There were many reasons why minotaurs were rarely seen outside of the Spiral Isle, which unlike the witches' many forests had remained the same plot of ancient homeland for thousands of years.

The biggest reason was that everywhere else was just rather disappointing.

There was little reason to subject themselves to the world outside. The Spiral Isle was beautiful to mathematical precision. A sandy paradise inviting tropical weather, fresh coconuts and sparkling oceans year-round. And with the number of boats constantly docking at the beleaguered main harbour to offload a new gaggle of tourists, actually leaving for any native was an issue.

Because of this, it wasn't unusual to see the few minotaurs that explored the wider world do so with an abundance of caution.

Famously averse to the cold, minotaurs weren't only easily distinguishable by their powerful horns, their array of deadly weaponry and their muscled frames, but also the many layers of woolly hats and scarves they wore to ward off the chill.

Here in a newly revealed clearing dominated by a very small pond reflecting the leaves above, the minotaur who was in front of me had gone one step further.

He was currently wearing several archwitches. Which probably would have been gruesome, if not for the fact that said witches were in the middle of cackling hysterically.

“Ahhahahahhahahaha!”

“Faster! I say, faster! You call this speed?! My elbows pop out faster when I'm ironing!”

“The takings are mine, fellow wenches! You'll rue the day you betted against the Archwitch Madiva!”

Beneath the archwitches, the minotaur's face glowed red with indignation and obvious embarrassment. A huff of steam exited his nostrils, but he was no closer to tossing away the bundle of wrinkled ladies clinging to his back than he did the thick puffer jacket he wore.

“Madames. Madames. Please. As I've repeatedly stated, this is highly inappropriate. Should an accident occur as a result of—”

“Faaaaaaaster!!!!”

“Madames, please. I do not wish to risk harm on any of you. But I must insist. If you continue to clasp to my back against my personal wishes, I will be compelled to attempt to free myself.”

“Do it! Free yourself from our mighty embrace!”

“Hah! The horned knight thinks he can wrestle away our clutches! You underestimate us, sir! These fingers were made for squeezing!”

“Squeeze! Grip! Claw! Do not falter now, my sisters! Victory is within reach!”

As cackling filled the air, Marissa crept up beside me, her face impassive as she slowly took in the sight of her esteemed peers riding a minotaur as if they were children playing on the swings.

“Hmm.”

And with that note, she turned around and began walking away.

I reached out and held her arm.

“I'm sorry,” I said, offering as much pity on my face as I could. “But you're part of this now. You need to stay here until the end.”

“I apologise for taking you away from your duties,” she replied solemnly. “On behalf of all witches who have not passed the madness barometer required to become an archwitch, I sincerely, utterly apologise.”

“Oh, there's no need to apologise,” I said, more than happy I didn't need to use my sword as anything other than a hedge cutter today. I returned it to its place at my back, the dim light fading along with the sudden weight. “It appears the archwitches are safe and sound.”

“Safe, yes.”

Marissa watched glumly as the minotaur proceeded to pirouette magnificently on the spot, causing the archwitches to dangle impossibly like a cloak fluttering in the breeze.

Sparkles of colour at their fingertips gave away the fact that they were not only blatantly cheating to stay tethered, but felt no shame about it either.

At long last, the minotaur appeared to reach the end of his rope.

With a stamp of his hooves, he crouched until his knees almost reached the ground, then performed a leap not unlike a trout escaping from a poxed piranha.

The archwitches, caught unprepared by the sheer force inflicted against gravity, were hurled from the minotaur's back, lithe frames flinging over the nearest wall of yews. For a moment, I heard the echoes of rabid laughter and amusement, only for the sound to be suddenly extinguished like a spent flame.

The archwitches had been sent, not too gently, into the labyrinth, and now no amount of magic or wiles could see them escape.

The minotaur straightened his back as he turned to us. His dark eyes and black horn stood in contrast to his colourful woollen hat and scarf, but matched perfectly with his great battleaxe, its obsidian head gleaming beside the edge of the still pond.

Without a word, he strode over and effortlessly picked up his battleaxe with one hand.

Stabbing the shaft into the earth, he assumed a regal poise with his head held high and his eyes blazing with a noble purpose.

