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.