The morning mist clung to the ground like breath held in silence. Not a bird sang. Not a twig snapped. Even the wind dared not speak as it passed through the bamboo at the edge of Ikanbi.
Twa Milhoms stood alone, where the sacred trees ended and the clearing began. Two flat stones rested before him, smooth and pale like the bellies of beasts turned to the sun. Around them, a circle of fine ash had been drawn. No flames burned, but the scent of fire lingered—as though judgment had already passed here once before.
Ben approached first, called in the quiet hour before full dawn. He did not speak. He only bowed his head slightly and waited.
Twa Milhoms nodded once, his face carved from calm.
"Bring them," he said.
Ben understood who he meant.
Within moments, the man—eyes sunken, movements cautious—and the woman—silent, guarded—stood before the god. The tribe gathered around, forming a wide ring beyond the ash. None dared step closer.
No weapons. No torches. No accusations.
Only breath, eyes, and the weight of what had happened.
Twa Milhoms did not speak with rage. His voice was low, even, like water cutting through stone.
"There are laws unspoken," he said. "And when they are broken, the bones of a tribe begin to crack."
The man flinched. The woman stood still, arms crossed over her chest.
"This," Twa Milhoms continued, "is not punishment. It is binding."
He stepped forward and raised his hand.
"You took without oath. You wounded what you did not honor. Now you will bind yourself—not to undo what was done, but to carry it."
He turned to the woman.
"You may deny him. And he will serve you until you cast him off. But if you accept, you both will wear this bond until death."
Ben looked at her face. There was no love in her eyes. But neither was there hatred. There was something deeper—resolve, perhaps, or the need to make something useful from what had been broken.
"I will not forgive him," she said quietly. "But I will bind him, so no other woman must ever carry his shadow."
Twa Milhoms nodded.
"Spoken. Witnessed."
He turned his hand over. A dull, flickering light formed in his palm, and from it two marks etched themselves onto the backs of their hands—a ring of thorns, encircling a flickering flame.
"He may not take another wife unless you grant it, with words spoken in daylight before three others," the god said. "And should he fail you, speak it aloud. The tribe will hear. I will hear."
The crowd stood frozen. What they had seen was not justice by fire, but justice by shaping. A new rule etched into the marrow of the tribe.
Ben remained silent. He did not nod. He did not look away.
He only stood beside Twa Milhoms, the weight of leadership resting quietly on his shoulders.
After a time, the god turned to him.
"This is the first," he said. "But not the last. Law must grow with you. Flesh is strong, but without rule, it devours itself."
He stepped back, fading as if the air itself swallowed him.
Ben walked the couple away from the center, neither of them speaking. He gestured toward the cooks' tent—toward warmth, toward food, toward time. It wasn't forgiveness. It was structure. It was order.
Whispers rose across Ikanbi, but no voices mocked. No scorn twisted lips.
Only silence, and understanding.
Justice had not been blood. It had been binding.
That night, the fire pits remained unlit, out of reverence. But their warmth still whispered. Not in flame—but in the knowing that something had changed.
That a new law had been born. And that now, they all lived under its weight.
The air over Ikanbi shifted—not with wind, but with change.
The incident had left its weight, but it did not fracture them. Instead, it tempered them. The tribe spoke in quieter tones for a few days, shared food more readily, took tasks with less prompting. The fire pits still whispered warmth at night, as if Twa Milhoms was silently reminding them: I am still watching.
Ben walked among his people with a sharper gaze. Not harder—sharper. Every conversation, every task, every misstep was now part of something larger. A society was beginning to breathe on its own.
At dawn on the fourth day, he returned from his daily rounds with Mala and Boji when a familiar pressure coiled in the pit of his chest.
Twa Milhoms was waiting.
Not in the clearing. Not in the fire rings. But just at the edge of the bamboo.
Ben approached in silence.
The god didn't speak at first. He raised his hand, and a flicker of heat danced up Ben's spine. He didn't flinch.
A mark glowed briefly above his left brow.
Two Roman numerals now burned there:
II
Two rings.
Ben staggered slightly, as if his body had to stretch to contain the new strength. The second ring locked into his bones, and his vision sharpened. He felt the pulse of the land in his feet, and the shift in the air on the edge of the trees.
Twa Milhoms didn't congratulate him. He only said, "You've earned it. But now, so must they."
And vanished.
That same evening, word spread fast—though Ben had not said a word.
The warriors—Kael, Jaron, Mala, and the others—gathered near the central pit. Their voices were low, but urgent.
"We want to be tested," Jaron said, stepping forward.