I had a feeling we weren't going to talk about the archwitches-tossed-into-the-maze thing.

But that's okay. They were fine, anyway.

I think.

“Strangers,” he said, his voice deep and challenging. “I am Sir Arthur Tranlingway, Knight of the Order of Fortitude. By the Minotaur's Code, I am charged with judging all those who would exit the labyrinth for their worthiness. Tell me of the trials you have passed. And be warned, for while still in the labyrinth, no guile or deceit can cloud my eye.”

Beside me, Marissa looked at the massive battleaxe signposted into the ground, then at the conglomeration of muscle and woollen hats ready to swing it in defence of honour.

She poked me.

“I defer to your greater social skills,” she said simply.

I smiled.

“Sir Arthur Tranlingway,” I said, curtseying as was appropriate. Because politeness was good and thus always appropriate. “I'm Elise Rowe, anointed heroine for the Duchy of Witschblume. As per article 5a, subsection 1 of the revised Queensholme Accords, I have dismantled a section of your labyrinth in response to immediate public health risks posed to the residents of the New Bewitching Woods. I ask that you disassemble the remainder of the labyrinth so that the witches within can be allowed the return of their livelihoods.”

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The minotaur knight smiled. The grip on his obsidian battleaxe visibly relaxed.

“The Minotaur Code recognises the supremacy of the Queensholme Accords as cited by an anointed heroine. Under the agreements signed by my forbearers, I'm obligated to undo the labyrinth and release all those still yet to complete the path.”

A tremor was all the warning that we received.

It was as though mortar was being swept clean from between stone. Except instead of everything crashing down like toy blocks kicked by a child, everything instead melted away like a snowman greeting the first day of spring.

The yew trees, the vines and the thick shrubs collapsed in on themselves, a deep rumbling echoing in the distance as the gears of Sir Arthur's labyrinth ground to a halt.

Then, light shone.

An evening haze poured blissfully through the newly revealed cracks in the forest canopy, covering us in a warm glare.

The pond, the only thing that was both real and untouched, remained where it was. It shone with mesmerising brilliance as a golden leaf fluttered down to disturb its surface.

A heartbeat later, and nothing remained of the power older than magic.

The labyrinth had left as gracefully as it had likely come, leaving only an audible chorus of groans in the distance as hundreds of witches realised their paid holiday had just been cut short.

“My congratulations,” said Sir Arthur, displaying his dazzling white teeth. “You've reached the end of this trial. Thankfully. And though it was not by traditional means, I will not fault you for your expediency in reaching here. It was a dreadful experience, all around … I sincerely apologise for the inconvenience the witches must have suffered.”

He dipped his head respectfully towards Marissa, who in turn decided to step up now that the threat of having a sharp axe pointed at her had passed.

“Thank you, Sir Arthur. Although I can't speak on behalf of the archwitches, I can already see the telltale signs that my eldest peers may share some of the responsibility in this episode.”

Sir Arthur nodded grimly.

“That, I believe, is a fair assessment. Your name, if I may?”

“Marissa Haycroix.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Haycroix, Miss Rowe. Were these the halls of my order, I would offer you the courtesy you deserve. Sadly, I'm a wayfarer at present, and all I have is my embarrassment and my apologies.”

“You've no need to provide either,” said Marissa. “Although for formality’s sake, I should really ask how a wayfaring knight from the Spiral Isle came to erect a labyrinth in our home.”

“I was compelled. The archwitches who received me referenced ancient law demanding that none may enter a witchly wood without due toll. Theirs was to witness a labyrinth being constructed, and that their younger sisters be permitted to experience the result.”

Marissa looked like a witch who desperately didn't want to ask any more questions, and yet also had no choice about it.

Someone needed to make a record of this debacle, after all. And that definitely wasn't one of my jobs.

“Why did they want that?” she asked, already wincing.

“For training purposes, I was told, although I suspect their own amusement was also a factor.”

Marissa grimaced. For someone who wore her business face well, it spoke heavily about her thoughts regarding her superiors.

“You've been monumentally patient, Sir Arthur. Have you been subject to the archwitches' full whims while you waited for someone to exit the labyrinth?”

“I am a knight sworn in service to Fortitude. This was taxing, but not beyond the expectations of those in my order. That aside, they did not spend the entire time treating me as one would a mule. I’d sought them out to answer pressing questions relating to a matter of imminent doom.”

