Twa Milhoms

The sky split with the pale gray of morning as Ikanbi stirred. Birds called low and restless across the trees, and the bamboo leaves danced lightly in the wind. Around the central fire pit, the tribe gathered quietly, waiting.

Ben stood before them, arms crossed, the firelight casting his face in sharp, golden shadows.

"We're done scavenging," he said. "From now on, we build. We plant. We hunt with purpose."

In his hand, he held a bark tablet Boji had helped him make. On it were crude, charcoal drawings of five plants. Ben raised the slab for all to see.

"These are what Twa Milhom showed me. These are what we grow next."

He pointed to each drawing as he named them.

"Fireleaf—red-veined. You'll smell it before you see it. It stings the tongue."

"Shalla Root—grows underground, yellow when peeled, looks like a twisted fist."

"Thimblebark—peels clean. Wraps food, seals wounds."

"Nula Pods—sour, green, shaped like claws."

"Black Fronds—by water. Dry them, grind them. It'll keep you standing when meat runs out."

Kael and Jeron were the first to step forward, nodding. "We'll find them," Kael said. "Even if we have to go through every bush in Ikanbi."

Ben clapped both men on the shoulder. "Take Mala's scouts. Watch the trees, not just the ground."

Then he turned to the others, his voice rising with purpose.

"Sema, Druel—you'll begin the planting ring. Boji will build tools. Everyone works. Everyone eats."

There were no cheers. Only the solemn silence of people who knew what work meant.

Then came the part they hadn't expected.

"I'm going," Ben said. "North. Past the ridges."

Boji looked up from his notes. "To the salt?"

Ben nodded. "Twa Milhom told me where. If we find it, we don't just feed ourselves—we keep food longer. Heal faster. Trade in the future."

The silence deepened. Mala stepped forward. "You're not going alone."

"I'll need you to escort me halfway," Ben agreed. "Then return to the tribe. They'll need your eyes more than I will."

They departed at midday. The sun climbed high, and the jungle heat settled heavy across their shoulders.

Ben and Mala moved swift but silent. Two scouts followed at a distance, fanning out and marking the trail with notches in trees and hanging vine markers.

The deeper they went, the stranger the land became.

First came the blue moss, clinging to the roots of fallen trees like frost in summer. Then the birds stopped singing. Only the sound of footsteps and breath remained.

"Is this part of what he described?" Mala asked, glancing around.

Ben nodded. "We're close."

Mala's eyes lingered on him. "Come back. Don't be the first leader I follow into a grave."

He said nothing. Just clasped her wrist once before stepping alone into the thickening trees.

Ben's journey turned brutal quickly.

The underbrush grew thicker, vines snagging his legs, and the stone beneath his boots shifted dangerously. At one point, a heavy branch cracked underfoot—and a shape moved in the shadows.

A predator. Low, wide, four legs, eyes like wet black coals.

Ben froze.

The creature sniffed once, twice… then slinked back into the trees. He didn't breathe until its scent faded.

Later, crossing a dry streambed, he slipped on algae-slick stone and gashed his arm open. Blood spilled down his forearm as he tied it off with shredded cloth. The pain reminded him he was still human—still very, very mortal.

As night neared, the landscape shifted again. The air smelled sharp—like iron. And there it was.

The salt flat.

A wide, low basin hidden between stone ridges. Cracked, white-streaked earth surrounded shallow pools that shimmered under the last golden rays of sun.

Ben dropped to one knee, scooping up a handful of crusted salt crystals.

Twa Milhom's voice echoed in his mind:

"Scrape the stone. Boil the water. Let the sun do the rest."

He pulled out the gourd Boji had packed and filled it with briny water. Then scraped what crystal he could into his pack, careful to avoid bruising the surface.

He found a sheltered spot near a stone wall, lit a small fire, and sat back, listening to the stillness.

This place was untouched.

Unclaimed.

And soon, it would feed his people.

Ben stared into the flame.

"We're going to survive," he whispered. "Not just for today… for all the tomorrows."

Behind him, something massive moved in the dark—but it did not come closer. Whether it was the scent of salt, or the memory of something greater, it left him alone.

And the fire burned on.

The fire crackled low.

Ben sat motionless, staring into its glow, thinking of his people. Of Boji's ridiculous excitement over fish traps, of Sema's quiet hands in the soil, of Druel and his stone obsession. Even of Mala's sharp eyes and sharper words. They were building something. He had to bring this salt back.

A low growl broke the silence.

Ben stiffened.

It wasn't far.

He rose slowly and turned. A shadow peeled away from the edge of the ridgeline, slipping down the rocks like living oil. Its shape was long and low, the shoulders rippling beneath a coarse pelt marked by black slashes. Eyes glowed amber in the dark. A predator.

A Shavasa Beast—Twa Milhom had mentioned them once in passing: "If the birds stop singing and the trees hold their breath, either a god is near… or something worse."

Ben stepped back, hand on the haft of his spear.

The beast stepped forward. Muscles twitched beneath its skin. Its breath steamed.

Ben raised the weapon.

The beast lunged.

They collided like thunder. Ben's spear struck its side but glanced off thick hide. He rolled, slashing upward with the obsidian dagger at his belt. It nicked fur. The beast roared, teeth snapping inches from Ben's throat.

He kicked hard, flipping himself backward to his feet. Blood dripped from his side, where a claw had grazed him.

This wasn't a battle of skill. It was survival.

He circled it slowly, breath heavy, body burning. The beast stalked, waiting. Testing.

Ben feinted left, then dove right. His spear struck true—deep into the beast's front leg. It shrieked and spun, catching him across the back with its tail. He hit the stone hard.

Stars danced across his vision. He spat blood.

It charged again.

This time, he didn't dodge.

He met it.

Slammed his shoulder into its chest, driving the broken haft of the spear like a stake between its ribs. As they fell, he twisted the dagger in its neck, again and again, until the beast shuddered… then stilled.

Silence returned.

Ben lay beneath the beast's corpse, panting, drenched in blood that wasn't all his.

He pushed the heavy body aside and stood slowly, shoulders trembling.

His eyes locked on the fire.

It still burned.

And so did he.

By sunrise, Ben was dragging part of the beast's hide back to camp. His wounds were bound in strips of bark and cloth. The salt pouch was still secure.

His feet were unsteady, but his spine never bent.

He had walked into death's jaws… and walked back out again.

A one-ring warrior.

A leader who bled, killed, and survived—not for glory.

But because his people needed him to.

And somewhere in the distance, from deep within Ikanbi's bamboo forest, Twa Milhom smiled.