Twa Milhoms

The air in Ikanbi was still, damp with mist, when Ben rose.

He walked alone at the edge of the bamboo grove where dew clung to every blade of grass and birds called from unseen branches. With each quiet step, he counted his people—not by number, but by burden. What they needed. What they feared. What they were becoming.

The sun crept over the horizon. By the time it kissed the treetops, Ben was already gathering the tribe.

Druel stood near the fire pit, his face still smudged with ash and dust. "I need more stonecutters," he said. "The foundation's not growing fast enough. People want floors before rain season hits."

"You'll have them," Ben said. "Today, you're no longer working alone."

He turned to Mala. "Form a second patrol group. No weapons near the children, and keep the cooking zones guarded. Ikanbi is safe, but the wilds don't care about lines we draw."

Boji raised a hand, grinning. "I'd like to build a second net channel upstream. Less competition, more flow. If we redirect the current just slightly—"

"You're in charge of the waters," Ben said, nodding. "Do what you must."

And just like that, the shape of the tribe began to form.

Roles shifted. Voices grew louder. The stillness of survival gave way to the rhythm of progress.

Midday.

Ben had just finished marking new shelter plots when the sky rippled with heat—and Twa Milhom appeared.

Not from flame, not from thunder, but from the air itself, stepping forward with an amused look on his face.

Several of the newcomers dropped their tools. Druel froze mid-stone.

Twa Milhom's eyes swept the people, then turned to Ben.

"So," he said. "You've decided to mold them."

Ben met his gaze. "I'm trying to give them something to shape themselves into."

"Ah," Twa Milhom mused. "A generous potter."

He stepped closer, walking barefoot across the cooling earth. "But what happens, I wonder, when the clay resists the hands? When one of your chosen chips, or refuses to be fired?"

Ben didn't answer.

"Leadership," the god continued, "is not a crown. It's a weight. Carried by fools. Or gods. Rarely both."

And with that, he vanished, laughter echoing behind him like the rustle of dry leaves.

By late afternoon, that laughter had seeded doubt.

Ilari and Hagan were arguing near the tool racks, voice sharp over the crash of stones.

"You're wasting bamboo!" Ilari snapped. "We don't need curved walls—just ones that stand!"

"We need strength, not speed!" Hagan fired back.

Boji fended off criticism from a handful of the newer fishers who accused him of using too much bait. "We've caught more in two days than in the last ten," he said, frustrated. "You want results or tradition?"

Even Sema, the steady hand of the camp, had cracked. A child had snuck into the cook shelter and stolen dried roots. She'd slapped his hand before realizing she'd raised her voice.

Ben saw it all. And said nothing. Not yet.

That night, he stood before the fire, quiet until the last whisper fell away.

"Today we began to fray," he said. "We are no longer surviving. We are building. And for that to work, we need more than strength. We need understanding."

He looked at them—not as a crowd, but as people, one by one.

"I have no scrolls. No laws etched in stone. But these are the truths I speak, and if you call me chief, then let these be the first laws of Ikanbi."

The fire cracked behind him.

"One: Respect the land. It feeds us. It shelters us. Abuse it, and it will become our grave."

"Two: Do not take more than you need. Greed is poison."

"Three: Protect your kin before yourself. The tribe survives only when its weakest are not left behind."

"Four: Let the work of your hands be shared. One builder cannot shelter all. One fisher cannot feed a village."

"Five: When conflict arises, speak before striking. If you lift your hand in anger, you better be ready to carry the shame."

Silence followed. Thick. Deep.

Then a voice—Boji's—"I'll follow that."

And another. Druel. "So will I."

Mala nodded. "If this is Ikanbi… then I'll protect it."

A wind blew over the fire, cool and damp. In the far distance, clouds rolled over the trees, not thunder yet, but something older—something watching.

Ben stepped down from the stone where he had spoken, his chest tight.

He joined Boji near the waterline, where nets hung from drying frames.

"We've planted seeds," he said.

Boji looked up. "Yeah?"

Ben looked past him, toward the hills beyond the grove.

"What grows next… is out of our hands."

Far from them, beneath the roots of a tree that had never died, the earth stirred.

Twa Milhom knelt, his hand pressed to the soil. His head cocked sideways, as if listening to something the others couldn't hear.

"The land remembers," he whispered. "And now… something stirs."

Then, without a word, he stood and vanished into the dark.

