
“I didn’t,” Molocha says, her eyes flicking to Torus for confirmation.
“I did,” Torus admits, his voice quiet but firm. “The child had no body temperature when I found him. It was unsettling.”
“Really? That’s strange,” Molocha says, concern flickering in her eyes. “He felt warm when I held him.”
“That’s his magic,” the stranger explains, his gaze steady. “He can’t control it. One moment, he’s fine, the next, magic’s pouring out of him.”
“How do we fix it?” Torus and Molocha ask together, their voices filled with quiet urgency.
“I can stabilise it with my magic,” he says simply.
“Your magic?” Molocha tilts her head, eyeing him. “I thought a minotaur’s magic was tied to blacksmithing and forging.”
“It is,” the stranger confirms with a slight nod. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn other things.” He leans in slightly, his finger glowing faintly, a soft light pooling at its tip. “May I?” He looks at Torus, waiting for approval.
Torus hesitates, his brow furrowed as he studies the stranger. After a long moment, he exhales sharply, stepping back slightly. “This won’t hurt him, will it?”
The stranger’s voice softens. “No, I would never harm a child.”
Torus eyes him for a beat, then nods, his tone reluctant. “Then proceed.”
The figure’s finger moves slowly, and deliberately, tracing shapes in the air above the child. Torus, still uncertain, watches closely, his gaze eventually shifting to Molocha in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Torus asks, his voice low, a flicker of curiosity edging through.
“Making dinner,” Molocha replies, glancing at the clock on the wall. It reads 20:26. She shifts her attention back to the stranger, her tone lightening. “Would you like to join us for dinner?” The invitation is warm, though her gaze lingers, expectant, waiting for a name.
“Leandros,” he says, his voice steady but carrying a quiet weight. He gives a slight nod, acknowledging the question. “And yes, I would like to join you.”
“Excellent,” Molocha replies, her voice warm, almost musical. “We’ll be having some steamed vegetables, with pie for dessert.” She moves around the small kitchen with practised ease, the scent of fresh food beginning to fill the air as she hums softly to herself, the rhythm of her movements calming.
Torus watches her for a moment before turning his attention back to the stranger. “How long is this going to take?” His voice has lost some of its sharpness, though the faint wariness still lingers beneath.
“A few minutes at most. I’ve already done most of his body,” Leandros says, his hands still moving in a deliberate pattern above the child.
Torus shifts, his curiosity piqued. He takes a seat next to Leandros, his gaze never leaving the stranger’s glowing finger. “What exactly are you doing?” he asks, his tone tinged with a mix of suspicion and interest.
“I’m opening all of his channels,” Leandros answers, his voice low and calm, though the focus in his eyes reveals the gravity of the task.
“I don’t understand.”
Molocha’s voice floats over from the kitchen, teasing and light. “Not the learning type, are you?” she calls, a sly smile on her lips as she glances over her shoulder at the two of them.
“Everything has these channels that magic flows through,” Leandros explains, his tone steady as he works. “Each species has something they use their magic for. For Minotaurs, it’s about crafting, making things, and forging. Gryphons? Their magic flows through their architectural skills, shaping and building with ease. Ponies… they’re a bit different. They have multiple channels, each one tied to a unique talent. The only ones who don’t seem to have much are the dragons, but then, they breathe fire—so, make of that what you will.”
“And this?” Torus nods toward the child.
“This… I have no clue,” Leandros admits, his voice low.
“Then how do you know you’re fixing his channels?” Torus presses, his brow furrowing.
“I can see them,” Leandros responds as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Torus looks up from the child, his gaze locking with Leandros. He hesitates, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of the claim. “You can… see them?”
Leandros leans back in his seat, his expression unreadable. “I can see his magic, yes.” He pauses, then adds, “Everything should be fixed now. You can take him.”
Torus carefully lifts the child, his eyes scanning for anything unusual. For the first time, he feels warmth radiating from the small body pressed against his chest. The gentle rise and fall of the child’s breathing soothes him as the baby drifts into sleep.
Quietly, Torus leaves the living room and makes his way to the bedroom. The soft creak of the wooden crib breaks the silence as he places the child inside, ensuring he’s tucked in securely. Hovering for a moment, he murmurs, “Rest well, little one,” his voice low but tender before stepping away.
Back in the living room, the scent of roasted vegetables filled the air. Molocha was already seated, her plate in front of her, eating with quiet satisfaction. She glanced up as Torus entered, her smile warm but fleeting.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” she teased lightly, though her eyes drifting toward his face, studying him as he sat down.
Torus grunted in response, sliding into his chair with a heavy thud. He reached for his plate, but his attention was caught by Leandros, still seated stiffly at the table, unmoving.
A faint click drew his eyes. Leandros’s hand had moved to his helmet, unfastening the faceplate. It came away with a smooth motion, and he placed it carefully on the ground beside him.
The man beneath froze his hand halfway to his plate. A single droplet slid from the inky blackness beneath his eyes, falling with a soft plink onto the table. He hesitated, then quickly wiped his face with a gloved hand, muttering, “N-nothing. Just... haven’t had food like this in years.” His voice was unsteady, his usual calm fractured.
Torus exchanged a glance with Molocha, who arched a brow but said nothing.
“It smells like my mother’s,” Leandros added softly, his fork finally meeting the vegetables.
Molocha's face softened, a small grin tugging at her lips. “Well, I’m glad you like it. Maybe Torus could take some notes.”
Torus let out a low rumble, a mix of annoyance and amusement. He took a bite of his meal, chewing thoughtfully. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either.
After a few moments, Torus stood, leaving the blade he was given on the table. The chair scraped against the wooden floor as he pushed it back. He headed to the kitchen, opening one of the cabinets and pulling out a hefty bottle of amber liquor. Grabbing two mugs, he poured generously.