Marissa blinked, opened her mouth, closed it again, then looked at me instead.

Yes.

This one was definitely one of mine.

“Imminent doom?” I queried, consciously aware that Duchess Cadence had used the same phrase when summoning me in her letter.

A huff of steam exited Sir Arthur's nostrils. This typically could mean any number of things, but in this case, I think it was a sigh.

“I was undertaking a quest. The Grand Chaplain of my order charged me with confronting the Next Great Evil waking in this land.”

I paused as the statement required.

“Oh,” I said, now in thinking mode. “What Next Great Evil?”

“I don't know. He spoke of visions and prophecy. Of a future written in scripture and the stars. Of fields of smoke and steel, and those that rise from within it.”

“What was used as the medium to the prophecy?”

“A burnished silver mirror inlaid with the jewels of a lost crown.”

Hmm.

Burnished silver. A modest grade. And without a name behind it, a lost crown lacked the weight to accurately predict tomorrow's weather. A bit shaky as far as prophecies went, but still worth investigating.

“Is the reason why only one knight’s been dispatched to Ouzelia due to the other knights of your order being sent to confront other waking Next Great Evils?”

Sir Arthur dipped his head.

“That is correct. The rest of my order is scouring the other corners of the known world as we speak.”

I felt a sliver of worry brush against me like the newly returned breeze.

Prophecies were inaccurate, but they were rarely entirely wrong. And if the common thread among them was that a Next Great Evil was waking, then that meant somewhere, a hero or heroine was about to become full-time.

“The archwitches were helpful in this regard,” said Sir Arthur, glancing at Marissa as if to heal her mortally wounded image of them. “They allowed me to peer into the bewitched basin. Through it, I was able to continue my mission and expand upon the prophecy.”

Marissa and I shared similar looks of being stunned.

The bewitched basin, otherwise known as the pond beside us, was a powerful artifact with limited uses before it physically dried up. If Sir Arthur had received permission to use it for a prophecy not strictly related to the witches, it must have meant the archwitches liked him a lot.

“The vision I received was puzzling,” said Sir Arthur, turning to me once again. “But I believe I can infer enough from it to know from which location the Next Great Evil will awake.”

“What did you see?” I asked, rather wishing I had my quill and pad with me right now.

“A pot of coffee. And eggs on toast.”

Sir Arthur blinked at the set of blank stares he received.

“I believe the eggs were poached,” he added helpfully. “This suggests to me that the Next Great Evil is waking in Lissoine, or perhaps the Summer Kingdoms. Both regions are widely known for their coffee trade, as well as their poultry. I shall send a message immediately. In fact, would you be available for hire, Miss Haycroix? Or do I need to deposit my letter in a postbox?”

Marissa gave a small shake of her head.

“I would advise against that for urgent deliveries. The postal service is in a highly disrupted state at present. But while I'm afraid I’m currently overbooked, there are many witches nearby who may be able to deliver letters at short notice. I suggest making inquiries before the snooker tournament finishes.”

“Very well. I'll do just that.” Sir Arthur smiled, his calm demeanour never shaking even as mine did. “Miss Rowe, are you well? You've suddenly and dramatically become quite still. I take it I inadvertently spoke a revelation?”

I took in a deep breath, then returned his smile.

Whatever the situation, whatever the time, there was no potential scenario of imminent doom which couldn't be at least moderated by deep breathing or smiling.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But as long as they don't come in monologue form by someone lounging in a chair while swishing wine, then that means there's still time.”

“Time for what, Miss Rowe?”

“To delay the word 'imminent'.”

Sir Arthur looked thoughtfully at me. He further relaxed his poise, then smiled in a way that good-hearted people usually did before they dived into giving advice.

Whatever he was about to say, however, was held back by the arrival of new guests.

Because alongside the golden leaves of the archwitches’ domain, those of another colour now began to sprinkle their way down through the forest ceiling, joining the bed of foliage around us.

In hindsight, I should have known that something was about to happen.

Next Great Evils never did spring out of the ground like wood mice searching for snacks. They weren't opportunists, but storytellers. And they liked their entrances.

So why not announce it with a shower of blue confetti?