Page 1 of The Survivors (The Children of the Sun God #4)

Pasiphae

3100 B.C.

Born of myth and flesh, his life began not with a cry to the heavens but with the silent bond of mother, child, and the gentle strength of a white bull.

Somewhere deep inside a cave outside of Crete, beside a very pregnant woman in a toga, lies a magnificent white bull. Its coat gleams like freshly fallen snow. Every inch of its powerful form is smooth and unmarred except for faint scars etched along its sides, telling of past battles. The bull’s eyes, wide and intelligent, shine with an otherworldly wisdom. The soft rise and fall of its breath seems oddly calm amidst the chaos of labor.

Between contractions, the woman reaches out with trembling hands. Her fingers brushing against the bull’s side as if seeking comfort from the massive creature. The softness of her touch contrasts with the strength it exudes, and the intimacy of the gesture strikes as unnatural yet strangely tender. The bull’s head lowers, almost protectively. Its large horns cast shadows over the woman’s laboring form. It watches her silently but fully present as though tethered to her in ways beyond the physical.

The young woman herself, though weary with pain, radiates the kind of beauty that only those touched by a divine lineage could possess. Her belly, round and heavy with child, stretches taut under the pale linen gown. And every labored breath accentuates her radiant glow. Her sun-kissed skin glistens with sweat, and her long, dark hair clings to her damp forehead, framing her strong, regal features. Even in agony, she holds grace. The kind that may come from a royal bloodline, and yet the bond she shares with the bull appears deeper than mere protection, almost as if the beast holds a piece of her very soul.

The air is heavy with the scent of sweat. The woman tightens her grip on the bull’s flank. Another scream tears from her throat. Her back arches, and her body trembles from the strain. Yet, despite the pain, her eyes remain locked on the white bull beside her, as if drawing strength from its presence.

With one final push, a gasp of release fills the room, followed by the piercing cry of new life. The air shifts; the tension replaced by a momentary stillness. The newborn’s wails fill the space .

A midwife appears almost from thin air and hurries to catch the male child slick with birth. His skin shimmers faintly. Dark curls already crown his small head, and his eyes, though barely open, seem too knowing for a child newly born.

Heaving with exhaustion, the mother releases a deep, shaky breath. She reaches out. The midwife gently places the baby in her trembling hands, and the new mother cradles him. She gazes upon the tiny life she has brought into the world. Her eyes and face soften.

The bull shifts beside her. Its massive head lowering to brush the newborn with its nose—an oddly tender gesture for such an enormous beast. The bull’s touch quiets the child almost instantly, as though some ancient bond had already formed between them. The connection between the mother, child, and beast is undeniable.

The woman whispers to her son. Her voice filled with reverence and awe. “Asterius,” she breathes, naming him softly, as if the name itself carried the burden of the world. “Grandson of Helios—half-man, half-bull.”

The white bull lets out a low, rumbling sound in approval. Its eyes gleaming with the same unearthly light that now flickers in the newborn’s. For a moment, everything looks suspended in time—the divine, the mortal, and the myth converging in this singular moment of life’s beginning.