The Blood Debt

 

The Weight of the Floor

It was a cold morning. The floor was hard and the hallway was dark. Liam was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. He had been at the task for about six hours now. Suddenly, he felt sweat dropping from his forehead, sliding down his nose. As it was about to hit the floor, he spread out his palm and let it fall there. With a trembling breath of relief, his muscles relaxed slightly. He didn't know how his master found out when his sweat hit the floor, but he always did — and the beating that followed would keep him limping for a week. His master had used barbed wire wrapped around a stick on his back, just because his sweat had touched the floor. He had been beaten badly, and only the pity of the cook had saved him after she gave him a balm that healed him miraculously.

An Unexpected Fury

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the end of the hallway. He snuck a peek and saw his master's daughter coming out of the study. He could tell she was furious. Too late — she saw him looking at her. He averted his eyes and kept working. A shadow fell over him, and he looked up only to receive a slap across his face.

"How dare you look at me! How dare you stand in my way!" she screamed at him.

"I'm sorry, mistress," he said, bowing down in a kowtow.

"You're sorry, eh? Vermin," she spat, striking him on the nose. He reeled back, seeing stars. That only infuriated her further. She punched him in the stomach, and as he doubled over, she drove her knee into his face, breaking his nose.

He pressed his hand over his nose, making sure no blood or sweat fell on the floor — or he would have more than just a broken nose.

Bridget's Rage

Bridget was furious with her father for trying to give her away in a business arrangement — as a wife to a fat glutton. She was furious that her father had chosen money over her. How dare he. She was a grown woman, and she wanted to marry who she loved, not an old slob. She snarled at the slave. At least she could vent her fury on him — he couldn't fight back.

"Never dare look at me again. And whenever you see me, I want to see your head touching the floor."

"Yes, mistress. Thank you," he said.

But she had already left. The slave bent down to continue his work. There would be no breakfast for him until all his tasks were complete.

Liam's Story

His name was Liam. He came from a wealthy family, but he had been a slave since the age of ten. His father had been tricked by his own brother in a business deal — coerced into signing with his blood — and when he couldn't meet the terms, his blood debt was called in. He was killed, along with Liam's mother.

Liam was sold into slavery, and the one who bought him was the very uncle who had betrayed his father. The young woman, Bridget, who had just mistreated him — she was his cousin. He sighed as he continued to work. At twenty-five years old, he was just a slave.

---

The Celestial Realm

In the celestial realm, a young woman watched the slave as he scrubbed the floor. She had watched him get beaten. She had witnessed his mistreatment countless times, and there was nothing she could do — the rules had always been never to interfere in the mortal world. She sighed, feeling the eyes of the Creator on her.

"I'm fine, Father," she said without turning her head.

"I can see the turmoil in your heart, and I'm sorry, daughter. There is nothing I can do."

"You could save him. He has suffered so much for crimes he never committed."

"Even I am bound by the rules."

"Then the rules are stupid. They need to change."

"You don't know what you are saying. Changing the rules would require the deaths of twenty-five minor gods."

She turned her head at that. It seemed impossible.

"Nothing is ever impossible," he said. "I am the Creator, after all."

She fell silent, watching the slave again. Her name was Sylva — granddaughter of the Creator, and what everyone called the Goddess of the Heart. Her compassion was legendary. No one who had ever prayed to her had been left unanswered, no matter the situation. She always came for them.

A Vow That Could Not Be Broken

Sylva was not happy with the Creator's response. It made her deeply sad that an innocent child could suffer so much. She had been having a quiet moment about fifteen years ago when her mind had been invaded by a request so powerful that she had to leave everything and focus solely on it. She zoomed into the mind of the woman sending it, and she could see that the woman was dying. The only request from her last breath was that Sylva should look after her son and protect him.

The woman had been a lovely mother who cared not only for her son but also ran a charity organisation for orphans. Then her life was snuffed out — a consequence of her husband's blood debt, a debt he knew nothing about because he had been tricked. Sylva had been watching over the son ever since, and it saddened her heart even more that she could only watch and never intervene. She closed her eyes as a single tear fell.