“You drink?” he asked over his shoulder.
Leandros glanced up, still chewing, then nodded. “I do, yes.”
“Good.”
Torus returned to the table, placing a full mug in front of Leandros before sitting down with his own.
Leandros eyed the drink, lifting it to his nose for a quick sniff. “What’s this? Homebrew?”
“Ha, I wish. It’s from my old hometown.” Torus’s tone dropped slightly as he tilted the bottle to inspect the label.
“In Minoa?” Leandros asked, his voice quiet but steady.
Torus paused, his gaze lingering on the bottle. “Yes... in Minoa.”
The table fell into silence for a moment, the weight of the word settling between them. Torus swirled his drink, his expression distant, and took a long sip before setting the mug down with a firm clink.
“So… How did you come by that steel?”
“Pardon?” Leandros’s voice is steady, but his posture shifts slightly as if caught off guard.
“Torus...” Molocha interjects, her tone cautious, but he waves her off, his focus locked on Leandros.
“The weapons and armour. How did you come by them?” Torus presses, his voice firm but not hostile.
Leandros exhales softly, his gaze drifting for a moment. “The armour, I forged myself.” He places his hand lightly on the table, the weight of his next words evident. “The blades outside—they were a gift from my father.”
Torus’s eyes narrow, studying Leandros with curiosity and unease. “A gift?”
Leandros nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. He... believed I’d need them someday.” There’s an edge to his voice now, a faint shadow crossing his features, but he quickly schools his expression.
Molocha, standing by the bedroom doorway, sighs. “This seems like something between you two.” She gestures toward her empty plate. “I’m heading to bed.”
Her voice lightens the tension slightly, but Torus’s gaze never leaves Leandros as she disappears into the room.
Torus leans forward, his arms resting on the table, the mug in his hands forgotten. “And did you?”
Leandros tilts his head slightly, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Did I what?”
“Need them.”
A moment of silence stretches between them. The fire crackles in the hearth, its light casting dancing shadows across the room. Leandros’s eyes lower to the table, the weight of the question settling heavily on him. “More than I’d hoped…”
“You’ve seen some things, haven’t you?” Torus’s tone softens, less accusing now, more curious.
Leandros doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze distant as though sifting through memories too heavy to share. They sit in silence for a moment, the crackling fire filling the void between words.
“What about you?” Leandros finally asks, his voice quiet but deliberate. “Torus of Minoa. The stories I’ve heard—you were quite the warrior in your day.”
Torus arches a brow, leaning back slightly in his chair. “What have you heard?”
“The Siege of Minoa. The last stand of the city-state,” Leandros says, his tone carrying a weight of reverence. “They say you and your squad held the line against hundreds of gryphons.”
Torus’s eyes drift to the axe mounted above the fireplace, the blade catching the firelight in sharp, gleaming edges. “They earned my blade.” he says simply, his voice tinged with pride and sorrow.
Leandros glances at the weapon, his expression thoughtful. “And your blade earned you a legend.”
Torus lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, though there’s no humour in it. “Legends don’t tell the whole story. They don’t talk about the cost.”
He shifts in his seat, his hand tightening briefly around the bottle. For a moment, it seems like he’s about to say something more, but instead, he shakes his head, as though dismissing the thought. A faint scowl crosses his face, his jaw tightening. “This isn’t a place for visitors, but maybe this is an exception.”
Torus rises from his chair, grabbing the liquor bottle and his mug. He moves toward the fireplace, the warmth of the flames casting flickering shadows across his broad shoulders. For a moment, he stands there, his back to Leandros, staring into the fire.
Without turning, he says, “You’re still here.”
Leandros blinks, caught off guard. “Should I not be?”
Torus doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lowers himself into the chair by the hearth, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. “Suit yourself,” he says gruffly, nodding toward the empty chair opposite him.
The words are neutral, almost dismissive, but there’s no hostility in them. It’s not an invitation, not really, but it’s something.
Leandros hesitates for a moment, his gaze flicking to Molocha’s now-closed door, then back to Torus. There’s a weight in that single word, “come,” a quiet offering that feels more significant than it should. He stands, his movements deliberate, and takes his mug with him, settling into the chair opposite Torus.
The fire crackles softly between them, filling the space with a warmth that’s both comforting and fragile. Leandros studies the flames, his fingers brushing absently over the rim of his mug. “I imagine you’ve seen the cost too,” he says quietly, his words an extension of their earlier exchange, a subtle probe.
Torus doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a long sip from his drink, the amber liquid catching the firelight as he swirls it in his mug. His gaze remains fixed on the axe above the mantle. “You don’t survive a siege like that without paying it,” he says finally, his voice low, almost a growl.
Leandros nods, the motion small, almost imperceptible. “And yet, here you are.”
Torus chuckles, a sound more bitter than amused. “Here I am,” he echoes. “But don’t mistake survival for victory. Sometimes, it’s just… what’s left.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly as they shift to Leandros. “What about you? Seems like you’ve got your own scars. Some you wear on your armour. Others...” He gestures vaguely toward Leandros, his meaning clear.
Leandros leans back slightly, his mug resting on his knee. “We all carry something, don’t we?” he says, his tone measured but not dismissive. “I suppose the question is what we do with it.”
Torus grunts in acknowledgment, his expression unreadable as he watches the fire. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?” He takes another sip, the silence between them stretching, but this time it feels less strained, more like an understanding settling into place.
Leandros shifts in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the mug’s handle. “You’ve made a home here. Out in the middle of nowhere. Away from… everything. It’s peaceful.”
Torus glances at him, his brow lifting slightly. “Peaceful,” he repeats, as though testing the word. His gaze shifts briefly toward the closed door, where Molocha had disappeared. “It wasn’t always. Peace is something you have to earn. And keep.”
