The Labyrinth Of The Minotaur

Our ship had landed off the coast of the island of Crete on a spring morning in the year 1916. Our mission was to assist in the archaeological excavations of the ancient site of Knossos, which included a mythical place considered to be the abode of the legendary Minotaur.

It would prove to be an intricate labyrinth, revealing the darkest and most horrifying secrets that lurked behind shadows of death. None of the original expedition would live to recount this tale you are about to read—except Professor Papadopoulos and myself.

What we would encounter was nothing conceived by this world, but rather something awakened from the realm of the supernatural. What began as a mere quest for archaeological treasures would culminate in a horror ineffable in nature—something more than half human, half beast.

The members of the expedition were as follows: Professors Alexander Moore and William Sutcliffe, both Englishmen; Professors Thomas Doley and Richard Barnes, both Americans; Professor Antonio Delgado, a Spaniard; Professor Nikos Papadopoulos, a Greek; and myself, Professor Luke Caddick, a Welshman.

We were all enthralled by the possibility of making an astonishing discovery in the name of archaeology—concerning the Minotaur and his labyrinth of endless corridors. It was this prospect that had united us in our fervent passion for the advancement of science and knowledge.

The experience and expertise of the chosen archaeologists were critical to the planning of the expedition. We had received ample funding from both the British and Greek governments to carry out our task with great diligence. Crete, as an island, was full of lush valleys, narrow gorges, cascading waterfalls, freshwater lakes, and above all, towering mountains.

It was one of these high, steep mountains that we would have to traverse in order to reach our ultimate destination. The island’s fluctuating Mediterranean climate was evident upon our arrival at the shore. Crete had been reclaimed by Greece after the First Balkan War.

Our first glimpse of the island revealed turtles and lizards roaming the shoreline. Along the route through a gorge, we spotted vultures scavenging on the carcass of an ibex, hidden amongst the verdant cypress trees.

The rugged landscape was difficult to cross, with loose crags and conspicuous boulders impeding our progress. We encountered snakes and scorpions as we passed a medieval bridge near a flowing river, leading us beyond the solitary gorges.

From my calculations, we had walked a considerable distance before reaching the outskirts of Heraklion. The city had once been the major centre of Minoan civilisation and was famously linked to the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur.

The venerable Minoan palace was located several kilometres from the city of Knossos. According to Greek legend, the Minotaur was half man and half bull, dwelling within a labyrinth constructed in Crete. This intricate maze was said to have been designed by Daedalus.

In the myth, to punish King Minos, the god Poseidon caused Minos’ wife, Pasiphaë, to fall in love with a bull. The resulting offspring, the Minotaur, was a monstrous creature that devoured human flesh. Minos had Daedalus build a gigantic labyrinth to imprison the beast until its eventual death at the hands of Theseus.

The labyrinth’s location was believed to be near Minos’ palace at Knossos, on the outskirts of Heraklion—the heart of Minoan society. Despite the passage of centuries, the legend remained intact. Few had dared question its relevance—until we accepted the bold challenge placed before us as archaeologists.

Other excavators had worked at Knossos before, most notably the reputable Englishman Sir William Aylesworth. It was through his documented discoveries and reports that we first developed an idea of what to expect from our excavation.

Once we arrived in Heraklion late that afternoon, we decided to rest until morning, hoping to recover our vigour after the arduous journey through the surrounding gorges. Our provisions had sufficed for the trek from the shore, and in Heraklion, we would acquire further supplies and materials for the excavation ahead.

The spirits of the team were high, and so was our resolve. We hired local workers to assist with the digging, providing them with the pickaxes and shovels we had brought, while they carried out the menial tasks of the day.

We awoke the next morning with tremendous enthusiasm to begin the excavation in earnest. We had meticulously discussed our plan and agreed upon the most effective strategy for success. Our approach was to first excavate the more accessible areas, before turning our attention to the ruined sections, where salvaging artefacts would be more difficult.

