Thunderous crashes echoed outside the stables. In the arena, the spectators cheered, chanted and applauded for their preferred champion while Henry watched through the thin metal gates that separated him from the fighting beasts.

Clouds of smoke would block his sight of the spectacle. He could catch glimpses of arms as thick as logs, waiving war-hammers and sharp looking axes that would collide against steel armor, yet the battle would continue uninterrupted.

He looked down, suddenly aware of two pairs of hooves on the battlefield, one pair being dragged backwards, scratching the earth as the other kept a slow but steady push. Soon, a formidable figure covered in short, jet-black hair and wearing dented armor plates came out of the clouds of dirt. A thick neck led the way to the head of what looked like a cross between a bull and a yak. It was covered in muscle and over nine feet tall, from the base of its hooves to the tip of its thick, dreadful horns.

With every yard, the minotaur's hooves would sink further under the Coliseum's forum. Its opponent, a gray-haired minotaur covered from top to bottom in mud and blood, pushed mightily with its colossal arms, its nostrils flaring and panting from exhaustion.

On the bleachers, the spectators cried for blood, seeking the pleasure of witnessing the life fleeing from the beast's eyes. They had gone into the arena for a violent spectacle, and were not being served their due as of yet.

Across from the earsplitting roars, Henry watched everything from the entrance to the stables, holding the gate with both hands, trembling in excitement. He had taken a job cleaning the gladiator's headquarters, as he liked to call them, while continuing his warlock training, thing that had not turned any easier with the years. He still lacked the capabilities he should had mastered by then. Couldn't even charm a broom to make his job easier. Being self-taught, Henry moved at a snail's pace. He was young, and his path still unclear. There was still a long way to go.

Back in the arena, both Minotaurs had thrown away their weapons, opting for hand to hand combat. The gray haired one threw punches in all directions, flailing its colossal arms while the other would either block them or endure the hits without flinching.

They found themselves in a mortal embrace, both seeking to knock the other off its feet to deliver the final blow.

In the blink of an eye, the gray minotaur slumped its head and stabbed its opponent with his horns, both of which sprouted out the other side, covered in thick, red blood. The beast bellowed loud enough to silence the crowd. Henry could almost feel the gate rattling.

A mere second of unbroken silence was followed by a slow, increasing chant from the audience.

"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!" they echoed, pleading for the final blow.

Backing away, the horns withdrawing slowly from the beast's insides, leaving behind two holes the size of grapefruits, the minotaur got ready to stab once more. It dragged one hoof against the floor, bellowing before the strike.

The beast charged forwards furiously, horns first, victory at the reach of its hands.

Just a moment before impact, a thunderous punch connected in the space between its horns.

A chilling silence felt over the entire Coliseum. Nothing remained but the lingering echo of a skull cracking in two. Slowly, the black minotaur lifted one arm in the air and let it fall over its opponent like a hammer.

Henry could not take it any longer. He ran back to the stables, his stomach churning and the hairs on the back of his neck raised. The other minotaurs waited for their turn in the battlefield. They wore their armors and listened indifferently to the carnage outside.

Cold sweat ran down his forehead. Henry's breakfast raised back up his throat and splattered on the floor, the picture of splashing skull bits and brain matter permanently seared into his memory. The other minotaurs laughed at the young boy, bellowing and shaking their enormous heads.

By the time he was done, his legs felt as if they were build with wet mud. He sat with his head between his knees, feeling a phantom pain on top of it. His brain kept playing the scene over and over: The blood splashing everywhere and how suddenly the Coliseum had gone dead silent.

He came back to after hearing voices in the next room.

Curious but careful, Henry peeked his head through the threshold. He saw a group gathered around a table, having a heated discussion. Lying there, the black minotaur fought to breathe as fat drops of blood rained down onto the hay-covered ground.

"Can't the Nymphs do anything?" asked a straw-hat wearing, hunchback old man, his tone more annoyed than concerned.