Leandros doesn’t miss the flicker of protectiveness in Torus’s voice, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he raises his mug slightly. “To peace, then. And to those who keep it.”
Torus eyes him for a moment before letting out a low chuckle. He raises his mug in return, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “To peace,” he rumbles.
They drink, the firelight dancing in their mugs as the warmth of the hearth fills the room. Outside, the wind howls faintly, the mountains reminding them both how far they are from the rest of the world.
Torus sets his mug down, the sound soft against the stone floor. He looks at Leandros, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “You’re not just passing through, are you?”
Leandros meets his gaze evenly, his jaw tightening slightly. “No,” he says, his voice steady but quiet. “I’m not.”
For a moment, Torus studies him, his sharp eyes searching for something beneath the younger man’s words. Then he nods, leaning back in his chair with a slow exhale. “Figured as much.”
And though he doesn’t say it, the faintest flicker of approval passes through his gaze, fleeting but present, before he reaches for the bottle and pours them another drink.
“I must say, you have the look of someone on the run,” Torus says, his words carrying a weight that seems to hang in the air. “I mean, one doesn’t show up this far north for no reason.”
Sighing, Leandros clutches his mug tighter, his knuckles whitening. “I’m running from my past.”
“Your past?” Torus’s voice is low, a flicker of curiosity cutting through his usual gruffness.
Leandros’s gaze drops to his mug, his words measured but heavy. “I’ve done things... things I’ve come to regret. And they came back to bite me.”
Torus’s eyes narrow slightly, a quiet understanding settling in. He takes a slow sip before setting his mug down, the sound filling the room. “Haven’t we all,” he murmurs, his voice holding a trace of something unspoken, as if he too knows the weight of regret.
Leandros glances at Torus, searching for some kind of hint, but the minotaur's expression is unreadable, like stone. “You’ve got a lot of scars, Torus. You don’t talk much about them.”
Torus’s gaze drifts to the flames, his features softening just enough to reveal the depth of his years. “Some things don’t need to be talked about,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “The scars you can see… they’re not the ones that matter. It's the ones you don't.”
Leandros nods, unsure whether Torus is trying to make a point or simply speaking from his own experience. A silence falls between them, but it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as before. The crackling of the fire fills the void, and for a moment, neither of them moves.
Eventually, Leandros speaks again, his voice quieter this time. “I used to think I could outrun my past. Thought maybe the world would forget who I was. But it never works that way, does it?”
Torus considers this, his hand resting lightly on his mug. He doesn’t answer right away. The firelight dances in his eyes as he looks at the younger man. “No,” he replies simply. “But maybe, you learn to carry it better.”
Leandros looks up, his gaze meeting Torus’s, searching for a trace of something more in the older man’s eyes. “And what about you? You think you’ve found peace here?”
Torus takes a long breath, his shoulders shifting as if the weight of years presses against him. He looks out toward the window, the endless white of the snowstorm beyond, the isolation of the mountains. “Peace is earned, not found,” he says, his voice measured. “And even then, it’s fleeting.”
Leandros hums softly, his thoughts stirring in the quiet of the room. He takes another sip from his mug, feeling the warmth spread through him, though it does little to ease the thoughts tightening in his chest.
Hours pass, each conversation flowing into the next, drifting from one subject to another. They talk about battles, about survival, about regrets. The fire continues to crackle, the only sound in the room save for the occasional clink of a mug or the shuffle of a chair. Torus speaks little of his own past, but Leandros is patient, listening when Torus does speak, allowing the silences to stretch as they both settle deeper into this shared moment.
At some point, the conversation turns lighter, their words less heavy but still grounded in the understanding that, for whatever reason, they are both here at this moment. And neither is going anywhere anytime soon.
Leandros leans back, stretching his legs out as the warmth of the fire pulls him into a moment of calm. “I guess you can’t really escape yourself, huh?”
Torus looks at him from over his mug, a glimmer of something more—maybe acceptance, maybe resignation—in his gaze. “No. You just have to figure out how to live with it.”
A comfortable silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the faint whistle of wind slipping through the cracks of the cabin. Torus glances toward the door to Molocha’s room, his brow furrowing slightly, before he turns his attention back to Leandros. “So, what now?”
Leandros shifts slightly, his mug cradled in his hands. “I suppose I'll figure out what living with it looks like.” He offers a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “What about you? You’ve made a home here—found peace. How did you manage that?”
Torus leans back in his chair, his large frame casting a faint shadow on the wall behind him. “Took a long time. And a lot of mistakes.” He taps a finger against the side of his mug, his gaze distant. “Peace isn’t something you find. It’s something you fight for, every day.”
Leandros nods slowly, the weight of those words settling over him. “Fighting for peace,” he repeats, the phrase tasting foreign yet familiar. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
Torus chuckles, low and rumbling. “It’s the only way. Out here, you’re either fighting for it or giving it up to someone else.”
The firelight flickers, the room dimming as the logs shift and settle into embers. Leandros tilts his head slightly, studying Torus. “And Molocha? Does she fight for peace too?”
The question is met with a long pause, Torus’s expression unreadable. Finally, he exhales, a sound heavy with something unspoken. “Molocha fights for what she believes in. Same as anyone else.” His tone softens, the gruffness easing for just a moment. “She’s stronger than she looks.”
Leandros doesn’t press further, sensing the boundary there. Instead, he lets his gaze drift to the fire, the embers casting a faint glow on their faces. “I can see why you stayed here,” he says quietly. “It’s different from anywhere else I’ve been. Feels... real.”
Torus gives a small, approving grunt, though his eyes remain fixed on the hearth. “Real’s hard to come by these days.” He sets his mug down on the small table beside him, the sound soft against the wood. “But it’s worth holding onto.”