Our method closely resembled that of Sir William Aylesworth, with one notable difference: we were open to the idea that we might one day find proof that the Minotaur had once truly existed. Perhaps it was a foolish notion—but as avid readers of Greek mythology, we were convinced that legends were often rooted in historical fact, however obscure.

Thus, we did not dismiss the possibility of discovering artefacts that could substantiate the Minotaur’s existence—perhaps in some natural form that had inspired the myth. I was especially keen on the idea that there was a measure of truth behind the tale. I had brought with me notes I had compiled based on Sir William Aylesworth’s public reports and academic papers.

As a devoted professor and archaeologist, I was eager to demonstrate the role of science in uncovering the ancestral secrets of ancient civilisations and verifying their claims. There was much to be discovered at the archaeological site of the Palace of Knossos.

Upon arriving at the site, I was able within the first hour of excavation to determine the breadth of the area, including its surrounding structures. Sir William Aylesworth had previously discovered two ancient scripts that distinguished themselves from the pictographs also present in the ruins. We began labelling each artefact precisely, as we unearthed them from the deep layers of the ancient palace.

We could clearly see the residual decay caused by the torrential storms that had eroded much of the palace over time. Walls and pillars bore visible signs of deterioration. Still, the palace conjured a fascinating image in my mind: the reception courtyard, and the many untold discoveries that awaited us within its walls.

The complex was built around a raised central courtyard atop a solitary hill. As we stepped inside the palace, we were able to observe the structure’s interior. The court was oblong, with a long horizontal axis pointing northwards.

In the spacious rooms, we discovered giant storage jars embedded in compartments in the floor, believed to have once held wine, oil, and grain. The palace was estimated to have been constructed between 1700 and 1400 BC. With later modifications, the abundant rooms were connected by narrow corridors of varying width and direction, as well as main hallways.

Within the six-acre site were a theatre, main entrances on each of the four cardinal sides, and extensive storerooms for multiple purposes. It was believed that beneath the storage jars, there had once been deposits of gold.

The architecture was remarkably advanced for its time. In some areas, the palace still stood five storeys high. It also featured three distinct water systems: one for supply, another for drainage, and an advanced aqueduct system that channelled fresh water from distant springs through the winding valley.

What was more impressive was the Minoan pillar—plastered, painted red, and placed on stone bases with noticeable round capitals. Pottery and frescoes were discovered as well, amongst the unique artefacts. The fresco panel murals were red in their appearance.

The centrepiece of the palace was a Throne Room, which was a chamber that had an alabaster seat resembling a throne, surrounded by gypsum benches. The room was accessible from an anteroom through double doors that were carefully designed.

The throne had two griffins lying down facing it, one on either side. They were the embodiment of an immemorial epoch. As I observed the two griffins closely, I pondered the Minoans. I knew that they were a powerful society in Greek lore. Their history intrigued me, as did the myth about the Minotaur.

It was that exact myth which had brought me to Crete, to discover its authenticity in person. The arrival of the rain would prevent us from continuing the excavation outside. Thus, we concentrated our available time within the palace. We agreed that we would resume the excavation the following morning, in the hope that we could prove or dispel the myth of the Minotaur.

We left the palace and slept in the tents we had constructed just outside the terrain, not far from the site. Several guards were paid to protect the site, in case vandals attempted to steal our precious artefacts or enter the palace.

Upon the following morning, when we awoke from our sleep, the rain persisted and the lightning of the storm dissuaded us from conducting further research. We were compelled to remain inside the tents and discuss what we had discovered the previous day. Amongst the professors, there was a discussion about what we might still uncover that Sir William Aylesworth had not already brought to light.

Apparently, we were more interested in proving the existence of the Minotaur. That was primarily the singular reason that fuelled our determination and curiosity. Professor Papadopoulos suggested we focus on trying to locate a passage underground, where we had been excavating.

I had been contemplating that same suspicion, and mentioned to the professor that it might be feasible to discover the extraordinary labyrinth of the Minotaur beneath the surface. The idea was not so far-fetched that the other professors would dismiss it outright. After all, we were not only men of archaeology, but true explorers of the past and admirers of classical mythology.