"Father, I need your help to save this child."

"I have told you, there is nothing I can do. The rules apply to me as well."

"What if there is something I can do?" she asked.

The Creator grumbled, uneasy. He could not read her mind — she had cloaked it from him — and he knew something was not right. His daughter had always been stubborn and headstrong, and yet her compassion defined her.

"I don't like that tone," he said.

"What if there is something I can do?" she asked again.

"Well, if it is not against the rules, there is no harm in it. Besides, there is nothing you can do except — wait. This can't be right."

"Yes, Father. I mean it."

"But that would condemn you to death," he said, a growing dread filling his heart. He loved his daughter too much for this.

"I am willing, Father."

"For a mere mortal who will die of old age?"

"I made a vow to his mother."

"Wait — give me a few days to think on this. I cannot lose you."

Mr. Stoneface

Mr. Stoneface was not happy about Bridget's outburst. How could she not see the sacrifice he had made so she could have a better life? The man he was asking her to marry was old and fat, yes — but he had a plan to eliminate him on their wedding night. She just did not want to hear about his plan. All she could see was an old fat man.

He sighed, rising from his desk. He looked around his study and nodded slowly. He had come a long way from the street rat he had been — all thanks to his brother, he snarled, a nasty grin spreading across his face as he remembered the shock and betrayal in his brother's eyes before he slit his throat. But his brother's last words still haunted him.

"Why? Everything I have done was to make sure you never went hungry or cold again. My riches are not just for me — they are for both of us."

Well, I have it all now, he thought, and your son is my slave. There is nothing you can do. He grinned.

Suddenly he felt a cold shiver. A transparent hand reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He choked, sweat sliding down his brow, and was about to black out when the hand released him and he could breathe again. He hurried out of his study and bumped straight into Liam, who was at that moment mopping the floor just outside the door.

He paused, not registering who he was looking at — and then when he did, he roared.

"I will kill you today."

Liam had seen him coming but it was too late. He prostrated himself on the floor, knowing he was in for one of the worst beatings of his life. He closed his eyes and waited for the strike to come.

Mr. Stoneface was livid with rage. How dare this filth touch him — he would pay dearly. But before he could lift a foot to kick him, he saw a transparent mist of red hovering just a few inches above Liam's body. He froze, not believing his eyes, as the mist formed into the shape of a man — a man that looked exactly like his brother. When the figure pointed at him and then slowly dragged a finger across its own throat, Mr. Stoneface staggered backward and ran toward the front door as if the devil himself were on his heels.

Liam, still braced for a kick that never came, opened his eyes in amazement as he watched his master flee like a man possessed.

The Weight of a Decision

A week later in the celestial realm, Sylva stood before her father. Her hands were folded beneath her chest, her expression calm but resolute. She looked at the tall pillars of the hall, the ground made of solid wind, the familiar places that held memories of a life she had known and loved. Then her thoughts drifted to Magdalene — the woman who had used her last breath to beg Sylva to protect her son. When she thought of what the boy was still going through, she hardened her heart around the decision she was about to declare, no matter the cost — even if that cost was her life.

The Creator looked down at her, his brow furrowed. He knew that pose. He knew that look of quiet determination on his daughter's face.

"My dear daughter, please reconsider. What you want to do would break my heart."

"You have no heart, Father. An innocent child is suffering. He needs justice, and yet you speak of your hands being tied."

"There are rules," he said with a sad smile. "And I am bound by them."

"Then give me your decision. You told me you would think on it."

"I am sorry. I never got to it — my attention was needed in so many places."

"That is too bad. Then I will do what I must."

"My dear daughter — you want to trade places with that child. You want to sacrifice yourself for his freedom."

"Yes, Father. I will trade my place with him so he can be free. I will pass all my powers to him, and I will die within five days of entering the mortal world."

"That was your plan all along," he said, his frown deepening. "I knew it, even though you cloaked your mind from me. But I cannot let you do this. You are my heart, Sylva. If you die, the world will end."

