The jungle was wet with silence.
Khor crouched beneath a wall of thick brush, his eyes darting between twisted roots and swaying ferns. The cold sweat on his brow had dried twice already, only to return each time he remembered the looks in their eyes—those smug young scouts with no memory of war. No understanding of what it meant to survive.
They had betrayed him.
He had only spoken truth: Don't provoke them. The Ikanbians are not like us. They don't need to shout to kill. They're already becoming something more.
But truth meant nothing to boys raised on dominance. His warnings had been twisted into weakness. Cowardice. Treason. The Red-Clawed chief, ever hungry to prove the tribe's supremacy, had exiled him without a hearing. His wife and two sons were cast out with him, their fate left to the beasts.
They hadn't spoken for two days. There was no need. Every moment had been survival.
And now, crouched beneath the edge of Ikanbi's domain, Khor watched the bamboo sway in eerie rhythm. He'd seen warriors vanish into those stalks and return changed—harder, colder, quiet. That forest wasn't a place. It was a gate.
He rose slowly. His joints ached, his chest hollow from fear. Behind him, his wife whispered, "Don't go."
But he already had.
They caught him before he made it to the grove.
A ring of spears closed in around him—silent, measured, far too fast. These weren't patrolmen. They were trained. Their stance low, coordinated, breathing even. Four of them circled him, and one stepped forward, a curved blade resting against his shoulder.
Khor raised his hands. "I seek no harm. I—"
He never finished.
The air cracked.
A wind blew through the bamboo.
And then—he was there.
Twa Milhoms.
He didn't descend. He didn't flash in light or thunder. One blink, and the space behind the soldiers now held a man clothed in ash-colored robes and woven shadow. The spears dropped instantly, but the warriors didn't move. No one did.
Twa Milhoms said nothing to Khor.
He waved his hand.
Khor blinked, and another man stood beside him.
Ben had been speaking with Boji near the southern fields, discussing seed rotation. The sun was warm, his mouth mid-laugh—then, nothing.
No warning. No feeling.
Just bamboo.
He stood now in the shaded clearing, flanked by unfamiliar faces. The stench of fear clung to the man kneeling before him, who barely dared to look up.
Twa Milhoms stood between them.
"This man seeks what all do when stripped of pride—mercy," the god said, his voice like breath against stone. "What becomes of him and his blood is yours to decide, Ben of Ikanbi."
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
The clearing was too quiet. Not even the leaves rustled.
Ben stared at the kneeling man—his armor cracked, boots torn, lips trembling. In the brush behind him, a woman held two boys close, her eyes wide but unblinking. They looked nothing like enemies. They looked… displaced.
"I know who you are," Ben said.
Khor flinched. "Then you know what I've seen."
"I know your scouts. I don't know you."
Khor hesitated. Then said, "I told them not to fight you. I told them you were changing. Becoming. They laughed. Now I'm here."
Ben took a step forward, then stopped. "What do you want?"
"Not safety," Khor whispered. "Just a chance to exist without running."
Ben looked over his shoulder, half-expecting Twa Milhoms to return with more riddles. But the god had left him with silence—and a decision.
"You're from the Red-Clawed Tribe," Ben said slowly. "But you come alone, with no weapon. You ask nothing… but you bring a family."
"They are all I have."
Ben turned to the guards. They waited for orders, eyes hard but respectful.
Finally, Ben said, "You'll follow me. Your family too. But not into the village."
Khor nodded. "Of course."
"You'll earn everything. I'll protect you only as long as your actions deserve it. We don't trade in promises. Only in what's earned."
He turned. "Bring them. Let's walk."
Khor breathed again for the first time in hours. His wife silently emerged from the trees, clutching their sons, her jaw tight but unyielding. As they stepped behind the warriors, Khor felt his knees go weak.
He had not found salvation.
But maybe—just maybe—he'd found the start of something close.
Khol walked behind Ben in silence, his family trailing like shadows. The air felt thicker with every step, not just from the weight of exile—but something deeper. The trees around them seemed to hush their rustling, the ground firmer beneath their feet. Khol said nothing. Neither did Ben.
At the edge of the bamboo grove, just before the path that led deeper into Ikanbi, the world changed.
Far away—unseen by any of them—Twa Milhoms smiled.
It was a subtle curve of ancient amusement, unseen and unfelt by the living. But its consequence would not remain hidden.
Khol stopped mid-step, staggered by a sudden heat flooding his body. His eyes widened, and he clutched his shoulder where the faded mark of the Red-Clawed god once sat.
That old mark pulsed.
Then tore.
The energy ripped from his flesh like a dying ember, unraveling into the unseen. His scream never made it past his lips. He stumbled, falling to one knee.
Ben turned just in time to see Khol arch forward, gasping.
A new pain seared across Khol's face, just above his left brow. The mark formed in silence, not branded but awakened—the crescent eye of Twa Milhoms, glowing for a heartbeat before settling into flesh.
Ben stepped forward, eyes fixed on Khol, puzzled—but something in the air made it clear. This wasn't madness. It was… acceptance.
Ben didn't hesitate. He extended his hand.
"Come," he said. "You're not with them anymore."
Khol looked up, shaken but grounded in a new kind of loyalty. He rose and took Ben's hand.
Somewhere, deep beyond the bamboo—Twa Milhoms watched. Still smiling.
He had not spoken. He had not waved.
But his will had been done.
Ben stood with Khol just outside the grove. The newly marked man kept touching his forehead where the symbol of Twa Milhoms now rested, still raw. His eyes darted between the trees as if he could sense something no one else could.
Ben turned to him, silent, then looked into the bamboo trail ahead.
"Come," he said simply.
They walked in silence. The forest gave way to shadowed stillness as they approached the domain of the one who watched all but revealed nothing until it served a purpose.
There, beneath the thick-hanging branches that always seemed too still, Twa Milhoms appeared—not with thunder, not with light, but as though he had always been there and they were simply catching up to the truth.
Ben didn't bow. He never had.
Instead, he spoke, eyes steady. "Why him?"
Twa Milhoms said nothing at first. He studied Khol—not with suspicion, but with certainty, like a carpenter assessing a tool long forgotten but perfectly suited for what came next.
Then, he smiled.
That was all it took.
Khol gasped.
His knees buckled. He dropped, palms scraping the dirt, but his eyes remained wide open, locked on the god as something—knowledge—was forced into him like rushing fire through brittle wood.
His mouth moved, but no words came. His eyes rolled, then steadied. Sweat poured from his skin. His body trembled violently as visions filled him:
How to vanish among enemies like a shadow that was never there.
How to listen to whispers meant for no ears.
How to kill when needed, with silence as the only witness.
How to see patterns in chaos, and weave truths from deception.
How to slip behind borders, minds, hearts—and break them.
Ben watched it all. He said nothing.
After a while, Khol stopped shaking.
He lifted his head slowly, eyes sharp—sharper than before. There was something new behind them. Not devotion. Not madness.
Precision.
He stood without help, a man reshaped.
Twa Milhoms finally spoke, voice like rusted metal over stone.
"He is mine now. The silence behind your war drums. The blade behind your open hands."
Then he faded once again.
Ben turned to Khol, whose breathing had slowed. His gaze was distant, calculating, but rooted.
"You ready?" Ben asked.
Khol nodded once. "Tell me where to begin."