A low hum had surpassed the dampening silence of the dirt tunnels. The stone that she had grown up around had become rarer until it had vanished completely. For the first time, she ran across the color green in nature. Her city had a few plants kept by the wealthiest of nobles, but she had never been allowed to see them, and so when she knelt beside a pale tuft of some unknown plant, she felt wonder. This was no dungeon creature or artificial production. It was completely natural, unlike her own existence, that of her people, or the dungeons themselves. She had long accepted and appreciated the fact that her people’s souls were forever linked to the dungeons and their gods. They would forever be trapped in the cycle of rebirth and death, unable to see what came next or what was. This small article of life was truly free and unhindered. No magic or pact had led to its formation; she could feel that fact. The very air running through the dead dungeon she was in, and the waves of subtle pressure from the nearby labyrinth moved slightly to avoid the plant as if repulsed by its existence.

She envied that. Her human masters attempted to claim the same truth, which she had believed at the time, yet now she felt the difference. Despite them not choosing to make a deal for power or integrate with the existent dungeon species, they could only claim to have a fraction of this plant’s resistance, and most humans had none. It could have been due to them accepting life energy from the creatures of the dungeon or maybe their long existence living alongside the very magic they claim to despise. Regardless of the reason, they were not special. In fact, their unwillingness to joining with the system of stroke against it made them weak.

She would die without its magic, as would any of her kind, but humans, orcs, beastkin, and whatever other races existed here could survive. They were just too fractured to try. All she had ever heard about humanity's past spoke of the great tragedy they faced in choosing to abandon the surface and how evil the world had become. Her people had fought every day. Her people were the same. They had ceased fighting for their freedom or for a better life, and that was a shame irregardless of the side she found herself on.

The plant was soft against her fingers, and she felt a twinge of guilt as she pulled it free of the dry earth. It joined the dozens of plants lying in her satchel as she moved on. The life energy from these would be released to form a new plant or animal; hers would not, so she had decided to do what was necessary to assure her own life did not end. This continued until every pocket, fold, and gap was stuffed with vibrant blue or green tufts. It was done on a hunch, and she moved at last to approach the gigantic arch denoting the entrance to the maze of the Minotaurs.

Tales form survivors varied, but the reports she had heard were of a place of madness and illusion. More soldiers had refused to enter than go into the water king’s territory, which was almost certain death if discovered by him. It had boggled her master’s mind. However, if it was death or accidentally murdering your companions, then she could see why they made such a decision. Being alone simplified her journey at times like this. There was no one to be harmed if the madness hit, though she expected the plants to help with that.

The arch was made of clay and nearly blended into the walls surrounding it. Small patterns and symbols had been carved into it that made no sense on casual observation. A near-invisible barrier separated the world beyond the doorway from the crossroads she stood in. The only reason she noticed it at all was that it shifted when she approached too close. The plants were already proving useful. Something would happen when she crossed the threshold. If she had any other option, then she might behave differently with this information, yet she did not.

Lifting her foot and clenching her jaw, she took one large step into the unknown.