This would indeed be a great challenge to any archaeologist, and what we were attempting might seem irrational and fanciful to the outside world. Professor Barnes offered to display any artefacts discovered related to the Minotaur in an exhibition in New York City, but Professors Moore and Sutcliffe thought otherwise. They wanted to exhibit them in London, should any be uncovered. Professor Papadopoulos reminded us that the artefacts would eventually remain in Greece, if they were found at all.

Our conversation about the Minotaur was exciting and refreshing, especially given that no artefact pertaining to the legendary half-human, half-beast had ever been confirmed as authentic. I felt an urgent fascination to know what the locals of Crete thought about the Minotaur and its labyrinth of deception. So I asked the labourers. When questioned, they only smiled and demonstrated little concern or interest in the subject.

They were more occupied with the money we were paying them for the excavation than with the superstitious tale of the Minotaur. I had the strange feeling that they were keeping a secret, or were feigning ignorance. I sensed it in their simple expressions and unspoken countenances.

Regardless of their personal sentiments, we were resolute in our desire to solve the perplexing enigma. I slept little that restless night, for the tempest had not ceased to haunt us. It was better not to dwell on the expedition’s negatives, and instead to focus on the pending excavation.

By morning, we had accepted the intermittent weather and its unpredictable fluctuations. The rain had ceased, offering us the opportunity to advance our excavation, particularly within the interior rooms of the palace that had seized our immediate attention.

I marvelled at the architecture evident in the palace’s original design, but I could never have imagined that within its depths lay a mysterious chamber that would lead to our ultimate discovery—the labyrinth of the Minotaur. Nothing concrete could have prepared us for this. Simply being inside the palace offered us insight into Minoan life and, more importantly, the artefacts they left behind as evidence of their glorious civilisation.

Since infancy, I have been drawn to Greek mythology—from Medusa, the Cyclopes, the Centaur, the Sphinx—but it was the Minotaur that captivated me enough to seek proof of its actual existence. I had previously been to Egypt, on a remarkable expedition to find tombs, though I was unsuccessful. I discovered only small fragments of their ancient civilisation, none of which were indicative of any of the noble pharaohs of the past.

I had visited the Valley of the Kings, located on the Nile’s west bank near Luxor. One thing I remembered about the venerable Egyptians was that they created hidden underground mausoleums. I noted in my journal that the Egyptian burial chambers resembled secret galleries.

Could it merely be coincidence that we might find such things within the interior rooms of the Minoan palace? Once inside, we began to explore its magnificent structure with the intent of locating a concealed chamber—perhaps the underground labyrinth of the Minotaur. If such a labyrinth truly existed, it had to be nearby. Yet it was difficult to determine which of the rooms might lead to such a hidden place.

As I have previously stated, there was no guarantee that we would find anything of substance linked to its existence. Our expectations were high, but we remained realistic in our endeavour to seek the truth. I believed we might discover extraordinary depictions on the walls of a palace room, but I was more interested in uncovering the intricate nature of the labyrinth itself.

When we professors gathered again, we resumed our discussion of the Minotaur and the labyrinth. We delved deeper into the idea of a secret chamber. Despite searching chambers and corridors throughout the palace, we had yet to find any significant evidence of its existence.

That night, we remained in our tents, sharing our thoughts, yet not relinquishing our determination to continue the search for the concealed labyrinth. The winds of Crete stirred even without a storm. We had sufficient light from our torches and oil lamps to guide us through the darkness, and we entrusted the locals with the responsibility of guarding the site from nocturnal thieves.

Morning came with relative calm, affording us a renewed chance to explore the palace’s interior rooms—this time focusing our efforts on identifying the plausible location of the labyrinth. It was eventually agreed by the members of the expedition that we would persist, convinced that our efforts would not be in vain. The question yet unanswered was whether we would find anything tangible to link to the labyrinth and establish it as fact.