She laughed. "Do not go there, Father. You cannot manipulate me."

"I am not lying, Sylva." His voice was heavy and serious. "When the world was created, there was a power struggle between me and my brother, who rules the reverse world. Our world and his are like mirrors — identical but opposite. Our battle was fierce. Countless souls died. Cities were swallowed by earthquakes and tsunamis. Famine ravaged the land and darkness covered everything from the sheer volume of power we unleashed. Then a greater power intervened and stopped us — by fusing part of our power into your mother. When she gave birth to you, that power was transferred to you. The greater power then bound us all with a vow sworn on our life essence. The day you die is the day all things end."

Sylva took a step back, her eyes wide.

"What?" she whispered. "No. This cannot be happening. You cannot use this to stop me."

"I am not using it to stop you," his voice boomed across the hall. "I would never do that. But you can confirm it yourself — speak to my brother directly. The truth is not mine alone to carry."

The Greater Power

"Who is this greater power?" Sylva asked her father.

"The one who made me and gave me my powers."

"I thought you were the creator of all things."

"No. I am just a caretaker of a domain. That is why I told you the rules apply to me too."

Sylva was quiet for a moment, processing what she had just learned. Then something shifted in her expression.

"Since I hold the balance," she said slowly, "then I also have the right to make a decision."

A tense silence followed. The Creator considered her words carefully, his eyes closed, a frown forming at the corner of his lips. Finally he exhaled.

"Fine. You can make a decision. But I hope — for the sake of the world — that it is the right one."

"I do not want the world to end," Sylva said, her voice steady and measured. "But if my hands are tied and I cannot act, then I do not care if all of us perish. At least there would be peace. Every evil would be erased and the world would return to void."

The Creator looked at her sharply. He did not like her tone — but he also knew she meant every word. He knew he had to accommodate at least part of her wishes.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want a clone."

"A clone?" He stared at her, baffled.

"Yes. One to replace the slave. A clone that only needs to live for two days."

The Creator turned the idea over in his mind. Then slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Yes," he said quietly. "That I can do."

"I want it within the hour," she said.

"What!"

"You heard me, Father. Every moment that child remains in that house is killing my soul."

The Blood Debt Renewed

Mr. Stoneface was deeply unsettled by his brother's apparition. He could not stop shivering as he replayed the encounter in his mind. Something was very wrong — this had never happened to him before. There was only one thing he could do, he decided, as he made his way to the place where his brother had been killed. The place where the blood debt had been collected.

The Grand Patron of the Blood Debt Collectors, Mr. Hills, sat in his throne room — a cave several miles from the city. The cave was dark, lit only by six small candles whose flames barely pushed back the surrounding shadows. He sat perfectly still, cradling a figurine of the Bloody God in his palm and muttering prayers under his breath. A rustle at the entrance interrupted him. He waited. After a few moments, Mr. Green — known to most as Mr. Stoneface — appeared. He seemed restless, his eyes darting in every direction, his body instinctively shrinking away from every shadow.

"Mr. Green."

Mr. Stoneface jolted as if he had been struck. Only when he spotted the Grand Patron did his shoulders relax — just slightly.

"Grand Patron, you have to help me. I am in serious trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" the Grand Patron said calmly. "Fear not. You are safe here from every harm — physical and spiritual."

Mr. Stoneface visibly relaxed. "My brother. His ghost tried to attack me."

"I see," the Grand Patron said, stroking his beard slowly. "That is to be expected. It has been fifteen years, has it not?"

"Yes!"

"You are lucky. Most only last two years before it begins."

"What do you mean?" Mr. Stoneface asked, not liking the sound of that at all.

"It means you need to renew your charm. The Bloody God requires his fees."

"What? I thought we had a deal!"

"Of course you do — with me. But not with the Bloody God."

A sinking feeling settled deep in Mr. Stoneface's chest. He knew he had bitten off more than he could chew, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it now.

"You said nothing could attack me here, correct?"

"Correct."

"Then I will stay here," he said.

"And you think staying here is free?"