"This is too grave for the Nymphs," another man exclaimed. "Maybe a Warlock could do something..."

"A warlock?" spat the old man. "Bah! Does it look like I can afford a warlock?"

The two argued for a few minutes. The other two men in the group just crossed their arms and snapped at the beast to keep quiet whenever it's moans of agony got slightly too loud. Eventually, they came to the conclusion that they would let nature run its course. They left, the old man demanding the sum of the prize money from the fight since, technically, his minotaur had won. None of them even batted an eye at Henry's direction.

With his heart racing in fear and the palms of his hands as cold as ice, he crossed the threshold but recurred to watch from a distance. It was when his shadow projected over the enormous minotaur, that this one turned to him, baring his yellow teeth in what looked like the most painful of smiles.

"You liked the show, boy?" asked the beast.

With his arms glued to his sides and not even muttering a word, Henry took a few careful steps in the minotaur's direction. He stopped merely a yard and a half away. From there he could see the wound in the monster's gut, still bleeding and caked with dirt. Commonly, most minotaurs would die in the arena, having been defeated by a stronger, more ferocious opponent. It was seldom that one would win a fight and still pass away. An honor, even. This minotaur would die undefeated, a title that not many gladiators possessed.

"I know you," said the minotaur. His voice was coarse and deep. "You're the kid who cleans the stables, aren't ya?"

The minotaur gazed at him, clearly waiting for a reply. After becoming aware of that, Henry nodded energetically enough for his answer to be apparent. Even in his current state, Henry didn't want to make it angry. He had worked with those beasts every day, yet he never stopped fearing them. In the wild, Minotaurs could be erratic and easily turned violent, impossible to calm down once startled.

"What's your name?" asked Henry, his voice no louder than a mutter.

Slowly, the minotaur moved its colossal head in the boy's direction. The muscles on his face contracted in pain with each inch moved.

"You know they don't name us, boy," replied the minotaur. "If you're asking for my warrior name, my brothers call me Hercules."

It was an appropriate warrior name for a beast of such strength. Most of them would get silly names like Base Bowl and Yeast. This one, on the other hand, had something somewhat respectable.

"You fought well, Hercules," exclaimed Henry, now standing slightly taller.

"Could had been better, by the looks of it," said the minotaur, touching the gaping wound hidden between the fur. He flinched slightly when his dirty nail touched the tender skin. "Took my eyes off him for one second and got this as a result. I shouldn't have done that."

Breathing deeply, Hercules took two fingers and cautiously stuck them in one of the holes. His hand came back bloody all the way up to the base of his thumb. Minotaurs had an enhanced resistance to pain in comparison to a human, so Henry could only imagine the agony it must be going through.

"You'll die undefeated, you should be proud of that," said the boy. Hercules only laughed.

"Yeah, sure, nothing more honorable than this," commented the beast. "Born and raised in this stable, spending my days on the hay between these walls. It is only appropriate that I die here as well."

Hercules nostrils were flaring. Henry felt his legs jiggle, unsure whether the faces the beast made were from pain or mere rage.

"Come closer, boy," Hercules spat out.

Henry was terrified, yet he moved a few inches closer to the beast. When this one asked him to approach even further, Henry did so as if he was in a trance. Every instinct told him to get as far away as possible, yet his limbs were not responding. He looked deep into a pair of gray eyes the size of river stones and walked until he was standing over the minotaur.

Hercules lifted his huge arm and placed his hand over Henry's thumping heart. Henry, who had not taken a single breath by that point, gasped out loud.

"Are you scared, boy?"

Henry could feel tears building up inside him. His heart was trying to flee via bursting out of his chest. His hands were clammy and shaking uncontrollably. He nodded slightly.

"Why?"

Henry swallowed hard, unable to control his tongue. "Because you're a monster"

"A monster, huh?" laughed Hercules. "Don't worry, boy. I cannot harm you, even without this wound."