The mere notion of the Minotaur’s existence was enough to enthral us in a never-ending quest for the ineffable creature that once lurked behind the opaque shadows of a labyrinth steeped in mystery, life, and death. In one of the rooms near the Throne Room, where the vivid depictions of the two griffins had earlier been discovered, I noticed something upon closer inspection: a depiction of the Minotaur.

What was unique was that its right hand pointed upwards, while the left pointed downwards. Was this nothing more than a symbolic gesture, or something of greater significance? The professors expressed differing opinions. Professors Moore and Doley agreed with my observation. Professor Barnes suggested it was a reverential pose honouring the gods.

As for the rest, including Professor Papadopoulos, they concluded that it was a sign of strength. The Minotaur, to them, represented raw power. It was a reasonable assumption, but I remained fixated on the hands.

We began examining the soil of the Throne Room for any trace of profound erosion. One professor eventually noticed a soft spot ideal for excavation. I instructed the labourers to begin digging immediately, in the hope of uncovering the entrance to the labyrinth’s chamber.

After half an hour of work, we had uncovered what appeared to be a solid formation. The soil, dirt, and rocks were gradually removed, revealing a heavy latch covered in rust and embedded within what seemed to be a subterrene chamber.

Roughly an hour later, after penetrating the solid structure, we managed to open the latch and discovered a previously unknown chamber. Its opening was narrow, dark, and damp. Was this an ominous foreboding or the discovery I had longed for? A thrill surged within me—was this, at last, the surreptitious labyrinth of the Minotaur? If so, it was too unbelievable to accept at once.

We proceeded to examine the chamber’s depth and dimensions. Using measuring tape, we calculated that the bottom lay approximately 12 feet deep and 8 feet wide. Whoever constructed the chamber had evidently designed it to confine something within.

The fascination with discovering the truth had grown within me, as it had in the others. We were not expecting to find a living Minotaur, but rather remnants or a vestige of its former existence that could serve as irrefutable proof of its authenticity. The labourers were the first to descend steadfastly down the ladder into the deep abyss, and then we, the professors, followed their lead.

I was the first of the professors to witness the darkened shade of the narrow corridors we encountered upon reaching the ground. The air inside the chambered place was filled with an unusual vapour, and there was a pervasive stench of death that lingered everywhere.

Thick vines and mould had overtaken the sturdy walls. We had brought oil lamps and lit our torches to guide our path as we walked, using our compasses. A prevailing eeriness suddenly overcame the area without warning. We came upon an intervening chamber that was entirely blocked, preventing us from continuing our search.

We were a total of fifteen men, including the local labourers who had assisted us in the excavation. As we drew nearer, we heard a distinct hissing sound that alarmed us. No one knew—nor could anyone have conceived—the madness that would follow.

From nowhere, a mighty throng of winged insects, with their twitching antennae and serrated legs, came surging through the corridor of darkness, heading in our direction. They had a voracious appetite, and we were their intended victims.

Instinct compelled us to react, and our response was immediate. Some of the labourers ran back towards the chamber’s opening, but they were thwarted by the swarm of scarabs, who covered them from head to toe, suffocating them to death. Others, including myself, pounded on the wall of the chamber, hoping to break through it.

Some attempted to lift the wall, but it would not budge. Professor Delgado touched a section of the wall, which immediately lifted on its own. There was no time to waste—we quickly pulled the wall down behind us, protecting ourselves from the onslaught of scarabs.

We had narrowly escaped impending doom. The scarabs were unable to enter or penetrate the wall that now stood between us and them. Our hearts pounded, and we struggled to breathe, shaken by the harrowing ordeal we had just endured. For the time being, we were safe and free from the dreadful scarabs—but this meant we could not return the way we had come. It also meant we were now prisoners of the subterranean place we had entered of our own accord.

For now, there was no recourse but to proceed forward. Our plan had been altered by the attack. I pondered the question—was this an omen of what was yet to come? With our torches and oil lamps lit, we continued our compelling search.