Mr. Stoneface went pale. "There are fees?"

"Yes. Staying here requires blood as well."

Mr. Stoneface stared at him with a look of hollow resignation. "How do I renew my protection?"

The Grand Patron smiled slowly. "More blood."

The Goddess Descends

The goddess came to the mortal world in the form of a beautiful young woman. She went straight to the house of Mr. Stoneface and after making sure no one spotted her, she slipped around to the back of the property — the place where Liam always spent his rare moments of rest, having been told never to set foot inside the house unless there was work to be done.

She found him sitting alone, eyes closed. A single tear slid from the corner of his eye.

Liam could not hold back his emotions any longer. He sat replaying his life — one torment after another — unable to fathom how human beings could treat another person like a worthless piece of rag. Then he felt a shadow fall over him. He opened his eyes.

Standing there, watching him quietly, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. He hesitated for only a moment before dropping to his knees.

"I am sorry, mistress. I have been lazy. Please punish me."

The goddess was deeply moved. How could anyone treat a human being this way? The pain of it cut through her.

"Do not be sorry, Liam."

He froze. No one had ever called him by his name. In this house he was always referred to as the slave. He had been told he had no name for as long as he lived there. He trembled, bracing himself for a beating.

"I am sorry," he said quietly. "I have no name."

"Do not be sorry, Liam," she said his name again, her voice gentle and unwavering. "I am here to free you."

He looked up this time — hope flickering in his eyes — but said nothing. This could be a trap. He had learned not to trust kindness.

"Have I displeased my master?" he asked carefully.

"Liam, he is not your master. He is your uncle." She held his gaze. "I am not a mortal. Let me show you everything — everything that has been happening since the day you were born. Let me open your eyes."

She reached out and placed her hand gently on his forehead.

And then it all began to play out before him like a living dream. He watched his father and mother being killed. He watched his uncle — the man he had known only as his master — bargaining with dark forces to have his own brother and sister-in-law murdered. The goddess was generous with her vision, sparing nothing. She showed him her conversations with her father, the decision she had made, and the plan of the clone they would create. She showed him everything.

When it was over, Liam sat in silence for a long moment.

Then he wept.

Not the quiet, careful tears he had learned to shed in secret — but deep, shaking sobs that rose from somewhere he had buried long ago. Because there were no words in any language that could express what he was feeling.

A Desperate Plan

Mr. Green was deeply troubled by the demand for more blood. He had believed that after killing his brother and claiming his wealth, he would live peacefully with his family — that it would all be over. And yet here they were, demanding more sacrifices, more blood. The weight of the decision he had made fifteen years ago pressed down on him, and for the first time he allowed himself to acknowledge — just for a fleeting moment — that he had made a terrible mistake. But there was no backing out now. The consequences of walking away were worse than pressing forward.

He hurried home, his mind already settling on a solution. The slave, Liam. He was useless. No one would miss him. He would make the perfect sacrifice — quiet, disposable, and already forgotten by the world.

"Liam!" he bellowed as he entered the house. Silence greeted him.

"How dare this slave refuse to answer me," he fumed, his jaw tightening. "I will skin him alive."

He stormed into his study to wait, his fingers drumming impatiently on the desk.

The Ritual

Sylva had already instructed Liam to stay silent when his uncle called. She had explained the plan — the clone, the escape, everything. Now, as Mr. Green's footsteps faded toward his study, she knelt down and clasped her hands together, her eyes closed. Liam watched in silence as her lips began to move.

"Father, all is set. It is now up to you to create the clone — or all will be lost."

The response came immediately, booming through her mind like thunder.

"Take a lock of his hair and blow it toward me three times. Tell him to close his eyes — he must not see his clone or all will be lost. And when the clone is created, he must be far from this place."

Sylva opened her eyes and beckoned Liam closer. She told him she would need a lock of his hair, and that once it was done he must move out of sight immediately and never lay eyes on his clone — not even a glance — or everything would unravel.

Liam did not hesitate. He pulled a lock of hair free and pressed it into her hand, then moved quickly out of sight without a word.