A rush of relief and sheer curiosity filled him up immediately. Seeing this, Hercules retracted his hand and moved a bit of fur from his neck. There, a bald spot showed a bright circle with two half circles inside of it. It glowed different shades of orange, as if in a perpetual state of being seared into the skin with a hot iron.

"The Mark of Solomon prevents me from ever harming a human being," said Hercules. "Whenever a minotaur is born, a warlock comes and burns the mark on to us. This is the sign of our eternal servitude and obedience. The mark will glow and scold us constantly, threatening to burn a hole through our necks if we ever intent to harm a human. We physically cannot harm you. Or did you think that none of my brothers ever ripped you apart because there wouldn't be anyone else to scoop our shit?"

Henry slumped his shoulders. All that time working there, and no one ever bothered to tell him that teeny, little detail. The minotaur owners most likely found it amusing to see him cowered every time a minotaur sneezed.

"That's why you fight? Because the mark forces you to obey?" asked Henry.

"That's part of it," Hercules replied. "The other is because I like it."

Both of Henry's eyebrows lifted all the way to the ceiling.

"You like it?" he snapped, once again picturing the fight in his head. Once again, he felt sick to his stomach. Hercules did not seem a bit surprised by his reaction.

"I wouldn't expect you to get it, boy," said Hercules. "You don't know what it is. To know that there is a big world out there that you're never going to see. To have an urge that you will never satisfy. When you're born, they brand you and tell you that there is one sole purpose to your existence. You don't question it. You train and you train until you know that you will achieve that purpose, but all the while there is something nagging inside of you. Something feels wrong, out of place, missing. You can't know what it is because all you know are these walls. But then one day you're looking up at the sky and it clicks. It's there, you can't explain it, but you know it's there. You suddenly realize that all this time you've been lacking meaning. That the reason for your existence is elsewhere, but that place is somewhere you will never know," Hercules took a deep breath. To Henry, it sounded sorrowful.

"So in response, you start to dream, and only at night, you can have it. You grasp it, you cherish it. You see that there is purpose. But once you wake up you're still here in the darkness, and eventually, the dreams are not enough. So, when you're finally out in the arena, you fight because that way you can be free again at night. It becomes a drug. It grabs you and doesn't let go. And when that's not enough, you start to enjoy the fight. You start to find pleasure in the cheers of the audience and in the few minutes of sunlight washing over you. Then it starts to escalate. Suddenly you desire the pain that comes from it. You want to bleed. You want to make someone else bleed, knowing that it will never be enough, that it will never bring you satisfaction but that it is as good as it gets. But then, only for a few moments, you get a taste of what is out there. Just a little dip into the flavor of freedom, and for the first time, if only for an instant, you feel alive."

Henry was speechless. Hercules words lingered in the air. He turned back to see another group of minotaurs standing in the doorway, all quiet, their enormous snouts pointed to the ground. They slowly retreated back to their stables.

"The time is coming, boy,leather bound" said Hercules, his voice weak and trembling. "At least I can go with one last taste of freedom in me"

Henry balled his fists. His face had gone red with indignation, but his expression suddenly relaxed.

"What if it didn't have to be that way?" said he.

Hercules turned to him with puzzled eyes.

"Wait here," he said stupidly.

Henry dashed through the stables, crossing paths with the many minotaurs that rested on their pens. He didn't stop until reaching the other side of the stables, where his pack hung from a nail in the concrete wall. He took it and dumped the contents on the floor. There, among small jars, spare clothes and a skin filled with watleather-bound tome had fallen open. It was very old, its pages yellow and the scribbles almost too faint to read without proper lighting. Henry picked it up with both arms and flipped it open, scanning the contents, looking desperately for the spell he needed. He finally found it near the end, way ahead of where he had stopped reading the night before.

The Mark of Solomon it read in the header.

