Twa Milhoms

The sun rose slow and soft over Ikanbi.

Druel opened his eyes, lying on his side beneath the frame of his unfinished shelter. He was cold, but the sweat had finally dried from his skin. The strange heat that had flooded his mind the night before had faded, but the world around him felt different—sharper, somehow.

He rubbed his cheek.

The rope-ring marks still faintly burned on his skin.

Nearby, a flat stone gleamed in the early light—the same one that had started it all. Without really thinking, Druel knelt beside it and began to dig around its edges. Then another. And another. He worked in silence, collecting smooth stones, laying them side by side in front of his shelter like a child assembling a puzzle he only half-understood.

Ben approached quietly, arms crossed. He watched for a long while before speaking.

"That for walking?"

Druel didn't look up. "For living. So we're not always carrying the mud inside with us."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "That your idea?"

"I think so," Druel said. Then added, "Maybe it's his."

Ben nodded once. "Keep going."

He turned to leave, then paused. "I'm putting you in charge of all flooring. Shelter interiors. Common spaces. You answer to me."

Druel blinked. "…Me?"

Ben gave a crooked smile. "You're the only one who thought of it. Make something that lasts."

The rest of the tribe wasn't as quick to understand.

By midday, word had spread of Druel's new mark—and his new responsibility. People whispered. Some of the newcomers eyed him warily, remembering the stammering man who once tripped over his own shadow.

"He's marked now?" someone muttered.

"Is that what it takes?"

"I thought Kael was next…"

Sema silenced them with a glare. "He earned it."

Boji added from behind her, "Some people build with sticks. Some build with fishhooks. Looks like Druel builds with rock."

That quieted most of them.

Later that evening, Ben addressed them by the main fire.

"The marks don't make someone better. They show that Twa Milhom sees value in their efforts. That doesn't make anyone holy. It makes them accountable."

He looked toward Druel, who stood near his laid stones, watching the firelight dance across their surface.

"And anyone here can rise. As long as they move forward."

By morning, Druel had his first helpers—Ilari and Hagan, strong and quiet, more muscle than words. The three began experimenting with raised stones, learning how placing them atop thin beds of pebbles gave drainage and stability.

Boji arrived midmorning with bamboo panels and wild excitement.

"What if we used these—here?" he said, sliding a bamboo screen beside the floor. "Imagine dividing sleeping areas! A place for tools! A dry seat!"

Druel just stared.

Boji grinned. "Yeah, I'm helping now. You're stuck with me."

That night, Ben returned home to find the interior of his shelter transformed.

The floor was stone, firm and cool beneath his feet. Bamboo mats layered over the edges gave it warmth. At the far side, Boji had built a small partition—a private space, modest, but real.

Ben exhaled slowly. He didn't realize how much dirt he'd been carrying until now.

He called a meeting the next day.

"This is the standard now," he told them, gesturing inside. "Anyone who wants their shelter improved, speak to Druel. If he approves, you help build it. You want more, you earn it. This is the foundation—not just for homes, but for who we are becoming."

People nodded. Some approached Druel after, hesitant, but curious.

And so the first foundation of Ikanbi truly began.

That night, by the grove, Twa Milhom stood with arms folded.

Ben approached him, hands behind his back.

"You didn't tell me stones could change a man," Ben said.

Twa Milhom's expression was unreadable. "They don't. But the act of laying them does."

Ben sat nearby. "Why are you helping us grow so fast? You could slow it all down. You could test us more."

"I am testing you," the god replied. "But not by pain. By choice. And you haven't asked for power, Ben. Not once. Only purpose. That… is rare."

Ben was quiet a while.

"Will it last?"

"That depends," Twa Milhom said. "On whether you let others rise beside you… or try to build it all alone."

Ben looked down at his hands. Then toward the fire. Toward Druel. Toward the shelters and the people shaping something beyond survival.

The next day, Druel marked the first site for the tribe's communal hall.

The stonework would be slow. Painful. But it would stand for generations. As the first pieces were laid, Ben gave it a name.

M

The House of Purpose.

As the sun set, the tribe stood in silence, watching the foundation take shape.

And Ben whispered to himself

That evening, after the first stones of house purpose were set in place, the tribe lingered longer by the fire than usual. The soft percussion of stone against stone echoed like distant drums, a rhythm that was quickly becoming the heartbeat of Ikanbi's new life.

Druel sat off to the side, his hands covered in dust, his legs aching. He stared at the stones they'd laid—flat and deliberate, unlike the wild ground they used to sleep on. The rope-ring marks on his cheeks pulsed faintly, a quiet reminder that the man he had been just days ago was gone.

Sema brought him a cup of boiled root water and sat beside him.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, nodding toward his face.

He shook his head. "Not anymore. Just… heavy. Like I'm carrying something."

"You are," she said. "A future."

Druel blinked at her, then looked away.

Not far off, Twa Milhom watched silently from the edge of the bamboo grove, standing motionless beneath the twisted stalks that now framed his simple home. The grove had changed again—new shoots of bamboo had grown in a perfect ring around his house, forming a halo of wild but elegant symmetry.

Ben approached quietly, as he often did.

"She's right," the god said without turning. "The boy is carrying something. But it's not a future yet. Just the burden of knowing what must be built."

Ben stood beside him. "You didn't have to give him that knowledge."

"No. But I gave him only what he asked for—purpose. That's all any of you mortals ever want. Most of you just don't know it."

Ben studied him, then the house behind him. "You knew I'd pick him, didn't you?"

"I watched you pick him. There's a difference."

There was a pause. The bamboo leaves rustled above.

Then Twa Milhom added, "You're starting to learn something. Every task, no matter how low, teaches a man about the foundation beneath his feet."

Ben looked toward the building stones glowing faintly under the torchlight.

"Stone first," he whispered. "Then the people."

Later that night, as the fire died low, and most of the tribe slept, Druel remained awake, sitting beside the half-built foundation of Kay Bondye.

From the shadows, Boji wandered over, holding two hollow bamboo mugs.

"I made tea," Boji said. "Might be too bitter, but it keeps the mind sharp."

Druel chuckled and took the cup. "You think I've got a sharp mind now?"

Boji smirked. "I think your hands do."

They sat quietly for a time, watching the stars.

Boji broke the silence. "You're one of us now. For real. You know that, right?"

Druel nodded slowly.

"I know."

Boji grinned. "Good. Because tomorrow, you're showing me how to make stone bathroom floors. I don't care what Ben says—clean feet matter."

As they laughed softly under the open sky, a warm wind blew from the bamboo grove.

It smelled faintly of smoke, of stone, and something else—possibility.

Twa Milhom stood at the edge of it all, watching them.

Not smiling.

But not uninterested.

And as he turned to vanish into the green and gold of his forest, a single word whispered on the wind:

"Better."