Sylva performed the ritual exactly as her father had instructed — three slow breaths, the hair carried on each exhale toward the heavens. When the clone formed, solid and breathing and wearing Liam's face, she directed it to the floor of the passage just outside Mr. Green's study, positioned exactly as Liam would have been — on his hands and knees, scrubbing.

Then she turned and took the real Liam with her, moving swiftly and silently away from the house.

The Sacrifice That Wasn't

Mr. Stoneface was seething. How long had he been sitting here waiting? How could a slave keep him waiting in his own house? The nerve of the boy. He shoved his chair back and flung open the study door — and there was Liam, scrubbing the floor of the passage as if nothing were the matter.

The sight of him only deepened his fury. He crossed the distance between them in three strides and struck the back of the clone's head with a heavy hand.

The clone collapsed to the floor.

"Get up, you fool," he growled, standing over the motionless body. "Today you will regret the day you set foot in this house."

Silence.

He waited. Nothing.

He kicked the prone body hard. Still no reaction. Mr. Stoneface's fury shifted into something colder. He looked down the length of the passage — empty in both directions. He and the boy were completely alone.

He crouched down and pressed two fingers against the side of the clone's neck.

Nothing. No pulse. No breath.

A slow, calculating look crossed his face. He had not intended for it to happen this quickly or this easily — but perhaps this was better. He straightened up, glancing once more down the empty passage.

Now was the time to take the body away.

The Hollow Body

Mr. Stoneface carried the clone's body to the Grand Patron, who smiled inwardly when he saw him enter. He knew this man was capable of getting things done. His god would have a taste of fresh blood tonight, and he would be rewarded handsomely for it. He kept his expression hard and gestured toward a long table at the centre of the cave, draped in black cloth with red candles burning at each end.

"Drop the body there," he said.

Mr. Stoneface laid the body down and stepped back, fidgeting with his hands as the Grand Patron moved slowly around the table, examining what had been brought to him. The cave was silent except for the soft hiss of the candle flames. A minute passed. Then another.

Then the Grand Patron's face darkened.

Mr. Stoneface watched the shift in his expression and his heart lurched. "Is everything alright?" he asked, barely breathing.

"How dare you try to scam me," the Grand Patron said, his voice low and dangerous.

"What do you mean?"

"This is not a dead body. It is a mannequin."

"What nonsense," Mr. Stoneface growled, taking a step forward. "I killed him myself. Are you feeling well?"

"You dare insult me? The Grand Patron?"

"Grand Patron my foot. How did you even earn that title if you cannot identify a dead body?"

The Grand Patron's eyes narrowed. Without another word he closed them briefly, then in one swift motion produced a blade and drew it across the body in a sharp slash.

No blood came. No wound opened. Where flesh should have parted there was only a hollow space — a dark, empty cavity where organs and bone should have been. He turned the opening toward Mr. Stoneface and held it up in silence.

Mr. Stoneface stared. The anger drained from his face and was replaced by something far colder.

"Did you switch the body?" he asked in a dead, flat voice.

"You fool. You brought a fake."

"I killed my own nephew with my bare hands and you are calling it fake?"

"Then look at the body."

"I do not need to look. I know what I brought here."

The Grand Patron straightened slowly, his expression shifting from anger into something ancient and grave. When he spoke again his voice carried the weight of a pronouncement.

"Because of this, your evil will fall upon your daughter. The only way to save her will be through the blood of your nephew freely given — or if he speaks the words I forgive you three times of his own will." He paused, letting the words settle like stones dropping into still water. "Now go. Before the gods strike you down where you stand."

The Curse is Set

This is a masterful plot twist! The Grand Patron's curse is perfectly constructed — it cannot be forced or faked. Liam must either give his blood willingly or forgive the man who destroyed his entire life and stole his freedom. That is an almost impossible ask, which makes it a perfect narrative trap for Mr. Stoneface. And now Bridget — who is cruel but arguably also a victim of her father's world — is caught in the middle of something she knows nothing about.

What will you do? Leave a comment.

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