CHAPTER 22 - WHISPERS IN THE MIRE
The words hissed through the damp air, venomous and sharp, searing Mr. Thornwick’s ears as the whip followed—a jagged lash that split the skin across his back. Pain was an old companion now, a relentless gnaw that fused with the rhythm of his existence: dig, bleed, dig, collapse. His paws, crusted with filth and oozing sores, clawed at the peat, the earth reeking of rot and the faint tang of forgotten bones. The pits weren’t just a graveyard for the dead—they devoured the living, piece by festering piece. But those whispers… they weren’t the broken mutterings of the damned. They were something else. Something jagged. Rebellion. A blade in the dark.
The badger’s bloodshot eyes slid to the breadfriend beside him. It was a husk now, its doughy flesh sunken and gray, riddled with cracks where hunger had clawed too deep. Once, it might’ve been something proud, something warm—but the pits had leeched that away, leaving only a brittle shell. Yet in its hollow sockets, a flicker burned—not hope, not quite, but a feral glint, like a trapped beast gnashing at its chains. It had heard the rumors too: whispers of rebels, of blood spilled against the fey, of the Blue Wizard Lord’s throne trembling. Madness, maybe. Or a call to slaughter.
"Silence, Mr. Thornwick, you wretched filth!" Grimp's voice pierced the air, shrill and fraying at the edges. The whip cracked again, but it was a feeble thing, a dying snake’s thrash. "Dig, you worthless creature, or I'll make you wish I hadn't found you! You think you’re special? You’re nothing! Just another pit rat!" The insults kept coming, each word a sting, each accusation sharper than the last. "Dig faster, Mr. Thornwick, or I’ll leave you in the muck to rot, just like the others!"
The badger’s grip on the shovel slipped, blood slicking the handle, the sting of the whip a dull echo in his shredded flesh. But something coiled tighter inside him, a black heat that wasn’t there before. The whispers weren’t a promise—they were a curse, a dare to trade one hell for another. He didn’t know if the strangers could topple the Wizard Lord, didn’t know if they’d just drown in their own blood instead. But the thought of it—of tearing something down, even if it crushed him too—set his teeth on edge.
The breadfriend’s body brushed his, cold and stale, a knowing look a pact sealed in silence and rot. Around them, the others shifted—twitchy, hollow-eyed, their shovels scraping with a new rhythm. Not survival. Something uglier. Something hungry.
Grimp the Brownie spat, his voice rising, "You can barely lift that shovel, Mr. Thornwick! What makes you think you deserve to live another day? You're already dead, you just don't know it yet!"
The badger tightened his hold, the shovel a weapon now, not a chain. The whispers weren’t loud yet—but they were sharpening.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
CHAPTER 23 - THE PITS OF DEATH
Kalo, the Weasels, Lukan, and the Faun descended the far side of the dam, their movements slow and deliberate. The plank lift groaned under their weight, its pulley system ancient and rusted, lowering them inch by inch into the dry riverbed below. The air thickened with the stench of burning peat, sweat, and despair. This was no mere worksite—this was a machine of ruin, a grinding, ceaseless engine of suffering. The fuel for the Blue Wizard’s war machine. The lubricant for his gears of conquest.
The land itself bore the scars of industry: scorched earth, towering slag heaps, and rivers of black filth that once ran clear. Everywhere, the hollow-eyed people of the Heath toiled beneath the whips of their captors, their backs bent and their spirits nearly broken. But not fully. Not yet.
It was that sliver of defiance, that ember buried beneath the ashes, that pushed Kalo and the others forward. Freedom. Freedom for all.
The lift shuddered as it reached the dry riverbed, the sudden stop sending up a spray of pebbles. The group disembarked without a word, moving in the dam’s deep shadow, keen to remain unseen. Every step was measured, every breath controlled. The sentries, the overseers—anyone could sound the alarm.
Then, from the darkness, a pair of figures emerged.
A Redcap, his bloodstained hat pulled low, marched beside a towering figure cloaked in flowing robes. The Blue Wizard. He loomed over his fey servant, his presence suffocating, his voice a deep and measured rumble.
“Tell me, Snivel-Belly,” the wizard intoned, his voice like distant thunder. “What do you know of these… intruders?”
The Redcap’s beady eyes glinted in the dim light as he sneered. “Master, they are nothing. Heath-born troublemakers. Worthless warriors. They carry some enchanted broom, but otherwise, my fey will soon squash them like the insects they are.”
The wizard exhaled slowly, considering. “Mmmm… make sure of it.”
Just as the pair stepped onto the pulley lift, the wizard stopped. His head turned slightly, sharp eyes scanning the gloom.
Silence.
Kalo and the others froze, pressing into the dam’s craggy surface, hearts hammering against their ribs.
The wizard’s gaze lingered, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he stepped onto the lift. He raised a hand, murmured something in a language older than stone, and snapped his fingers.
The pulleys roared to life.
With unnatural speed, the lift shot skyward, the wizard and Redcap vanishing into the darkness above.
The group remained still, breath held, ears straining. Only when the creak of the pulley faded did they dare to move again.
They crept forward, more cautious than ever. The pits awaited. The danger had never felt more real.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
