Born not of love, but of a god’s spite, he opened his eyes into a world that recoiled at his very breath. Flesh and horn stitched together, a body branded as abomination, a life condemned before it could begin.
Stone walls rose around him, carved not as sanctuary, but as prison. The Labyrinth was his cradle, his coffin, his endless horizon. He did not ask for hunger, yet hunger was all he was given. He did not choose violence, yet violence was the only language left to him.
Each echoing step in the dark corridors was a reminder: he was never meant to be more than a warning, a curse, a monster to justify the cruelty of kings.
Story and art by Damian Smith
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