The morning air shimmered with quiet resolve. The tribe moved in unison across the clearing, performing the god-given movement—bodies low, arms sweeping, feet grounded. It had become more than a ritual. It was the breath of the village.
Ben stood on a rise above the homes, eyes narrowed, arms folded. He watched not with the weight of command, but the care of a gardener watching his first sprouts push through the soil. Their breathing matched, their rhythm no longer uncertain. They were beginning to belong to something bigger.
When the movement ended, the day began.
Boji and Druel headed off to inspect more stonework, their tools hanging from their belts. Mala disappeared into the trees, silent as ever, her spear slung across her back. Sema returned to her open-air cooking space, where leaves, roots, and strips of dried meat were arranged with care. Others moved, gathered, built, and reinforced.
It wasn't perfect, but it flowed.
Ben descended the slope and moved through his people—offering a nod here, a quiet word there—but mostly, he observed. Watching how tasks found hands, how instinct and purpose replaced orders. How the fear was shrinking.
He stepped near one of the newer stone fire pits, still unlit, the stones perfectly placed by Druel and his assistants. The rings were humble, identical in size but subtly different in shape—each pit bearing the signature of the hands that had placed it.
A gust of heat kissed the air. Quiet murmurs passed between the workers.
Twa Milhom walked among them.
No sound marked his arrival. No shout or announcement. Just presence. The tribe moved aside as though guided by instinct.
He passed by each pit—slow, deliberate, his eyes unreadable.
No one dared speak. They only watched.
He paused at a half-finished pit near Mala's home. One stone sat crooked, slightly off from the pattern. Twa Milhom knelt—his movements fluid despite his heavy form—and repositioned the stone. A breath passed, heavy with meaning, and then he rose and continued walking.
Druel, standing nearby, exhaled sharply. Without a word, he rushed to correct other pits, now understanding something deeper about alignment and balance.
Ben followed the god into the trees. Only far enough to feel the change in the air—where the clearing met the edge of mystery.
Twa Milhom didn't stop. He spoke without turning.
"You have fire, but you do not yet understand it."
Ben didn't respond. He waited.
Twa Milhom continued, "Fire is not just for burning. It is for forming. Forging. Separating life from death. Weakness from strength."
Ben's voice came low. "Then what was the fire in your house?"
Twa Milhom turned. His expression was unreadable.
"That is not fire made of wood. That fire feeds on what you will become."
Ben held his gaze, even though every part of him warned him to look away.
"You gave us the shape," Ben said. "But you've left the meaning for us to find."
A flicker of something like amusement crossed Twa Milhom's eyes.
"You're not wrong."
Then, with a wave of his hand—quick, simple, silent—the air shifted.
Ben felt it first in his bones. A weight, a tether, something ancient and deep pulling gently at him. His eyes widened.
The fire pits across the tribe began to hum faintly with warmth—though no flame danced in them.
Only Ben understood what had been done.
They were now linked.
To Twa Milhom's fire.
Not one could burn without him. Not one could rise without his breath.
Ben bowed his head, not in reverence—but in understanding.
When he looked back up, Twa Milhom was already gone, melted into the shadows of the bamboo once more.
Night fell.
The tribe gathered again—this time around the newly aligned stone pits. They did not burn. But each one gave off a whisper of warmth, a sense of presence. No one questioned it.
Druel sat beside his own pit and looked to Ben.
"What is it?" he asked.
Ben didn't lie. But he didn't explain.
"Protection," he said quietly. "And a reminder."
He turned back to the flames that weren't flames.
To the warmth that came not from firewood, but from something older.
Something watching.
Later that night, long after the others had settled into rest, Ben stood alone in front of his own fire pit. The air was quiet, but charged—as though the very stones beneath his feet remembered the god's touch.
He crouched low, ran a hand over the edge of the pit. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
The connection was real.
He reached out—not with words, but with intent. A quiet question echoed in his chest: Why? Why connect the fire?
No answer came. Not in words. But a sensation stirred in the air, like the heat of a forge stoked without flame. Ben stood, the hairs on his arms rising.
This fire… wasn't just warmth.
It was awareness.
Each pit was an eye. A tether. A way for Twa Milhom to watch, yes—but also a way to share. Energy. Insight. Warning.
Ben understood now.
The god hadn't done it as a gift. Not exactly.
He had done it to see what Ben would do with it.
Suddenly, from the far end of the settlement, a flash lit the darkness—just for a moment.
One of the other fire pits, untouched, sparked to life and faded again. Boji stirred in his sleep. Druel sat up, blinking.
Ben didn't move. He whispered into the night.
"I won't waste it."
From deep in the bamboo, a low, amused voice answered—just once.
"You better not."
The winds shifted.
Ben stood at the southern ridge, the salted satchel still slung over his shoulder, boots caked in the journey's dust. The sky wore the bruises of day's end, and the trees whispered of something stirring in the distance.
Mala stepped from the brush as the shadow of the bamboo lengthened like a warning.
"There's a crowd heading this way," she said. "Not a hunting band. A migration."
Ben didn't move. "How many?"
"Enough to drink the river bare," she replied. "They'll reach the edge of the grove before the moon passes her third blink."
By the time twilight fell, they appeared—like ghosts poured from the horizon. Bent under hunger and time. Barefoot. Ragged. Carrying more loss than belongings. A tide of breath and bone.
Ben stood alone at the boundary—no fences, no markers, only that thin line where danger had learned not to pass.
Behind him were his own: Boji, Druel, Mala, Jano, Sema, Kael. The marked. The loyal. The ones who bled first.
A man stepped from the sea of strangers. Muscular. Scarred. Sharp-eyed. He looked past Ben toward the distant bamboo.
"We followed the trail of a beast," he said. "But something led us here."
Ben's voice was calm, clipped. "You're at the edge of something not meant for the careless."
The man's eyes narrowed. "We're not careless."
Ben turned his head slightly, gaze scanning the weary crowd. "No. Just desperate."
Another voice—hoarse and hollow—rose. "What is this place?"
Ben's jaw tightened. "It's where the ones who were forgotten chose to remember themselves."
He stepped forward, his bare foot pressing into the dust.
"You want safety? Then earn it. You want food? Work for it. You want peace?" He looked over their faces. "Then respect the fire that forged it."
One woman dropped to her knees. "Please. We carry nothing but the will to try."
Ben didn't flinch. "Then listen. No god comes to greet you. No miracle will fold you into our warmth. You choose. That is the only offer."
He paused, and the wind quieted.
"You have until the moon wakes twice. Cross that line, and you're mine to command. Stay behind it, and you're free to wander again."
That night, the forest held its breath.
No magic moved. No voice called. The fires stayed low. The people of Ben's camp slept lightly, hands near tools, eyes half-open.
By the second moon blink, they came.
One by one.
The limping. The quiet. The stubborn. Some crossed as if it pained them to submit. Others as if the earth would swallow them for hesitating.
But they crossed.
All 187.
Ben said nothing. He turned and walked back toward the heart of the land—toward Ikanbi.
Behind him, the others followed, uneasy but prepared. The new weight of responsibility settled on their shoulders like ash before a storm.
Twa Milhom watched from a distance—unseen, uninvoked, uninterested in the ceremony.
But his silence was never without meaning.