Henry made a rundown of the entire text, from the history of the mark, its usage and the story of the warlock who had developed it. He searched frantically for a counter spell but couldn't found any explicitly stated in the text. It could only mean one thing. He held the tome against his chest as he ran back to Hercules. The other minotaurs again turned to look at him, but he was out of sight in a flash.

He crossed the threshold and found the minotaur resting on the table where he had left it. Its eyes were closed. For a moment Henry panicked. He placed the book aside and was about to put his ear to Hercules' chest when the minotaur took a long, forceful breath of air.

A rush of relief washed over him.

"What's going on, boy?" asked Hercules, struggling to get the words out.

Henry lifted the tome and showed it to him.

"You're a warlock," said Hercules with daze.

"An apprentice," corrected Henry. The next few words were harder to say than he could had ever imagined. "I can't cure you."

Behind the struggle and pain, Henry could not help but notice a hint of disappointment dash through Hercules gray eyes.

"There's more," stuttered Henry. "You said that a warlock burns the mark onto you when you're born. This is a spell manual. It shows how to perform any kind of magic known to us," he paused, thinking of how he struggled with even the simplest of spells. "I cannot save you, Hercules, but if I perform a counter-spell, I could get the mark off you."

Hercules' half closed eyes shot open. "That would mean..."

"You could die a free minotaur," said Henry.

The minotaur looked at the rock ceiling for a few moments. The book was starting to feel heavy on Henry's arms.

"Can you even do that sort of magic?" asked Hercules.

Henry bit his lip. "I can try."

After a deep breath, the minotaur bared his yellow teeth again and emitted a wholehearted laugh.

"That's better than I've ever gotten," said Hercules. "You do this one kindness to this dumb beast, boy. Let me enjoy what freedom feels like for whatever time I have left in this world."

Feeling slightly more confident, Henry moved forward with his counter-spell. He made some sparks fly from the tip of his fingers as warm up. Hercules laughed at those, trying to snatch them before they disappeared in mid air. He hadn't stopped laughing, though this grew fainter with each passing second.

"I'm going to improvise a spell," said Henry, running the words through his head.

Break the chains that bound the beast

All tortured souls have paid their fee

The vow to man forever ceased

From here on after, at last, free

He chanted the words, his hands over the Mark of Solomon over Hercules' neck. Henry felt a tingle run through his arms, down the tip of his fingers. He withdrew them excitedly and moved the fur out of the way. The Mark of Solomon was still there, glowing different shades of orange.

"I just need more practice," said Henry.

He placed his hands over the spot and chanted the words once more, fighting to shut out everything outside. He needed to concentrate to make it work. Find the power within him.

Break the chains that bound the beast

All tortured souls have paid their fee

The vow to man forever ceased

From here on after, at last, free

The tingling was stronger this time. He felt it clearly. A rush of energy shooting out the tips of his fingers. He removed them and even saw a small cloud of smoke dissipate, but the mark stayed unchanged.

"One more try," Henry insisted.

"Boy..."

"Just one more, Hercules."

He repeated the words, his voice as clear and firm as he could make it. Henry flexed his muscles and cleared his mind. He thought of what he was. Who he was and what he had done with his freedom that he had been granted but Hercules and his brothers lacked. He thought of the famine in the outside world, the pain, the sorrow. He thought of people coming to the Coliseum to satisfy a blood-lust that could just as well be fulfilled in the streets, whenever humanity showed its ugliest side. He felt guilty over never having feel truly thankful for such blessings.

He lost count on how many times he tried. His breathing turned heavy, sweat ran down his forehead, mixing with tears of desperation. He placed his hands over it once again, unwilling to give up. It was only Hercules' bellows that stopped him.

"Boy," he mumbled faintly, unable to even open his eyes. "What's your name, boy?"

He shook, cleaning sweat off his face. Even at the face of failure, the use of magic took a toll on him. He was red faced and could barely keep standing up.