The air in Ikanbi was still, damp with mist, when Ben rose.

He walked alone at the edge of the bamboo grove where dew clung to every blade of grass and birds called from unseen branches. With each quiet step, he counted his people—not by number, but by burden. What they needed. What they feared. What they were becoming.

The sun crept over the horizon. By the time it kissed the treetops, Ben was already gathering the tribe.

Druel stood near the fire pit, his face still smudged with ash and dust. "I need more stonecutters," he said. "The foundation's not growing fast enough. People want floors before rain season hits."

"You'll have them," Ben said. "Today, you're no longer working alone."

He turned to Mala. "Form a second patrol group. No weapons near the children, and keep the cooking zones guarded. Ikanbi is safe, but the wilds don't care about lines we draw."

Boji raised a hand, grinning. "I'd like to build a second net channel upstream. Less competition, more flow. If we redirect the current just slightly—"

"You're in charge of the waters," Ben said, nodding. "Do what you must."

And just like that, the shape of the tribe began to form.

Roles shifted. Voices grew louder. The stillness of survival gave way to the rhythm of progress.

Midday.

Ben had just finished marking new shelter plots when the sky rippled with heat—and Twa Milhom appeared.

Not from flame, not from thunder, but from the air itself, stepping forward with an amused look on his face.

Several of the newcomers dropped their tools. Druel froze mid-stone.

Twa Milhom's eyes swept the people, then turned to Ben.

"So," he said. "You've decided to mold them."

Ben met his gaze. "I'm trying to give them something to shape themselves into."

"Ah," Twa Milhom mused. "A generous potter."

He stepped closer, walking barefoot across the cooling earth. "But what happens, I wonder, when the clay resists the hands? When one of your chosen chips, or refuses to be fired?"

Ben didn't answer.

"Leadership," the god continued, "is not a crown. It's a weight. Carried by fools. Or gods. Rarely both."

And with that, he vanished, laughter echoing behind him like the rustle of dry leaves.

By late afternoon, that laughter had seeded doubt.

Ilari and Hagan were arguing near the tool racks, voice sharp over the crash of stones.

"You're wasting bamboo!" Ilari snapped. "We don't need curved walls—just ones that stand!"

"We need strength, not speed!" Hagan fired back.

Boji fended off criticism from a handful of the newer fishers who accused him of using too much bait. "We've caught more in two days than in the last ten," he said, frustrated. "You want results or tradition?"

Even Sema, the steady hand of the camp, had cracked. A child had snuck into the cook shelter and stolen dried roots. She'd slapped his hand before realizing she'd raised her voice.

Ben saw it all. And said nothing. Not yet.

That night, he stood before the fire, quiet until the last whisper fell away.

"Today we began to fray," he said. "We are no longer surviving. We are building. And for that to work, we need more than strength. We need understanding."

He looked at them—not as a crowd, but as people, one by one.

"I have no scrolls. No laws etched in stone. But these are the truths I speak, and if you call me chief, then let these be the first laws of Ikanbi."

The fire cracked behind him.

"One: Respect the land. It feeds us. It shelters us. Abuse it, and it will become our grave."

"Two: Do not take more than you need. Greed is poison."

"Three: Protect your kin before yourself. The tribe survives only when its weakest are not left behind."

"Four: Let the work of your hands be shared. One builder cannot shelter all. One fisher cannot feed a village."

"Five: When conflict arises, speak before striking. If you lift your hand in anger, you better be ready to carry the shame."

Silence followed. Thick. Deep.

Then a voice—Boji's—"I'll follow that."

And another. Druel. "So will I."

Mala nodded. "If this is Ikanbi… then I'll protect it."

A wind blew over the fire, cool and damp. In the far distance, clouds rolled over the trees, not thunder yet, but something older—something watching.

Ben stepped down from the stone where he had spoken, his chest tight.

He joined Boji near the waterline, where nets hung from drying frames.

"We've planted seeds," he said.

Boji looked up. "Yeah?"

Ben looked past him, toward the hills beyond the grove.

"What grows next… is out of our hands."

Far from them, beneath the roots of a tree that had never died, the earth stirred.

Twa Milhom knelt, his hand pressed to the soil. His head cocked sideways, as if listening to something the others couldn't hear.

"The land remembers," he whispered. "And now… something stirs."

Then, without a word, he stood and vanished into the dark.