The corridor was just as narrow as the previous one, making it extremely difficult to pass through or to breathe. I had an intuitive sense that whatever lay ahead would be even more impactful than the scarabs. We had already lost four labourers to them.

We discovered yet another narrow, opaque corridor, also covered in thick vines and mould. Once again, the feeling that overcame me was of a foreboding nature. If we had felt relief surviving the wrath of the scarabs, what awaited us at the end of this corridor was a tormenting evil. Whistling murmurs echoed audibly around us, heightening our anticipation and dread.

Then, from the engulfing darkness, a vortex of eidolons materialised from an albescent mist that began to envelop us. Upon witnessing this, those of us who had survived the scarabs instinctively sought escape. Multiple tunnels and passages led in various directions. Some of us darted down one route; the rest, including myself, fled in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately for some, the path they had chosen led to their immediate demise. We split into smaller groups as we ran. I, along with Professor Papadopoulos and two labourers, managed to evade the eidolons, as did Professors Moore and Barnes—but the others were not so fortunate.

Tragically, we lost Professors Sutcliffe, Doley, and Delgado, as well as one of the labourers. They were devoured by the insidious eidolons, their souls consumed and their bodies poisoned by the enveloping mist. All that remained were their agonised screams echoing in the corridors.

Professor Papadopoulos and I eventually found the other remaining members of the team via another passage that connected with theirs. The terror was too real to dismiss as fanciful imagination. It was hard to believe we had encountered not only age-old scarabs but also eldritch eidolons—both seemingly trapped within this underground labyrinth or perhaps essential elements of its madness.

We had not been prepared for the horrors awaiting us. We had brought flasks of water and food in our haversacks, anticipating the need for provisions once we reached the underground vault, especially as we had no idea how long we would be there.

It was likely evening by then, though we could not tell, for the only light we had were our torches and oil lamps. We pressed onwards until we reached another fearsome corridor. This time, what we encountered was even more shocking than the scarabs and the eidolons—we came face to face with the mythological Gorgons.

As we explored the circumference of the corridor and its walls, strange hissing noises echoed. At first, it was difficult to discern what was approaching, but within minutes, aided by the light of our torches, we saw them clearly.

The Gorgons, with coiling serpents for hair, unleashed venomous snakes and scorpions in a full assault. Panic and dread overtook us. We attempted to flee into the hidden passages that abounded in the underground chambers. This time, Professor Moore and one of the labourers were not fortunate—they became the Gorgons’ chosen victims.

As we fled from the threatening serpents and scorpions, Professor Moore and the labourer were caught and fatally bitten. Their remains were turned to stone by the Gorgons’ malevolent gaze.

Only Professor Barnes, Professor Papadopoulos, one labourer and I remained alive. What had begun as an exciting exploration of the Minotaur’s labyrinth had become a dreadful nightmare with no end. We began to question the horror we now faced. What kind of world had we entered?

We searched for any possible escape, and by chance, reached a chamber that led to endless rows of an unknown and astonishing place.

What we had not known at first was that we had reached the legendary labyrinth of the Minotaur, as told in ancient fables. Unlike the other dark chambers and passages, this labyrinth was illuminated and composed of elaborate circular paths that led somewhere—or nowhere. It was a colossal structure towering over us.

The Minotaur was said to be imprisoned in this underground labyrinth, and the walls appeared sturdy and unbreakable. The thought of the tauromorphic beast lurking nearby weighed heavily on our minds. Then, a mighty roar reverberated through the labyrinth, shaking the walls with terrifying force. A dark shadow emerged from a passageway—it was the daunting form of the Minotaur.

Instinctively, it seemed to know where we were. Its horns were alight with fire, and its nostrils expelled flames. Its eyes blazed with an incendiary red glow. The stench of rotting flesh emanated from its fur-covered body. Standing two metres tall, it shook its tail with dominance as it trod the ground, seeking its next prey.

We survivors hid in different parts of the labyrinth, hoping that separating ourselves would confuse the beast. But this tactic proved futile. The Minotaur had an acute awareness and could detect the faintest trace of fear or doubt.