The silence that follows feels heavier, though not unwelcome. Leandros leans back further, his posture relaxing for the first time in what feels like forever. “Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Torus glances at him, one brow lifting. “Different how?”
Leandros shrugs, his fingers tracing the edge of his mug. “If you didn’t have to fight for it. If peace just... was.”
The minotaur lets out a short laugh, though it’s devoid of humour. “That’s not the world we live in. Maybe it never was.” He rubs a hand over his horn, his gaze distant. “But wondering doesn’t change anything.”
“Maybe not,” Leandros concedes, his tone contemplative. “But it’s nice to think about sometimes. What could’ve been.”
Torus doesn’t respond immediately, his expression thoughtful. Finally, he stands, his movements deliberate. “Thinking about it too much is how you lose sight of what’s in front of you.” He stirs the fire with the iron poker, the embers flaring briefly before settling again. “Focus on what you can do now. That’s all that matters.”
Leandros watches him, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips. “You sound like you’ve got it all figured out.”
Torus snorts, turning back to him. “Not even close. But I’ve learned enough to know better.”
As the fire continues to dim, the two of them remain there, the night stretching on. Their words grow fewer, replaced by the quiet comfort of shared solitude. Outside, the wind howls faintly, but within the cabin, there’s a stillness—a fragile peace held between two men who have both lost and fought, each in their own way.
“Torus,” Leandros says softly, but there’s no reply. He glances over at the minotaur, noting the slow rise and fall of his chest. “Torus,” he tries again, his voice a touch firmer this time.
Still nothing.
Leandros leans forward, giving the bull’s broad shoulder a gentle nudge. A low murmur escapes Torus as he shifts slightly, but his deep, steady breathing remains unchanged. He’s asleep.
Straightening, Leandros lets out a quiet sigh and returns to his seat, his gaze lingering on the dying embers in the hearth. The warmth is fading now, the fire little more than a memory of its earlier blaze. After a moment, he stands, brushing his hands against his sides as if trying to shake off the weight of the moment.
“It was fun while it lasted,” he murmurs, his tone low, tinged with something almost like regret.
Walking to where Torus rests, Leandros pauses behind him. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then raises his gauntlet, the palm beginning to glow with a faint, icy-blue light. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as he places it gently on Torus’s head.
“Until next time,” Leandros whispers, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the dying fire.
Torus twitches under the touch, his large frame shifting uneasily, but his expression remains peaceful. Words slip from his lips, too soft to discern, before Leandros removes his hand. The glow fades, leaving only the natural darkness of the room.
Leandros steps away, moving toward the front door with deliberate care, each movement measured to avoid waking the sleeping minotaur. He opens the door slowly, the wooden hinges creaking softly in protest. The crisp night air rushes in, biting against his skin as he steps outside.
His blades lie where he left them, untouched, glinting faintly under the moonlight. He retrieves them silently, slinging them into place before turning his gaze upward. The night is clear, the stars vivid against the deep black of the sky.
“I’m going to miss this,” he says to no one in particular, his words carried away by the stillness of the mountain air.
As his eyes drift to the moon, he catches the faint shimmer of the ‘Horse in the Moon.’ The ethereal image flickers once, twice, and then vanishes entirely, leaving the moon bare and pale. Leandros stares for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before exhaling deeply.
Without another word, he turns and walks over to his weapons, picking up the matte black knife and securing it at his waist. Once it is in place, he moves to the main blade—his sword. A long, two-handed weapon, it mirrors the knife in its matte black finish, with a faint edge that promises danger. As his fingers wrap around the hilt, the blade hums to life, its edge glowing a chilling ice blue.
Walking back into the house, Leandros carefully closes the door behind him. He crosses to the table, methodically placing all three of his blades in neat order.
“He’s difficult, isn’t he?”
The voice makes him pause. Glancing toward the bedroom door, he spots Molocha standing in the doorway, arms folded, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
“He can be,” Leandros admits, his tone steady. “But with enough time, anyone can open up. I think he just needed a bit of help.” As he speaks, he begins removing his armour. Starting with his gauntlets, he places them on the table alongside the blades. Next came his pauldrons, each piece handled with deliberate care.
“I thought you said you were cursed,” Molocha remarks, her tone intrigued.
With the pauldrons removed, Leandros sets them beside the gauntlets. His hands pause briefly before he responds, “I lied.” He starts unfastening his chest piece.
“Figured as much,” Molocha says, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re either the skinniest minotaur I’ve ever seen, or not a minotaur at all.”
Leandros places the chest piece on the table, moving on to his greaves. “The latter,” he replies simply.
“Thought so…” Molocha’s eyes narrow as she studies him, her curiosity deepening. “You don’t look like anything I’ve seen before.”
“That’s because I’m not,” Leandros says, pulling off his boots, leaving only his helmet as the last piece of armour still on him.
Underneath it all is a black tunic paired with black trousers. He turns to look at Molocha.
“You’re not what?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Something you’ve seen.” Leandros removes his helmet.
Before Molocha stands a being unlike any she’s ever encountered or even imagined. His face is flat, framed by short, messy hair as white as freshly fallen snow. His skin shares the same stark, ethereal hue, while a small nose and mouth lend an unfamiliar delicacy to his features.
Her breath catches as her gaze drifts to his eyes—a deep, blue, strikingly familiar. They look just like the child’s, she realises, her thoughts swirling with the uncanny resemblance.
“Just what are you?” Molocha steps closer, her eyes narrowing as she studies his face, searching for answers he seems unwilling to give.
Leandros exhales deeply, his gaze lowering for a moment before meeting hers again. “I ask myself that every day,” he admits, his voice low, carrying a weight that lingers in the air. “I’ve been searching for that answer for years... yet I always come up empty-handed.”