"Henry," he said, his voice trembling. "My name is Henry."

With tremendous effort, Hercules placed a hand over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Henry," he mumbled with his dying breath.

Hercules hand slipped off his shoulder and hung limp from the side of the table.

"No. Hercules, don't do this. Not yet!" exclaimed the boy.

Break the chains that bound the beast!

All tortured souls have paid their fee!

The vow to man forever ceased!

From here on after, at last, free!

He shouted the words over and over, the anger and pain so palpable in his voice until the moment he collapsed on his knees.

It took him a while to get back up. He lacked the will to do so. Henry felt the weight of failure over him, like a rock being loaded onto his back.

It was the unmistakable sound of sizzling meat, and loud bellows from the minotaurs that caught his attention.

With the last bits of his strength, Henry crawled on all fours towards the entrance. There, he saw the minotaurs flinching in pain, placing their hands over their necks. The stables were home to over four dozen minotaurs, all of which, for what Henry could see, had gathered near Hercules deathbed.

At last, with considerable struggle to see in the darkness of the stables, he saw what was happening. One minotaur, a big, brown one with thick horns and a nose ring, lifted the fur off his neck to reveal the bald spot where the Mark of Solomon was placed. At a distance, Henry saw the mark slowly fading away, leaving only thin strings of smoke that vanished in the darkness.

Increasingly he spotted more minotaurs revealing the vanishing Mark of Solomon. Henry could not move or speak throughout. Then, when one minotaur pointed at him, Henry felt his fear rise up his throat.

He tried to back away, but the minotaurs soon flooded the room. He was sitting on the floor, leaning back, using his hands for support. The minotaur facing him glared at Hercules' body, then back at Henry. It was the same brown one he had seen first, the one with the thick horns and nose ring. It approached Henry, who was rattling his brain for that fire spewing spell he had read about one late night, although even if he managed to remember the words, he doubted he had the energy left in him to conjure it.

The minotaur looked right at him, nostrils flaring and casting a shadow over poor Henry. It leaned down and grabbed him by the arms. Henry had to suppress a squeal. The minotaur lifted him off the ground and, unexpectedly flung him over his shoulder, placing the boy carefully on his back.

"Grab on to the horns," it said.

Without being told twice, Henry wrapped his arms around the minotaur's horns.

They turned around. All the other minotaurs had theirs backs to them already. They exited the room and started charging forward in direction to the gate that lead into the arena.

They rapidly gained momentum. The minotaurs ran into each other as they charged, but none felt back or tumbled. Henry stretched his neck and saw the closed steel gate. They were going to crash right into it.

BAMMM!

The gate flew right off its hinges, unable to withstand the force of a thousand beasts. The minotaurs flooded the arena. Two of them, the ones that had been already battling, were swinging their war-hammers at the human guards and flinging pieces of their armor at the horrified crowd.

They charged for the northern gate, while more guards, hundreds of them, entered through the eastern one. They carried heavy shields and launched arrows at the minotaurs whenever they weren't trying to corner them with long spears.

Henry could only see pandemonium. Arrows flew over his head while he tried with all his might to hang onto the minotaur's horns. War cries and bellows made his ears ring, yet he struggled to stay awake in all the chaos.

Then, suddenly, he felt one more crash. They were engulfed in darkness again, but even with a fuzzy eyesight, Henry saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

The minotaurs had fleet the Coliseum and were now on a rampage across the city's streets. They charged in a pack as the multitude jumped out of their way just moments before being trampled to death.

Soon the rocky streets and houses gave way to crop fields, and eventually to open grasslands.

They ran from miles on end, but not one minotaur slowed down. Engulfed in awe, they ran and ran through the fields, through the world that they dreamed of.

Henry turned back to see the Coliseum way back in the distance. He thought of Hercules, his body laid on that table in the stable he so much dreaded.

Henry hoped he had found freedom in another life. He really, so dearly, hoped so.