Mia sat in the corner of the stone house, knees drawn to her chest, a thin fur wrapped around her shoulders. The silence was thick—not peaceful, but watchful. Even the air here was different. Still. Cold, yet dry. No fire burned in the pit. No steam curled from clay pots. Just stone, the smell of earth, and her own breath clouding before her.
She had not seen Ben since he left her here. She didn't know if it had been hours or a full day. Her body was fed and bandaged, but her mind… her mind was unraveling by the minute.
Her eyes flicked to the door.
No locks. No guards. But she knew better.
Then it opened.
A man stepped in.
He was barefoot. Shirtless. Snow clung to his feet like dust, and yet he didn't shiver. A thick, weathered rope draped around his shoulders and across his back as if grown from his flesh. His torso was short, broad, impossibly dense—like stone come alive. His skin bore no marks, no tattoos, no rings. He did not look at her.
He walked the room slowly, examining the corners, sniffing dried herbs, brushing his fingers across the furs.
Mia remained still.
The man stopped by a pot near the hearth and bent over it.
"Hm," he grunted. "She's thin. But I think the marrow will be sweet. The fear helps the flavor."
Mia's blood went cold.
Footsteps behind him. Ben entered quietly, glancing once at the pot, then at Mia.
"We'll need to soak her first," he said calmly. "She's been underground too long. That toughens the meat."
The man—Twa Milhoms, though Mia did not yet know his name—rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Saltroot? Or crushed onion stalk?"
"Both," Ben replied. "If we have time, add mountain herbs. If not, boil hard."
"She's not big enough to roast."
"No. Stew."
Mia's heart hammered in her chest. Her hands slid along the ground until her fingers found a small stone shard near the edge of the mat. She wrapped her hand around it tight. Her breathing quickened, but she kept her face flat, unmoving.
Still, they did not look at her.
Ben crouched down by the pot and stirred it, though it held no flame.
"Do you think she'll make a good broth?" Twa Milhoms asked, voice smooth.
Ben tapped the clay lid. "We'll find out soon."
Silence.
Mia's knuckles turned white around the shard. She prepared to strike—one good cut to the neck, or at least the throat. If she had to die, she would not do it curled in the corner.
Then the man with the rope chuckled.
It began small. A sharp exhale. Then a full-bodied laugh that filled the room like warm smoke. He clapped Ben on the back and walked away from the pot, shaking his head.
"She's ready to kill you," he said between chuckles.
Ben smirked, but said nothing.
The man walked to the door, picked up a fur from the peg, and tossed it lazily over his shoulder.
Not once did he glance at Mia.
As if she wasn't even there.
Ben followed him to the door, pausing only to say, "You held the stone. That matters."
They stepped outside.
The door shut.
Mia stared at it, frozen.
Her hand slowly uncurled from the shard. Her palm was bleeding.
She looked down and saw a small, smooth pebble where the man had stood—a simple stone, no markings.
It was warm.
Warmer than her own skin.
She touched it, hesitated, then pulled it into her palm and held it close.
She didn't know if she had just been spared… or tested.
But she was still breathing.
And that was more than most could say.
Mia sat still long after the door closed.
The shard of stone in her hand trembled. Her fingers ached from gripping it so tightly. She stared at the warm pebble resting on her lap, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
And as always—she thought.
Not with the luxury of books, or the slow unfolding of stories passed down in peace—but with the sharpened instinct of a girl raised in darkness, in scarcity, in noise and silence that came with fear.
If they had meant to kill her, they would have done it already.
That was the first truth. In her world, you did not speak about food unless you intended to eat. You did not joke about death unless you wanted to show dominance. And yet… something in their voices didn't match the actions. They didn't bind her. They didn't strike. They didn't even flinch when she gripped the shard.
The second truth: power didn't act like power anymore.
Where she came from, strength shouted, punished, demanded. Here? Strength walked barefoot, laughed, and pretended to stew a girl just to see what she'd do.
That frightened her more than any whip or blade. Because it meant they weren't afraid.
And people who weren't afraid were the most dangerous of all.
She stared again at the warm stone.
Why give her that?
A warning? A reward? A puzzle?
Mia didn't know. But she knew one thing with certainty—the ones in charge here didn't lead with fear alone. They led with curiosity. With tests. With quiet.
That changed everything.
So she stopped trembling.
She set the shard down beside her.
And for the first time in days, she let herself breathe like someone who might live.
Mia leaned her head back against the stone wall, breath finally slowed, but her thoughts kept moving.
In her world, there were only ever two kinds of women.
Those who bled early and bore children.
And those who danced with death, hunting beasts and braving the wild alongside men.
The second kind were rare—and broken. Shoved into violence too early, used by men too many times to care about being whole. They fought not for honor, but because there was no other way left to live.
She was seventeen. Strong. Quick. Not yet claimed by either path.
But she was marked.
And now, she was surrounded by strangers with power, food, heat—order. Things her people had barely understood, much less mastered.
In her gut, she knew what others in her place would try.
Beg. Steal. Fight. Run.
None of that would work here.
She had watched the Ikanbi too long to think they were fools.
Their warriors didn't leer. Their leaders didn't bark. Their guards didn't abuse.
It was confusing.
But it was also… an opportunity.
Ben.
The one who led them without raising his voice. The one whose name even the god had not mocked.
He was young—but not soft. Dangerous—but not cruel.
He was a problem.
But maybe also the solution.
Mia turned her eyes to the door and began forming the only kind of plan she could make in a world like this:
If she couldn't fight her way to safety, maybe she could tie herself to the strongest arm in the room.
Bear his child.
Buy her life with something that mattered in every tribe, every season—future.
If she gave him a reason not to discard her, maybe he'd keep the rest of her people alive too.
It was a gamble.
But survival always was.