We remained silent and vigilant, careful not to reveal our presence. It appeared for a moment that we had confused the creature—until it drew close to where Professor Barnes and the labourer were hiding.

Overcome by fear, the labourer attempted to flee, but did not get far. The Minotaur seized him and tore him apart, devouring his flesh.

From my hiding place, I witnessed this horrific scene. The thought that entered my mind was—what fate awaited us? Professor Barnes reacted impulsively and fled into another passage, but it was a dead end. The Minotaur found him too and devoured him. His agonised screams echoed for a kilometre.

Amongst our group, only I had brought a weapon—a gun—with several bullets. But I knew I had to use them wisely. I wasn’t certain the Minotaur could be killed by mere bullets. If it were a supernatural being, how could we destroy something so otherworldly?

Professor Papadopolous had suggested that we shoot at the top of the walls, thinking we might cause them to crumble and trap the Minotaur within its long labyrinth. Our options were few, and we were taking a risk, knowing that we too could become trapped. We were confronting a dire predicament—remain and be devoured by the Minotaur or attempt to destroy it.

We had come so far to find the legendary labyrinth and Minotaur, only to be forced to consider destroying them. Yet, under the circumstances we faced, our chances of survival had been greatly diminished. We had few advantages, and the Minotaur would not allow us to escape without a struggle. I acquiesced to Professor Papadopolous’ suggestion, and we waited until the Minotaur approached. From the corner of my eye, however, I spotted a passage leading to another hidden chamber.

Whilst the Minotaur was occupied with Professor Barnes, I entered and found a treasure trove of gold coins and jewellery that sparkled in the torchlight. Bronze pillars rose around me, and at the centre stood a solitary monolith adorned with pictographs, encircled by concentric rings. The sheer antiquity of the chamber was unbelievable. It was too surreal.

I immediately informed Professor Papadopolous, who entered shortly after. It was truly unbelievable—we had located the golden throne that had once belonged to the Minotaur. For a brief moment, we were so overwhelmed by the discovery that we forgot about the roaming beast. But that moment would not last, for the ferocious Minotaur had sensed our presence and was now heading in our direction.

Quickly, I told the professor to hide, and we did so behind one of the adamantine walls heaped with gold coins. We waited in anticipation, our anxiety mounting. We saw the indomitable beast draw near, its heavy breath puffing from fiery nostrils. Its sharp hooves left deep indentations in the soft earth, and its pointed horns glinted like blades in the torchlight. Its beady eyes were piercing.

At that exact moment, I fired at the top of the walls, just as we had planned. The impact caused the structure to crumble downwards, trapping the Minotaur within the collapsing stones of its own complex labyrinth. The beast stumbled to the ground, and an obstreperous roar echoed through the chambers as the heavy stones enclosed it. We watched the scene unfold with bated breath and wide eyes.

For a moment, we were uncertain of what to do next. The parts of the labyrinth that remained intact still stretched endlessly before us. There was no returning through the original entrance, and we had no knowledge of what else lay hidden in the unexplored depths of the labyrinth.

Thus, we chose the only viable option: to press forward and hope to find a way out. The faint illumination from above allowed us to continue walking, though we kept our torches and oil lamps ready in case we were once again plunged into darkness or faced with some other foul creature lurking in the sable shadows of death.

We walked on and on, until at last, we saw ahead of us another mysterious passage. At first, we hesitated. Professor Papadopolous believed it could be our escape. I, however, feared it might lead to yet another evil awaiting us. We had already awakened too much horror. We had encountered menacing scarabs, preternatural eidolons, hideous Gorgons—and finally, the formidable Minotaur.

We were in no condition to face further unspeakable horrors. Whatever else dwelled within that underworld, we no longer wished to meet it. Enough blood had been spilled, enough flesh torn. That passage would be our salvation. It led to the hills surrounding the archaeological site we had been excavating.

