Chapter Six: The Awakening

Before the labyrinth, before the monsters, and long before the name Typhon became something to fear, Asher had always known there was something different about him. His powers had never been loud or overt—they hadn't made themselves known through lightning strikes or booming voices. No, it was quieter than that. Subtle. But undeniable.

He was eight years old the first time it happened. It was a hot summer day, and he was sitting in the small patch of woods near his home, pretending he was an explorer in some distant jungle. He loved the feeling of being alone in nature, surrounded by trees, the only sounds being the rustling leaves and chirping birds. That day, though, something strange had happened.

Asher had been climbing a tree, higher and higher, trying to reach the top to see over the horizon. He was halfway up when his foot slipped. He remembered the sickening feeling of falling, the world rushing past him in a blur of green and brown. But then, just as suddenly, everything stopped. He hadn't hit the ground. Instead, he found himself floating just above it, as if an invisible hand had caught him in midair.

He hovered there for a moment, suspended in disbelief, before gently being lowered back onto his feet. It wasn't a dream. It couldn't have been. His heart was racing, and his hands were shaking. He had felt it—the energy, the strange, almost magnetic pull that seemed to respond to his thoughts, to his fear.

That was the first time.

After that, the small things started adding up. Objects would move when he wasn't touching them, just a few inches at a time, but enough to notice. If he concentrated hard enough, he could sometimes make things come to him—a stick, a ball, once even a glass of water. But the most curious thing was how no one seemed to notice. His mother, his teachers, his friends—no one ever seemed to see the strange occurrences around him, or if they did, they shrugged it off as accidents or imagination.

At first, Asher tried to ignore it, convincing himself it was just his imagination running wild. But the more it happened, the more he realized it wasn't something he could control—at least not entirely. Sometimes, when he was really scared or angry, the energy would surge out of him, and things would happen without him meaning to. Once, during a particularly bad argument with a classmate, the windows in the classroom rattled violently, though no one could explain why. He knew it was him. Deep down, he could feel it.

The turning point came when he was twelve. He was home alone one evening, sitting in the living room reading a book, when a sudden gust of wind blew through the open window. The wind knocked over a vase on the table, and it tumbled toward the floor, ready to shatter. Without thinking, Asher reached out—not with his hand, but with his mind. The vase stopped in midair, just inches from the ground, and then gently floated back to the table. He stood there for a long time, staring at the vase, feeling the tingling sensation in his fingertips slowly fade.

That was the moment he realized he was different. Really different.

But it wasn't until his mother found him one night, practicing his abilities in the backyard, that the truth came out. She had watched him for a while before finally stepping forward, her face pale but resolute. "Asher," she had said softly, "there's something I need to tell you."

It turned out that his powers weren't an accident. His mother had known, at least partially, that something like this could happen. She hadn't told him before because she had hoped he would live a normal life, that the legacy of his father wouldn't catch up to him.

"What do you mean?" he had asked, his voice shaky with both fear and excitement.

"Your father wasn't… like other men," she had explained, sitting down beside him. "He was powerful, Asher. Ancient. His blood runs through your veins, and with it, so does his power."

That was the day Asher learned his father wasn't human. He was something far older and far more dangerous. His mother had tried to protect him from that truth, but now that his powers had begun to awaken, there was no hiding from it anymore.

"You're special, Asher," his mother had said, her voice filled with both pride and sadness. "But you have to be careful. There are forces in this world that will come looking for you. They'll want to use you. Or worse, they'll want to destroy you."

From that moment on, Asher began to hone his abilities in secret. His mother taught him what little she knew, mostly from stories his father had shared long ago. But much of what Asher could do, he had to figure out on his own. He learned to control his emotions, knowing that fear and anger could trigger his powers unpredictably. He learned to focus, to channel his energy into deliberate actions rather than letting it flare up uncontrollably.

But even with all of his training, Asher always felt like there was more. Like his powers were only the tip of the iceberg. And as he grew older, he began to wonder just how deep the mystery of his abilities went—and what price he might have to pay to find out.

Now, standing in the labyrinth, face-to-face with Typhon's minions, Asher felt that familiar tingling sensation in his chest, stronger than ever before. The pendant around his neck pulsed with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat, as if calling to something deep inside him, something that had been waiting to be unleashed for years.

The difference now, though, was that Asher no longer feared it. He embraced it. He was ready.

Asher's mind drifted to his mother, her voice still echoing in his thoughts like a distant melody. She had always been the steady anchor in his life, the one who guided him through the storm of uncertainty after his father's disappearance. Though she had kept secrets from him, he understood now that it was out of love, to

protect him from a world he wasn't yet ready to face.

Her face, soft but resilient, came to him clearly in his memories. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were always so full of warmth and wisdom, framed by her long, jet-black hair that she often tied up in a loose braid. She was proud of her heritage, always reminding Asher of the strength that flowed through their blood, a blend of histories that made him who he was.