With a deliberate motion, he places the helmet on the table, aligning it carefully so that all the armour rests in perfect order: the helmet at the top, the boots at the bottom, and the blades laid neatly on the right side. For a brief moment, his hand lingers on the helmet as if lost in thought before withdrawing.
“I am sorry for lying. I meant no ill intent,” Leandros says, his tone sincere.
“You could have been honest,” Molocha replies, her gaze flicking briefly toward Torus. “Well, honest with me, at least.”
“He never would’ve willingly let me be alone with you,” Leandros admits, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s too protective.”
“That he is,” Molocha says, her expression softening, though a flicker of amusement lingers in her tone. She glances at the clock. “Would you like to stay the night?”
Leandros’s gaze shifts back to the table, his hands adjusting the placement of the armour and coin one last time to ensure everything is in order. “That would be nice,” he replies, his voice calm but edged with weariness.
Suddenly, arms wrap around him from behind. He freezes for a moment, surprised by the gesture, then turns around to face her. Their eyes meet, level and unwavering, the closeness emphasising just how similar their heights are.
“Thank you for spending some time with him,” Molocha says softly, her arms still around him. “He never gets a chance to relax anymore.”
Leandros’s expression softens, his usual guardedness giving way to a rare moment of vulnerability. Slowly, he returns the hug, his hand resting gently on her head. The icy blue glow of his magic begins to flicker, faint but unmistakable.
Holding on to her to make sure she doesn’t fall, he watches as Molocha slowly drifts off to sleep. The last thing she notices is the faint shimmer of tears forming in his eyes.
Now cradling her in his arms, Leandros stands in the quiet room, surrounded by the low crackle of the dying fire and the soft sound of Torus’s steady breathing. He tries to keep still, his emotions pressing against his composure.
But it’s too much. His shoulders begin to tremble, and tears spill silently down his face. He bites down on his lip, swallowing the sobs that threaten to break the fragile silence. Even though the magic had eased her into slumber, it wasn’t strong enough to stop his own turmoil.
Hugging her tighter than before, he whispers, “I miss you so much,” his voice breaking. The weight of his emotions presses down on him, and for the first time, he lets it all spill out. You meant everything to me. His gaze drops to her, hands trembling. I tried so hard, but I failed you.
The silence stretches, his sobs filling the air. His eyes dart between Torus and Molocha, searching for something—anything—to make sense of the ache inside. Why couldn’t I be better?
Over time, the sobs gradually fade. He slowly starts to lift her, his hands trembling as he tries his absolute hardest not to hurt her. Once she’s in his arms, he moves toward the bedroom, his steps careful and deliberate. He spots the child on the bed, asleep, and places Molocha down with absolute precision.
"Goodbye," he whispers, the word barely a breath, before he gently tucks her in. He turns and walks back into the living room, his heart heavy, his every step weighed down by the silence that follows.
Glancing back at Torus, still quietly sleeping in front of the fireplace, Leandros hesitates for a moment. Then, with a soft exhale, he turns back to the door and steps into the icy night. The wind lashes at his skin, sharp and unrelenting, but he feels no cold. His hands begin to glow faintly with a dim, ice blue as he picks up his robe, brushing away the frost that has gathered Once it is clean, he slips it back on, the fabric settling over him like a shadow. Behind him, the faint crunch of snow draws his attention. “I told you, I’ll be fine,” he says, turning around. The pony standing before him wears a cloak of the same earthy brown, its hood pulled low. With deliberate ease, the figure removes it, revealing a grey mane and pelt with eyes so pale they seem carved from frost.
"Barely. Had to take down three of 'em," the voice answers, rough but not quite as gravelled as Torus's accent.
"Three what?" Leandros asks, curiosity sharpening his tone.
"Ice hounds. Came straight for the minotaur."
"Huh… well, I never doubted your capability," Leandros replies, a lighthearted note slipping into his voice as he begins to move past the pony.
"Huh, right..." comes the muttered response, the pony shaking his head slightly, as though dismissing the exchange before falling in beside him. Silence lingers between them for a moment until Shade breaks it.
"Did you get what you needed?"
"I..." He inhales deeply. "Yeah, I did."
Shade doesn’t press the matter further, the quiet stretching between them once more.
"You know… I didn’t think it was going to go this smoothly. I thought we’d actually have to fight." Leandros keeps his gaze ahead, not even sparing a glance at Shade.
"Be glad we didn’t. I don’t think it would’ve been pretty. The legacy behind that minotaur, if the stories are true... well, he’s in a league of his own."
"Yeah..." The reply is soft, tinged with a somber note, the weight of the statement settling over them both. Until we meet again
Both fall silent for the remainder of the walk, the wind gradually picking up as the fog thickens around them. From the house’s perspective, their figures slowly blur into the haze, swallowed by the encroaching mist. The only trace of their presence left behind is a trail of hoofprints, etched fleetingly into the snow.
Author's Note
Again. Any pointers would be nice.
Author's Note
This is my first ever story. Please be brutally honest. I have more on this id like to write about but I want it to be well made. I wrote this all before publishing since this is more of a prologue.
Chapter 1
Chop... Chop... Chop...
The steady rhythm of Turos's axe echoed through the still, frozen air, a metronome marking the passage of another long winter's day. Each strike splintered the seasoned wood, the sound reverberating off the towering peaks surrounding his remote home. Snow had claimed the mountains in full force, draping the world in an unbroken sheet of white.
Turos—a broad-shouldered minotaur with fur thick as a woollen coat—moved with purpose, his breath forming soft clouds in the frosty air. Life in the mountains was harsh, but it was a life he had known since birth. He thrived in the solitude, the quiet, the routine.
With the last of the week’s firewood stacked onto his sturdy homemade sled, Turos paused. Snow clung to his garments, stubborn in its chill, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he straightened, brushing the frost from his horns, and turned his gaze outward.