We were finally free from the horrors of the underground labyrinth, with its innumerable chambers and narrow corridors. My heart beat suddenly and rapidly as the morning sun’s rays struck my face through the opening above. Professor Papadopolous and I were immensely fortunate to have survived the lingering terror of that subterranean world and the supernatural beings it housed.

The entrance we had used to descend into the labyrinth was forever sealed by the cave-in. We also sealed the exit through which we escaped, ensuring no one would ever discover its existence. We would never again unearth the original entrance—and the terror we experienced was sufficient to affirm that such a discovery should remain buried.

Though it seemed we might leave empty-handed, Professor Papadopolous revealed something extraordinary—he had managed to retrieve a handful of gold coins and jewellery from the Minotaur’s chamber. These relics would be equally kept between us, yet the truth of what we discovered—the labyrinth, the Minotaur, and the otherworldly entities—would remain unrevealed. It was a secret we would take to our graves.

We did not forget the others who perished—Professors Moore, Sutcliffe, Doley, Barnes, and Delgado, along with the labourers. I had come to the island of Crete and the Palace of Knossos in search of the legendary Minotaur and its labyrinth. When I departed that place, I left with a lingering thought—that beneath those crumbled boulders, the fierce Minotaur might one day rise again.

Three nights later, in a remote inn nestled between olive groves and ancient ruins, I sat alone with my journal, the flickering oil lamp casting dancing shadows upon the paper. Professor Papadopolous had taken ill—his nerves frayed, his body unable to forget the intense roar of the beast or the stench of ancient blood. He lay upstairs in a state of feverish delirium, muttering of 'the Eye in the Stone' and 'the throne of the horned god'.

I paid his ramblings no heed at first—until I discovered the object wrapped in cloth that he had smuggled from the ruins. Not gold, not gems—but a fragment of the monolith, engraved with concentric symbols and a strange central eye that seemed to shimmer when touched. The moment my fingers brushed its surface, a whispering filled my ears—not sound, but something deeper. I recoiled, clutching the cloth back around it.

The following morning, I returned to the hillside alone, drawn by some compulsion. There, where the stone entrance had been sealed, I noticed a patch of earth that pulsed faintly with warmth—unnatural for the season. I dug a little. Just beneath the surface, I found a relic—a fragment of blackened obsidian, etched with labyrinthine spirals. As I turned it over, the whispering returned, louder this time, with a voice that was not my own but somehow familiar.

I dared not bring the fragement back. I buried it deep and marked the place with a small cairn of stones. Yet that night, I dreamt of the Minotaur—seated upon the golden throne, its piercing eyes locked upon mine. It spoke—not with words, but with images and sensations: sacrifice, blood, ritual. A warning. Or a summons.

When I awoke, my shirt was soaked with sweat, and my fingertips bore a faint spiral mark that faded by morning.

In the weeks that followed, Professor Papadopolous recovered, though he remembered little of his illness. He claimed the fever had released him from the labyrinth’s curse. I wasn’t so sure. His hands trembled when he handled the relics, and he had developed an aversion to mirrors, as if fearing to see something else looking back.

We agreed never to speak publicly of what we had seen. The coins and jewellery were quietly donated to the museum in Heraklion, attributed to a 'non-specific Bronze Age deposit'. Yet the greatest treasures—the artefacts bearing the sigils and spirals—we buried in a secret place known only to us.

As the years passed, others came to Knossos, drawn by the legend, lured by the myth. They dug and theorised, yet none uncovered what we had found. Occasionally, whispers would reach us—of a team that had vanished in a newly discovered chamber, or a local who claimed to have seen hoofprints in the soil at dawn. We never investigated.

But sometimes, at night, I feel the pull—the yearning to descend again, to find the Eye, to place the disc into the monolith and see what happens next. Part of me believes the labyrinth was never truly a structure, but a state of mind, one we unlocked and barely escaped. And that somewhere in the ancient dark, the Minotaur waits—not dead, not sleeping, but dreaming.

And dreams, as I’ve come to learn, do not fade. They fester.

It was nearly a year later when I received a letter.