Kael nodded. "We want to become more than ringless soldiers. Give us the chance."
Mala didn't speak. She simply folded her arms and waited for Ben's answer.
Ben stood before them, lit by the dying sun. His eyes swept over the faces—warriors bruised by training, hardened by ritual, steady under his gaze.
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked the circle slowly, examining them, not as men and women, but as blades. As things forged under pressure.
Finally, he stopped.
"You want rings?" he asked. "Then you must survive the trial."
They nodded. Eager. Focused.
He continued. "But understand this: A ring is not a badge. It's not just strength. It's awareness. Authority. Responsibility. You will carry more than your own weight."
Silence.
Ben looked toward the moon.
"Three days," he said. "At dawn on the third, you'll step into the jungle. You'll face what I did when I went alone to gather salt. You'll not be led. You'll not be guided. If you return—marked or not—you return stronger."
The murmurs grew into low calls of determination.
But he raised a hand.
"This is not for pride. This is not for bloodlust. This is for the tribe."
Boji stepped forward.
"If they go," he said, "then let their names be recorded."
Ben nodded.
"They will. If they pass."
In the shadows, unseen but always watching, Twa Milhoms smiled to himself. He whispered into the dark:
"They begin to understand."
After dismissing the warriors with their challenge set, Ben didn't linger in the village. The sun had dipped just beyond the mountains, casting gold fire through the towering bamboo stalks. He moved with purpose—barefoot, silent—toward the thickest part of the grove.
He didn't need to call.
Twa Milhoms was already waiting, seated upon a flat stone that hadn't been there the day before.
Ben stood at a respectful distance. "They're ready," he said. "Or… they believe they are."
Twa Milhoms didn't look up. His fingers were tracing lines into the dirt with a stick that glowed faintly where it touched the ground.
"And what of you?" the god asked.
Ben hesitated. "I'm not asking for their sake alone. There are many in the militia unmarked. Some are afraid to ask. Others burn with hunger to be seen. And among the marked… some believe they're ready for more."
Twa Milhoms stopped drawing. The silence between them tightened.
"Every mark is a seed," he said at last. "But not all seeds should bloom at the same time."
Ben waited, knowing not to speak.
Then, with a slow motion, Twa Milhoms stood. He faced the open path between Ben's house and the god's own strange dwelling hidden deeper in the bamboo.
He raised his right hand.
The earth groaned.
Beneath the roots and moss, something vast stirred. The soil split with no violence, and rising from the earth came four stone walls—thick and ancient-looking, as if they'd always existed just beneath the surface. Their form was simple, unadorned. A roofless box. A single room. But the stone was older than any they'd used for their homes. It gave off heat, not from fire—but from memory.
And at its front: two enormous stone doors, carved from a seamless slab, each etched with a faint spiral pattern at the center.
Ben stepped closer.
"What is it?" he asked.
Twa Milhoms' voice was low, not cryptic—final.
"The Trial Hall."
Ben nodded slowly, understanding dawning like fire across his shoulders.
"For the unmarked?"
"For all who would become more," Twa Milhoms said. "Unmarked or marked. One ring to two. Or none to one. All will pass through those doors if they wish to ascend."
Ben stepped closer. The air around the stone doors shimmered—not with heat, but with something older. Older than fear. Older than belief.
"Is it a place of testing?" he asked.
Twa Milhoms turned his gaze toward the darkening sky. "It is a place of reflection. What they face inside is not my design. It is what they carry."
Ben was silent for a while.
"And what if someone dies?" he finally asked.
Twa Milhoms gave him a hard look. "Then they die unworthy."
Ben felt the weight of the answer settle into his chest. It was not cruel. It was clear.
"They won't go in alone," he said. "They'll be prepared."
Twa Milhoms gave a short nod. "Then begin preparing them."
But before Ben turned to leave, Twa Milhoms added, "To open the doors, they must bring an offering."
Ben paused, one brow raised. "What kind of offering?"
The god's eyes narrowed slightly, a faint gleam behind them.
"Blood. Not from livestock. Not from tame beasts. The jungle around Ikanbi teems with life and death. Only a ferocious predator slain by their own hands will be accepted. Its body must be dragged before the doors. If the creature is worthy, the stone will part."
Ben absorbed this with a growing stillness. "So not just strength—but courage."
Twa Milhoms nodded once. "Those who hesitate do not deserve the fire beyond those doors."
As Ben turned to leave again, the god called after him.
"Ben."
He looked back.
"Do not tell them what's inside."
Ben tilted his head, uncertain. "Why not?"
Twa Milhoms grinned.
"Because no one faces the same trial."