Asher's mother was born in the rolling hills of northern Mexico, a place steeped in tradition and legends. She often shared stories from her childhood, tales of her abuela, who spoke of ancient spirits and the power of the land. His abuela had been a healer, known in their village as someone who could ease pain with a touch and soothe broken hearts with her words. Asher's mother would tell him these stories as she cooked meals rich with the flavors of her homeland—spicy stews, tamales wrapped in banana leaves, and fresh tortillas that filled their small kitchen with the scent of home.

The small altar she kept in their house, adorned with candles, marigold flowers, and photos of their ancestors, was a constant reminder of their connection to something larger than themselves. Asher would sit beside her as she lit candles, offering silent prayers to those who had come before them. His mother never said it outright, but he could feel it in the way she held her faith—there was an unspoken reverence for the mysteries of the universe, the things that couldn't be explained but were deeply felt.

Her heritage was a wellspring of resilience, a foundation that kept Asher grounded in the face of the unknown. She taught him the value of community, of holding onto tradition even when the world seemed intent on pulling you in a different direction. And though she never had the same powers he did, she believed in him, in what he could do, with a quiet certainty that gave him strength when he doubted himself.

He could still remember the last conversation they had before she grew sick. They had sat on the porch of their modest home, the evening sun casting long shadows across the dusty yard.

"Asher," she had said, her voice soft but firm, "never forget where you come from. Your power doesn't make you special. Your heart does." She had placed her hand on his chest, right above his heart. "This… this is what will guide you when things get dark. Your strength is not just from your father. It's from here too. From your people, from your roots."

Asher had nodded, though he hadn't fully understood at the time. Now, standing in the labyrinth, with the weight of everything his mother had taught him pressing against his chest, he realized how much her words mattered. His powers might have come from his father, but his heart, his sense of right and wrong, came from his mother. And it was her teachings that would help him navigate the dangers ahead.

The memory of her smile, warm and reassuring, filled him with a deep, quiet resolve. Even though she was gone, she was still with him. In every decision he made, in every step he took, her spirit walked beside him.

And for the first time in a long time, Asher felt ready. Ready to embrace the legacy he had inherited, both from his father and from the fierce, loving woman who had raised him.

But just as that sense of calm settled over him, the faint hum from the pendant pulsed again—this time sharper, more urgent. He froze, instincts sharpening as he realized something was wrong.

The labyrinth wasn't silent anymore.

Something was coming.

Asher's heart pounded as the pulse from the pendant intensified, vibrating against his chest like a warning. He glanced at Artemis, whose keen eyes scanned their surroundings with growing tension. The labyrinth, which had felt eerily still moments before, now seemed alive—alive and watching.

"Something's wrong," Artemis whispered, gripping her bow. "We need to move. Now."

But before Asher could respond, the ground beneath them trembled. A deep, guttural growl echoed through the stone corridors, followed by a sound that made his blood run cold—a voice, soft and familiar, calling out from the shadows.

"Asher…"

He froze, his body going rigid as the voice wrapped around him like a shroud. It couldn't be.

"Asher, mijo…"

It was his mother's voice.

His breath caught in his throat as he turned toward the direction of the sound. Artemis grabbed his arm. "It's a trick, Asher. Don't listen!"

But the voice… it was unmistakable. Gentle, warm, and filled with the same tenderness he remembered from his childhood. It called to him again, clearer now, as if the source was just around the corner.

"Asher, I'm here."

His pulse quickened. He knew it was impossible—his mother was gone, buried months ago. Yet every instinct in his body screamed at him to run toward her, to follow that familiar, loving voice.

"Asher!" Artemis hissed, shaking him. "It's not real. Typhon is playing with your mind!"

But the pull was too strong. Ignoring Artemis's warning, Asher stepped forward, heart pounding in his ears as he moved toward the voice, his mother's voice, echoing from the shadows.

And then, just as he reached the edge of the corridor, something stepped out of the darkness.

His mother.

She stood before him, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the pendant, her warm, familiar smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She looked exactly as he remembered—her dark hair falling gently around her shoulders, her eyes soft with love.

"Asher," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "You've found me."

Asher's heart leaped into his throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as he stared at the woman before him. "Mom…?"

But before he could take another step toward her, her smile twisted into something darker, something cold. Her eyes, once full of warmth, turned black, like deep, endless voids. Her skin began to crack, and her voice, now distorted and menacing, hissed:

"You belong to Typhon now."

Asher stumbled back, horror washing over him as the thing wearing his mother's face lunged toward him, its eyes burning with malevolent intent.

And in that moment, as the shadows closed in around them, Asher realized the truth.

Typhon didn't just want to break him.

He wanted to make Asher destroy himself.