Twa Milhoms

The sun rose, painting long gold streaks through the bamboo grove. Ben stood quietly at the edge of the camp, watching as Jano tended the fish pens with careful precision. The water shimmered under his hands, life teeming beneath the surface—a promise of steady food that no longer depended solely on risky hunts.

Boji approached from behind, his expression calm but focused. "Jano's been doing well. The fish are healthy. We can think about expanding soon."

Ben nodded, the weight of leadership settling deeper on his shoulders. This was no longer just survival. It was building.

He gathered the tribe beneath the shade of the largest bamboo cluster. His voice was steady, carrying authority shaped by respect.

"Jano watches the fish. Boji leads innovation. Druel builds what we need. Kael and Jaron protect us from the wild. Mala keeps watch at night. Sema cares for the camp and the food. Everyone has a role. This is how we grow stronger—together."

Murmurs rose, eyes meeting in understanding. Some nodded; others looked thoughtful. Roles were no longer just tasks—they were identity, purpose.

Ben scanned the faces, then raised his hand. "We will catch young beasts alive where we can. We will raise them, learn from them. The beasts in the cages near Twa Milhom's house—they are our future."

No one interrupted. The words hung heavy with meaning.

Later, as the day deepened into afternoon, Ben walked the path beside Twa Milhom's home. The strange blue flowers, glowing softly beneath the sun's warmth, whispered secrets Ben had yet to understand.

Twa Milhom appeared silently beside him, eyes glittering with ancient fire.

Ben met his gaze and spoke, "I want to build pens for the young beasts, to feed and protect them."

The god's only response was a slow nod. Then, with barely a flick of his wrist, the earth near the cages shifted and rose—forming low walls and shelters of bamboo and leaf, perfectly suited for keeping the animals safe.

Ben smiled, heart steady with hope.

As twilight wrapped the camp in a quiet embrace, he returned to the fish pens. Jano knelt, feeding the smallest fish, his face serene in the fading light.

Ben stood beside him, whispering to himself, "A god watches us—but it's men who build the world."

As the stars began to burn through the purple veil of night, Ben lingered near the grove's edge. A soft breeze carried the scent of wet leaves and fishwater, and the hum of insects echoed like a lullaby around the sleeping camp.

Twa Milhom stepped out of the shadows as if he had always been there.

His presence bent the silence—not violently, but with weight.

"You watch everything," Ben said, not turning. "Even when I think you're not."

The god didn't answer right away. He walked a slow circle around the nearby pens, gazing at the young beasts in their bamboo shelters, his expression unreadable.

Then, finally, "I do watch," he said. "But not to guide every step. Only to see what you will become."

Ben looked up, meeting his eyes. "Then why help at all?"

Twa Milhom's mouth curved into something between a smile and a sneer. "Because mortals walk blind without fire in the distance. But now, the fire is lit. No more favors, Ben."

Ben absorbed the words slowly, nodding.

"You want me to understand it for myself."

Twa Milhom's voice dropped to a quiet murmur, low and deep. "Everything I do has meaning. Everything I give has weight. But if you take too much too quickly, you'll never know the shape of your own thoughts. You'll become a shadow of a god—not a man."

Ben exhaled slowly, grounding himself. "Then I'll find the meaning. My own way."

Twa Milhom tilted his head. "Good."

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the thick bamboo forest behind his house. As he passed the glowing blue flowers, they pulsed gently, as if breathing with him. The ground itself seemed to make way for him, silent and obedient.

Ben stood alone beneath the stars, not disheartened—but sharpened.

There would be no more hands held, no more divine shortcuts.

And for the first time, he didn't feel fear in that.

He felt free.

Ben remained where he stood long after Twa Milhom had vanished into the night, the words "No more favors" still echoing in his chest like the toll of a distant bell.

He looked at his hands. Calloused. Scarred. Not from divine gifts, but from work—rough, stubborn, human work.

He turned back toward the camp.

Boji slept under the sloped lean-to near the fish pens. Druel snored by the fire, a tangle of limbs and bamboo shavings. Jano stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring something to the fish he guarded as if they were family.

These were not warriors in shining armor. They were rough beginnings of a people. His people.

Ben's steps were slow as he walked among them, his eyes taking in every detail—the nets drying on the racks, the stored roots, the first fenced beasts tucked into their corners of the camp.

All of it had come from ideas. And effort. Not miracles.

He sat near the low fire and stared into the flames, watching them sway and twist.

Twa Milhom was right.

The gifts had been many. The guidance, even more. But without understanding—without struggle—the gifts became chains. And Ben had no intention of living as anyone's puppet, even a god's favorite.

"If we're going to survive, it has to be us. Our sweat. Our choices. Our story."

His jaw tightened as he leaned forward and pulled a small branch from the flames. The embers curled along its edge like coiled snakes.

Ben grinned.

"I understand."

He whispered it into the fire, and the flames flared—just once—as if acknowledging his words.

Then he slept, not as a boy cradled by a god's favor, but as a man standing at the edge of a kingdom not yet born.

The night passed without dreams.

At dawn, Ben rose with the stillness of one who had made a decision while the world slept. The bamboo grove was damp with dew, the fish pens rippling softly with early current, and the beasts in their cages stirred with restless energy.

He moved through the camp without waking anyone, passing each shelter like a silent sentinel. This wasn't just a group of survivors anymore. These were people with roles, with futures—because he had given them one.

Near the edge of the fish pens, he paused. A flat stone jutted from the ground—a stone like the one Druel had used to floor his hut. Ben crouched, running his fingers over its surface. Solid. Weather-worn. Cool.

No more favors.

The words returned again, but this time they didn't sting. They steadied him.

He walked beyond the borders of the camp and into the jungle's edge, where the wild met the worked land. With a broken stick, he began scratching into the dirt—a layout. A path that would loop from the river to the pens, from the pens to the cages, then outward toward the future crop plots.

He drew squares—buildings. Lines—walls. Small notches—watchpoints.

A village.

He was designing a future.

Footsteps approached. Mala, quiet as always. She said nothing, just watched.

Ben didn't look up. "Tell Druel I want every hut raised off the ground. Bamboo floors with stone slates near the entrances to keep mud from tracking in."

Mala nodded, but didn't leave.

He glanced at her. "Also—pick two others you trust. Start building a raised watchstand at the tree line. Use sharpened bamboo. If they don't know why, they're not meant to do it."

Still, she didn't move.

"What is it?" Ben asked.

She tilted her head. "You sound like him now."

Ben blinked.

Mala pointed toward the grove—toward Twa Milhom's home. "You speak with weight now. Not hope. Not fear. Command."

Ben stood and looked at the lines in the dirt again. "Because we can't be a people that only survives. We have to be one that builds. And building takes decisions. Even when they're heavy."

She nodded once, then vanished between the trees like a shadow answering its source.

Ben stood alone at the edge of what would someday be a thriving village, his heart steady. This would be their place. Not because a god willed it—but because he chose to make it real.

Somewhere behind the grove, a low laugh echoed through the trees.

Twa Milhom had heard everything.

And for once, said nothing.