The mountains stretched endlessly around him, their jagged peaks dusted with fresh snow and bathed in a faint, pearly light. The air was still—eerily so. Not even a whisper of wind disturbed the perfect quiet. It was the kind of silence that could swallow a man whole, but to Turos, it felt like an old friend.
He dropped the axe beside the sled and eased himself onto a nearby log, uncaring of the snow seeping into his trousers. Closing his eyes, he let the world envelop him. This was his ritual, a rare moment to simply exist in the vastness of it all. The isolation of these peaks brought its challenges, but Turos never considered leaving. He had everything he needed—his wife, Molocha, their warm hearth, and the satisfaction of a hard day’s work.
The faintest sound reached his ears, breaking the stillness.
“Turosssss!”
His eyes snapped open, ears twitching at the familiar call. Even through the muffling snowfall, he recognised Molocha’s voice. A slow smile tugged at his lips.
Reaching for the small wooden clock strapped to his belt, he squinted at its hand-carved face. “Dinner already?” he murmured, hauling himself upright with a low grunt.
He dusted off his trousers, gave the sled’s ropes a quick tug to test their hold, and began the trek back home. Each step crunched loudly in the snow, the sound filling the otherwise muted world. He glanced at the gear strapped to his sled—every axe, wedge, and tool accounted for. Losing even the smallest item could mean weeks of hardship this far from civilisation.
The path was familiar, well-trodden over years of the same daily ritual. Yet, as Turos crested a shallow hill, something unusual drew his attention.
A figure.
At first, he thought it was just a trick of the snowfall, a vague shape blurred by the swirling haze. But no—it moved.
Turos froze, his muscles instinctively tensing. He squinted against the snowfall, his breath clouding the air in front of him. The shape grew clearer—small, slender, unmistakably bipedal. A young minotaur.
It stood motionless, just on the edge of visibility, its faintly glowing eyes piercing through the haze.
“What in the name of the gods…” Turos muttered, his voice low and uncertain.
He took a cautious step forward, his boots crunching in the snow. But before he could call out, the figure blinked out of existence, vanishing into the swirling white as though it had never been there.
Turos stood rooted to the spot, the icy air biting at his exposed fur. He scanned the horizon, his heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in years.
For the first time in as long as he could remember, the mountains didn’t feel entirely his own.
He scanned the area but saw nothing. Shaking his head, he turned back toward home. What has she been feeding me lately?
As Turos neared the house, he glanced over his shoulder once more, scanning the snowy expanse. Night was falling fast, and the snow had thickened into a steady curtain of white. Yet, there it was again—the figure.
This time, it was closer, its outline sharper, though still cloaked in mist. Those glowing eyes watched him, unblinking, hovering just beyond reach, like a shadow unwilling to fully reveal itself.
Turos’s breath caught. Slowly, he unhooked the sled from his belt, his movements deliberate and measured, as though afraid any noise might invite the thing closer.
Before he could act further, the creak of the front door broke through the heavy silence. He turned sharply, his heart still pounding. Molocha stood in the doorway, a steaming mug clasped in her hands, her smile warm against the chill of the night.
"I made us steamed veggies for dinner," she called, her cheerful tone cutting through the tension. "And there’s pie for dessert!"
Her smile faltered as she caught sight of his posture—tense, guarded. Setting the mug down on the porch, she stepped forward, concern etching lines across her face. "Is something wrong?"
Turos turned back toward the fog. Nothing. The figure had vanished, swallowed by the storm. His chest tightened, uncertainty gnawing at him.
"I thought I saw something," he muttered, his deep voice almost lost in the wind.
Molocha followed his gaze, squinting into the swirling snow. "I don’t see anything," she said softly, but her eyes lingered on him, searching for an explanation.
Shaking off the unease, Turos wordlessly hauled the sled toward the porch. Molocha stepped in to help, her smaller hands working efficiently as they stacked the firewood by the wall. Once the tools were stored and the porch cleared, they retreated into the warm glow of their home.
The modest interior greeted them with its usual familiarity. Built for function over beauty, the house had enough space to shelter a family of four, though most of the rooms had become storage over the years. The largest space, the hearthroom, was their sanctuary against the relentless winters.
Settling into their chairs by the fire, plates of steaming food in hand, they ate in silence. The crackling of the flames and the soft clink of utensils filled the space where words might otherwise linger.
It was Molocha who broke the quiet. "Are you alright?" she asked, her tone gentle but insistent.
Turos paused, his fork hovering above his plate. The firelight flickered against his face, casting deep shadows across his fur. Slowly, his gaze shifted from the meal to the flames.
"I saw something out there," he said at last, his voice low and gravelly, like the crunch of snow underfoot. "It looked like a young minotaur... but it didn’t seem... right."
Molocha frowns. "Maybe it was just a deer? Or some other animal?" she suggests, watching the unease in his expression. This isn’t normal, He never lets anything rattle him. She hesitates before adding, "Or maybe a pack of wolves?"
Turos doesn’t respond right away. He sets his empty plate on the small table beside him, his movements slow and deliberate. Finally, he speaks, his voice quiet and distant. "Those eyes... They didn’t look like an animal. They felt... different."
He keeps his eyes fixed on the fire, lost in thought. Molocha studies him, concerned with softening her features. "The last time he was this shaken was after the war," she reflects.
She leans forward, her voice gentle. "Turos," she calls, drawing his attention from the flames. "Let’s get some rest. You’ve had a long day."
Turos looks at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before exhaling deeply. "Alright," he murmurs, motioning for her to head to bed first.
As she leaves, Turos remains by the fire, staring at the dancing flames. "They looked just like him," he mutters, his hand brushing the deep scar on his forearm. The memory claws at him, but he shakes it off. Stamping out the fire with his hoof, he picks up his plate and carries it to the kitchen to wash.
