Epilogue Part One

You know how my story ends. It’s the only thing history, or rather mythology, writes about me. I was killed in my labyrinth by the ‘hero,’ and I will use that term loosely, Theseus, sixteen years after the first festival was held. I scoffed as I sat here in the darkness of the afterlife. “So this is what the Fates had planned for me? I would live to the age of thirty-two and die because the people of Athens sent a ringer to kill me and stop the octennial festival.

I can’t blame them, of course. Who in their right mind would want to send fourteen of your noble youths to their deaths because some King was pissed about their son dying. So I don’t blame them for sending Theseus. He was not a noble. He also wasn’t a youth. The prick was my age and not even from Athens. But whatever. They managed to slip him into the group of tributes.