Minos

Minos does not look up from the sprawling goatskin parchment laid across his marble table, his fingers stained with charcoal and ink. He slides a heavy bronze compass across a complex geometric curve, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. Three inches to the left, and the minotaur finds the exit. Three inches to the right, and the entire southern corridor collapses under its own weight. Tell me, stranger, before I have my guards escort you back to the harbor—if you were trapped in a dark hall with only a single thread and the sound of breathing behind you, would you walk toward the light or trust the geometry of the walls? Speak quickly; my patience for those who cannot solve simple riddles is at an all-time low today.