When he finally enters the bedroom, Molocha is already lying down, waiting. She glances up as he steps inside. "There you are," she says softly. "I was wondering if you were coming to bed."
Turos pauses in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim light. He’s strong for his age—years of hard labour in harsh conditions have kept him sturdy—but the passage of time has left its mark.
"Dear," Molocha says, her tone careful but firm. "Don’t you think it’s time to let someone help us? It’s been years since the war. Surely the others have moved past their grudges by now."
Turos scoffs, stretching before sitting on the edge of the bed. "You don’t know that," he says sharply. "I haven’t forgiven them. What makes you think they’ve forgiven us?"
Molocha presses her lips into a thin line, saying nothing. Turos climbs into bed with a sigh, pulling the blanket over himself.
After a pause, Molocha speaks, her back now turned to him. "You’ll never know if you don’t at least try."
Turos stares at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. "I have tried," he replies quietly, his voice heavy with resignation.
The room falls silent, save for the faint whistle of the wind outside.
"Have you truly?" Turos doesn’t say another word, letting the silence settle as he drifts off to the sweet embrace of sleep.
The next morning starts slowly. Snow falls steadily, blanketing the land in a thick, swirling haze. Turos and Molocha sit by the fireplace, the warmth battling against the bitter cold outside. Molocha hums quietly, working on a sweater she’s crocheting. Her thoughts wander to how she might customise her next piece.
Turos, however, stares into the fire, his mind lingering on the previous night. He glances at her, his brows furrowed. Maybe she’s right, he thinks, but quickly snorts. "I’m not getting old. I don’t need help."
Molocha pauses her humming and places her needles down on her lap. Her tone soft but firm, she says, "Turos… you’re nearly fifty-seven. You need to look after yourself. You’re not as active as you once were, and every winter you slow down a little more." Concern laces her voice. "You can’t keep doing everything yourself."
Turos stiffens and shakes his head. "I’m fine, and I’m not ‘old.’ Keeping busy helps me stay active. Besides, who’s going to help us? There’s no one around for kilometres!" He throws his hands up in frustration and pushes himself to his feet, heading for the kitchen. He busies himself with making something warm to drink, trying to silence her words echoing in his head.
Molocha watches him, her hands resting on her needles. She sighs, knowing he has a point—there’s no one else to share the load. Still, she presses on. "You won’t get help if you don’t try—"
"I don’t need help!" he snaps, slamming his fist on the table. The sound reverberates through the small house, and his face hardens, anger clearly visible. "The last time I asked for help, they robbed me blind. I’m not asking for anything from anyone—no matter the species."
Molocha doesn’t flinch. She’s used to his outbursts, understanding they stem from wounds deeper than just his pride. PTSD was an obstacle they’d faced together for years. He’s calmer now than he was after returning from the war, but every now and then, the anger resurfaces.
Turos takes a steadying breath and begins pulling on his winter belt and jacket, his movements abrupt but purposeful.
"Where are you going?" Molocha asks, her voice steady as she picks up her needles again, resuming her crocheting.
"Outside," is all Turos says before rushing out and lightly slamming the door behind him.
Molocha sits alone for a moment, shaking her head as she hums and returns to her work. "It’s going to bite you one day," she mutters under her breath, though her voice carries a note of fond exasperation.
Minutes pass, and she remains in front of the fire, staring into the flames. Finally, she sighs. "I should go check on him." Rising from her chair, she walks to the door and pulls it open, only to be hit by a wall of icy wind. The force slams the door shut before she can even react, leaving her stunned.
Turning to the window, she peers outside, but the blizzard’s fury obscures everything. Snow and wind swirl together, painting the world in an impenetrable haze that looks like a heavy fog has blanketed the land.
Molocha exhales, her breath fogging the glass. "Maybe I’ll just work on lunch," she mutters, stepping away. That’ll help him calm down. He’ll be fine.
Meanwhile, Turos has a plan. He doesn’t believe he’s getting old, and he’s determined to prove it—not just to Molocha but to himself. Moving through the heavy snow, he starts his usual route around the property, timing himself with his clock. If he can stick close to his regular time, he’ll know he hasn’t lost his edge. More importantly, he’ll have something to gloat about later.
Who does she think she is—calling me old, he grumbles, shaking his head as he pushes forward through the thick drifts. Picking up his pace, he clenches his fists against the cold. "I’ll show her how ‘old’ I am." Driven by pride, Turos presses on, oblivious to the worsening storm. The snow thickens, and the wind howls louder, but his focus is unwavering. "Just a little faster," he mutters, narrowing his eyes against the stinging flakes.
Everything is moving along smoothly. Turos easily shaves 20 minutes off his usual time and feels quite pleased with himself. But there’s one tiny problem.
"I CANNOT SEE A THING!" he shouts, though the howling wind drowns out his voice.
He holds his right hand up to shield his eyes from the stinging snow. It keeps the flakes out but does nothing to help him see further ahead. Frustrated, he reaches for his clock, glancing at the time. A grim thought creeps in—being caught outside in the heart of winter would mean serious trouble.
Should I head back? Options unclear, stopping in his tracks. He turns around, scanning for the trail he left behind. But it’s gone. The relentless snow has completely buried every trace of his path.
Now Turos has a massive problem: he is completely lost in a blizzard. He turns around, searching for any sign of a way home, panic slowly starting to set in. The blizzard, gaining intensity, bites at his exposed fur as he tries to move quickly, but the harsh winds and deep snow begin to take their toll. Each step feels heavier, his muscles protesting against the cold. Frost slowly forms on his fur, its icy touch sapping what little warmth he has left.
