Mud and Chains

The mud was cold against Indicus’ skin. He had long since grown used to the feeling—how the grime caked around his legs, hardened on his chest, and crusted in the deep lines of his scarred back. The mud was a constant, as ever-present as the gnawing hunger in his belly and the weight of the chains around his wrists.

He was a Dalshaw. It was what he knew. It was what he had always known.

Indicus crouched in the muck, his knees sinking into the filth as he watched the horizon. The sun—one of seven that ruled the skies of Pentague—hung low, casting a dull amber glow over the rocky outcrop that marked the edge of their prison. His breath fogged the air as he scanned the dimly lit world.

But today was different.

Something deep inside him had shifted, something beyond anger. It was the culmination of years of watching his people wither beneath the cruelty of the Bellwethers, years of submitting, bowing, enduring. He was not alone in his pain, but he was alone in his choice. Today, he would no longer bow.

A cry cut through the air—sharp, high-pitched. Indicus turned to see a Bellwether dragging a child by her wrist, the small blue-skinned girl kicking helplessly in the mud. The sight of it twisted something in his chest. This was not an unusual sight—children were taken every day, their futures a mystery. But today, Indicus was no longer content to watch.

The Bellwether, with its small, grotesque form, stood smugly before the girl’s mother, who sat motionless in the filth, tears streaking her face. The Dalshaw had learned long ago that resistance only brought more suffering.

But not today.

Indicus stood, the chains around his wrists clattering loudly. His massive form loomed over the other Dalshaw, casting a long shadow in the dying light. The Bellwether, noticing his movement, sneered.

"You dare?" it hissed, its grey, skeletal face twisting with mockery. "What makes today any different, Dalshaw?"

Indicus’ voice was low, a rumble like distant thunder. "Take me instead."

The Bellwether paused, its cold, dead eyes narrowing. "You? What value could your miserable life hold? A brute with no purpose but to crawl and suffer."

"I will take her place," Indicus growled. "But I will not crawl."

The Bellwether’s twisted grin spread wide, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. "You will crawl. And when I’m finished with you, you will beg to be back in the mud."

Indicus took a step forward, his towering body casting a dark shadow over the Bellwether. The other Dalshaw watched from the corners of their eyes, too afraid to move, but too compelled by the sight of their fellow’s defiance to look away.

With a flick of its hand, the Bellwether motioned for Indicus to follow it up the stone steps toward the Haunt. Indicus obeyed, his chains dragging through the mud as he climbed the stairs toward the wooden platform.

The Rebellion

The Haunt stood tall against the mountain’s rocky outcrop, a skeletal hand reaching out over the land, where the Bellwethers paraded their captives for the Dalshaw to see. It was a symbol of dominance, a reminder that no Dalshaw could stand against the might of their overlords.

As Indicus reached the top of the platform, he felt the familiar weight of the chains around his wrists, the familiar strain in his muscles from years of hard labor. But today, the weight was lighter. His muscles were stronger. He had made a choice, and that choice gave him power.

The Bellwether turned to face him, its eyes gleaming with amusement. "Kneel," it commanded, its voice sharp and shrill.

Indicus didn’t move.

"I said kneel!" the Bellwether screeched, stepping forward, its small form dwarfed by Indicus’ towering body.

For a moment, the world was silent. The wind howled through the Haunt, and the sun sank lower behind the mountain, casting long shadows across the platform.

Then, without a word, Indicus raised his arms. His chains rattled as he brought his fists together and, with a mighty roar, swung them down upon the Bellwether.

The crack of bone echoed across the rocky cliffs as the Bellwether crumpled beneath the force of the blow. Its small, grotesque body lay twisted and broken at Indicus’ feet, the life snuffed from its cold, dead eyes.

The Dalshaw below gasped. Some stood, others fell to their knees in disbelief. Never before had one of their kind dared to strike a Bellwether, let alone kill one.

Indicus stood tall, his chest heaving with the effort of his rebellion. His hands were slick with blood, and his chains hung limply at his sides. He had done it. He had killed a Bellwether.

But the moment of triumph was short-lived.

From the shadows of the mountain, more Bellwethers emerged—small, cloaked figures, their grotesque faces twisted with rage. They descended upon the platform, their black hoods billowing behind them as they moved with terrifying speed.

Indicus turned to face them, his eyes burning with defiance. He knew what was coming, but he did not regret his choice. He had stood. He had fought. And he would die on his feet, not in the mud.

The first Bellwether reached him, its clawed hand slashing across his chest. Indicus grunted but didn’t fall. He swung his chains, catching the creature across the face, sending it flying off the platform.

Another Bellwether lunged at him, and another, their claws tearing at his flesh, but Indicus fought back with every ounce of strength he had left. Blood poured from his wounds, mixing with the mud beneath his feet. The platform became a battleground of flesh and bone, but the odds were overwhelming.

Eventually, they overwhelmed him.

Indicus fell to his knees, his vision blurring as the life drained from his body. He could feel the weight of the Bellwethers pressing down on him, their claws digging into his flesh. But even as he knelt there, bleeding and broken, he refused to bow his head.

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was the girl—the child he had saved—watching from below, her wide eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hope.

Then everything went black.

The Afterlife

When Indicus opened his eyes, he was no longer on the Haunt. The cold, muddy air of Pentague was gone, replaced by an oppressive silence. Around him, the world was a void, endless and black, and before him stood a figure cloaked in shadows.

Death.

The figure towered over him, skeletal fingers clasped before him, his bony face partially hidden beneath a hood. His green eyes, the only hint of life in the endless dark, watched Indicus with a cold, detached gaze.

"You fought well," Death said, his voice a low, rumbling whisper. "But you are not done."

Indicus’ throat burned, his body still aching from the battle he had just lost. But as he looked down, he realized his wounds were gone. The blood that had soaked his skin had vanished, leaving only the scars behind.

"You offer me more?" Indicus asked, his voice raw. "What more can there be?"

Death stepped forward, his skeletal hand reaching out to rest on Indicus’ shoulder. The touch was cold, but not painful.

"You have a choice," Death said, his voice soft but heavy with meaning. "You can rest, join your people in the mud of oblivion... or you can walk a different path. A path of power. A path of purpose."

Indicus looked up, meeting Death’s gaze. He had felt powerless all his life, bound by chains both physical and invisible. But now, here in this void, with Death offering him a choice, he felt something stir inside him once again.

Hope.

"What would I become?" Indicus asked, his voice steady.

Death’s bony mouth curled into a smile. "A Sin-Eater. One who carries the sins of others, absorbing their pain, their suffering. You would be more than a slave. You would be a force. You would bring balance."

Indicus thought of the Bellwethers, of the Dalshaw, of the endless suffering that had filled his life. He thought of the child he had saved, and the blood he had spilled. He thought of the mud, the chains, the endless grind of pain.

"I accept," he said, his voice filled with determination.

Death nodded, stepping back as the darkness around them began to shift, to twist, pulling Indicus into the unknown.

And so, Indicus-Resquire died that day, but he was not gone. He rose again, not as a slave, but as something more—a Sin-Eater, a being of power, with a purpose that stretched beyond the mud and the chains. He would carry the weight of suffering, not as a burden, but as a weapon.

He had stood. He had fought. And now, he would never kneel again.