It arrived without a return address, marked with a red wax seal depicting a horned head flanked by two concentric rings. Inside was a single line of ancient Greek—'Ὁ λαβύρινθος ζῇ'. The labyrinth lives.

At first, I dismissed it as a hoax. Perhaps a colleague’s idea of dark humour, referencing the articles I had published on Bronze Age symbology and religious rites—carefully edited pieces that concealed our true discoveries. But as I held the fragment to the lamplight, I saw something strange. There was writing beneath the writing—faint, as if inscribed with invisible ink that aged before my eyes. A single glyph emerged: the spiral eye.

I immediately contacted Professor Papadopolous, who had since taken a post in Thessaloniki, retreating from field work. He sounded disturbed to hear my voice, as if he had been expecting the call, yet dreading it.

That night I could not sleep. I dreamt again of the throne room—not as it was when we found it, but as it must have been three thousand years ago. Torches flared in niches carved into the walls. A chorus of hooded figures chanted in low tones, raising their arms to a great bronze idol at the far end—an upright bull-headed figure, wearing the fragment upon its chest like a medallion. A young man knelt before the throne, eagerness in his eyes, waiting to be crowned...or slaughtered. And on the throne sat not the Minotaur—but myself, eyes black as pitch.

I awoke in deep sweat.

I resolved to return. Not to the physical site—for the cave-in made that impossible—but to the land, to Crete itself. Something in me knew that the labyrinth was not entirely bound by stones and soil. If it still lived, it lived through us, and I had to confront it before it consumed me completely.

The village of Anogeia rested in seclusion, nestled amongst windswept slopes and timeworn terraces. It was a place that neither welcomed nor repelled visitors but seemed simply to exist beyond the reach of modern scrutiny. It was there that the trail ended, where tales pointed to an aged seer who spoke of matters long buried in soil and silence.

She was found seated upon a low stone at the edge of a goat path, her sightless eyes gazing into nothingness, her fingers ceaselessly spinning flax like the Moirai of old. Though blind since birth, her presence radiated a sharpness that defied affliction. She did not react when approached, yet her stillness conveyed a readiness. It was not a greeting. It was a reckoning.

The fragment had been brought, concealed in linen. The old woman recoiled—not in fear, but with the practised avoidance of one who recognises a cursed object without the need for explanation.

Her reaction confirmed what I had begun to suspect. The fragment was no mere artefact or medallion. It pulsed faintly in the palm, warm to the touch, as if alive. Its presence now felt like a key—one that did not unlock doors, but realities.

The seer remained silent, her head bowed, her flax forgotten. I left her without ceremony. No words had passed between us, yet understanding had. Her silence had spoken plainly: the labyrinth was not a place, but a condition. And it had taken root.

Two days later, the sea greeted me with its hollow roar. The ruins lay as we had left them—buried beneath stone and time. The cave entrance had long since collapsed, swallowed by the earth. But the cairn I had assembled above the fragement’s burial site had been disturbed. Not by weather, nor beast. The stones bore the marks of deliberate displacement.

Digging through the brittle soil, I unearthed not ancient fragments that were revealed, but a new item—a clay figurine shaped crudely in the form of the Minotaur. It was bull-headed, humanoid, and hollow-eyed. It stared upwards without expression, an accusation in terracotta.

The air shifted. A chill moved through the reeds though no wind blew. Turning from the cairn, I glimpsed a flicker on the hill—a solitary flame swaying in the dusk. I had not brought fire. Nor had I come with any company.

Drawn without resistance, my steps moved of their own accord. The terrain fell away. Shadows began to lengthen in unnatural arcs. The familiar landmarks of rock and brush dissolved into symbols—spirals in dust, winding paths that shifted behind the eye.

It was as though the labyrinth had never truly needed its former walls.

The earth darkened beneath my feet. The walls, intangible but present, rose in my periphery. The pressure of silence tightened around my gasping lungs. Breath no longer steamed. Sound warped.

The threshold had been crossed.

And this time, the labyrinth had come to me.

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