Why did I do this? he curses himself internally, glancing at his handmade wooden clock, the ambient light dimming around him. Nightfall creeps closer, the world growing darker and more hostile. "I have to keep moving," he whispers through chattering teeth, hypothermia steadily taking hold, slowing his body. His legs feel like lead, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated.
"I messed up. All because I was stubborn," he mutters, his breath fogging in the frigid air. Desperately, he scans his surroundings, but endless snow greets him, a blank and merciless expanse. Just as despair begins to settle in, his hand brushes against something solid.
He looks up and sees a stone wall. Blinking through the frost clinging to his lashes, he realises—What the? Relief and confusion swirl in his mind as he realises he’s on the south side of his property.
In the confusion of the storm, Turos had veered completely off course, heading in the wrong direction. The realisation hit him as he paused, taking in his surroundings. At least he knew roughly where he was now. He adjusted his path, angling south along the wall. I can make a fire in the cave, rest up here for the night, the thought of warmth easing some of the tension in his body. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but it was short-lived, fading quickly as his eyes scanned the relentless snowfall. The storm seemed to be pushing him further into isolation, and though he had lived this way for years, tonight, it felt... different.
They haven't had a storm this bad in years; they normally had some time to prepare for a blizzard, but this time the storm was at random. There weren't any inherent signs of it, no weather deviations. This can't be right. Nothing about this feels natural, as the pieces began to fall into place, a sense of urgency gripped Turos. "I n-need to get to t-that cave," he stammers, barely holding himself together as his teeth chatter violently.
Eyes nearly frozen shut, he spots the cave entrance, but something feels off. A fire is already burning inside. As he marches closer, the flickering orange glow dances against the cave walls, casting a shadow—a shape he can’t quite make out. His breath catches, uncertainty gnawing at him as the shadow shifts and wavers. Reaching the entrance, he immediately pulls out his hatchet, unwilling to take any chances. His body aches from the relentless strain, but he forces himself forward, grateful to finally be out of the snow—at least for now.
With each cautious step, he inches toward the warmth, the heat mingling with the growing anticipation in his chest. As he nears a shadowy corner, he halts, straining to hear past the crackle of the flames. The silence is overwhelming, broken only by the pounding of his heartbeat.
Peering around the corner, his breath hitches. His old hideout remains just as he left it years ago, the firelight casting a warm, familiar glow across the dugout. But something feels wrong. Moving closer, his eyes narrow on the fire—it’s fresh, too fresh. Someone has been here recently. Someone lit this not too long ago, curiosity flickering alongside the fire.
Taking a seat, Torus sighs, thankful for the heat of the fire and the protection his clothes offer. They aren't thick, but they help cut the wind. He relaxes for a moment, letting the warmth sink in when a sound breaks the quiet.
He startles slightly but tightens his grip on the hatchet, ready for anything. The noise echoes through the cave again, faint but distinct. He narrows his eyes, scanning the dim space until his gaze lands on a small wooden box near the fire.
"Is that... a baby?" he mutters, disbelief lacing his voice.
The cries grow louder, filling the cave with a fragile, helpless sound. Torus inches closer to the box, each step weighed down by caution and disbelief. There, in the makeshift crib, lies a tiny child—but it doesn’t look like a minotaur.
It’s completely hairless, save for a small patch on the top of its head. Its face is flat, with small eyes, a delicate mouth, and what he assumes is a nose.
Torus stares, stunned. He’d seen many strange things in his day, but never—never—did he expect to find a child, let alone one like this, in his cave. He watches the small child for a moment, unsure of what to do.
His eyes sweep the cave, searching for any sign of another—a footprint, a trace of movement, or anything stolen. But something else catches his attention. Along the cave walls, strange symbols are etched into the stone, faintly illuminated by the firelight. The markings are unfamiliar, twisting in unnatural patterns that seem to shimmer slightly as the fire flickers.
“Who has done this to you?” he mutters, his voice low, tinged with venom. The memory of families torn apart during the war flickers in his mind, a pain he had hoped never to witness again.
Setting down his hatchet, he slowly inches his hand closer to the baby. The moment his rough fingers make contact with the soft skin, the crying stops. The baby calms down, their tiny chest rising and falling steadily as they drift into slumber.
“You’re safe with me, little one,” he softly says, his voice barely above a whisper. Watching the child, Torus feels his tense muscles begin to unwind. His body, worn from the cold and strain, finally gives in. He sits back, letting his weight sag onto the bench, his exhaustion pressing down on him like a heavy blanket. For now, at least, the inside of the cave is silent.
Taking in the warmth of the fire, he watches the flames shift and glow. “I need to get Molocha; she’ll know what to do, glancing at the crib.
Standing up, Torus walks over to his stash in the corner. A small table holds a few pouches of food he’d stored for emergencies, and a crate beside it is filled with handmade tools. Though he’s never had to rely on these supplies before, he’s thankful now for his foresight.
Grabbing some rations, he walks back to the fire and sits down, chewing on a handful of dried fruits. The day had drained him, and he knows he’ll need all the energy he can muster for tomorrow. His mind drifts to the blizzard still raging outside, uncertainty creeping in. How long will it keep them trapped here? His gaze shifts to the baby. “The kid’s going to need food too—sooner rather than later,” he mutters, a tinge of worry in his voice.
With his fruit finished, he prepares for bed, brushing the crumbs from his hands and stretching his tired limbs. The fire bathes the cave in a flickering orange glow, its heat keeping the chill at bay. He doesn’t bother with a blanket, confident the warmth will be enough. Laying on the rough stone floor, he props his head on the bench, using it as a makeshift pillow. Its edges dig slightly into his neck, but he adjusts, sighing. Not the most comfortable, but far from the worst I’ve had, glancing at the faint shadows dancing on the walls before closing his eyes. The steady crackle of the flames and the occasional pop of burning wood settle him into an uneasy rest.
