Twa Milhoms

The sound woke him before the sun did.

Not shouting. Not beasts. Not even the wind that clawed at the trees most mornings.

It was the sound of splitting bamboo.

Ben sat up, rubbing his eyes. Around him, the soft stirrings of a waking camp: Mala stoking embers, Sema washing her hands near the water basin, Boji counting fish silently with a smooth rhythm.

But above it all—the snapping, rhythmic and deliberate.

He rose, followed the sound up the slope past the grove.

At the edge of the bamboo forest, Twa Milhom stood shirtless, surrounded by vines and stalks bending unnaturally toward his hands. The air shimmered slightly. There were no tools, only gestures. The bamboo obeyed him—not like a servant, but like a river bends to rock.

Walls formed first—wide, thick, overlapping. Curved beams sloped upward as stalks knit themselves together at the top, creating a flowing, layered roof. Vines slithered upward to bind and reinforce the joints. A natural arch opened into what would become a central hall, with five more chambers spiraling off it.

Six rooms. A structure neither crude nor overly refined.

Functional. Beautiful. Alive.

Ben stepped into the doorway.

Inside, the air was cool. Not from shadow, but from breath—the way the bamboo vented light and warmth with slow precision. Floor mats formed of hardened leaves crisscrossed each chamber.

A corner alcove near the back had a raised stone platform. Not a throne. Not a bed. Something in between.

Twa Milhom stepped through behind him, hands on his hips.

"This is yours," he said flatly. "You'll need a place to think. And a place to be seen."

Ben touched the wall. It thrummed beneath his fingertips.

"Did you do this for me?"

Twa Milhom smirked. "No. I did this so you'll stop asking me for rope and shelter. Now let the others build something of their own. You lead them. They follow your example."

Ben chuckled softly. "You built it better than I ever could."

The god shrugged. "Then try harder next time."

Later that day, Ben gathered the others before the new house.

Their eyes widened at the size, the smooth arch of the beams, the woven mats.

"I won't build you homes," Ben said. "But this one? Use it as a model. This is what we aim for. You want something like it? Start cutting, tying, and sweating."

There were no cheers. But heads nodded.

Then he began to assign roles.

He turned to Kael and Joren, both already armed.

"You two. You know how to move in the wild. You'll hunt for all of us. Share the danger. Share the food."

Kael nodded once. Joren squinted at the house.

"And if we don't come back?" Joren asked.

Ben didn't hesitate. "Then we'll eat roots and thank you for the time you gave."

Next, he looked to Sema.

"You're in charge of cooking and food keeping. Smoke it, dry it, whatever it takes to make it last. You figure it out. Anyone steps out of line in your space—you come straight to me."

Sema smirked. "Good. I've got plans."

Then, finally, he pointed to Mala.

"You're our eyes. You'll post up at the high points. If anything comes that doesn't look like food, shout. If it moves like death—kill it first."

Mala gave a rare smile. "Finally."

Boji, listening nearby, kept his head low. But Ben caught his eye and nodded once. His role was already sealed. No need to speak it again.

The next few hours moved with silent purpose.

Kael and Joren vanished into the forest, spears in hand and ropes across their shoulders.

Sema dug the beginnings of a firepit—not for warmth, but for preservation, a plan already blooming in her head.

Mala climbed the slope to a rock ledge overlooking the southern approach, spear slung across her back.

Boji wandered along the river's edge, measuring space for a second trap line and sketching it in the mud with a twig.

And Ben, now standing inside the new house, began placing things slowly—stones, baskets, vines. A space for food. A space for meeting. A corner for solitude.

It was not a throne room.

But it would be where judgment began.

That night, they gathered in the center room of Ben's house.

The fire was modest, seated in a stone bowl with open vents. Sema served dried meat and roasted roots. Mala reported no movement. Boji slept early, exhausted from rigging a new water line. Kael and Joren had not returned—but none were yet worried.

Ben sat cross-legged near the center, sharpening a blade of black bone.

It wasn't silent.

There was laughter. Small talk. The kind of noise that happens when people stop surviving and start living.

Twa Milhom passed by the open door once. Just a silhouette at the edge of the bamboo grove. He didn't enter. Didn't speak.

But the house itself still pulsed gently with the weight of his will—not magic, but reminder.

Ben looked around at the ones who had chosen to stay.

Chosen to follow.

Chosen to build.

He thought of how far they'd come from ash and fleeing, from hunted footsteps in dying dirt.

Now, at the edge of the forest, with walls rising and roles taken up willingly, he knew something had changed.

They were no longer just the branded.

They were becoming something more.

And the house stood—not as shelter, but as promise.

The fire had burned low, its coals pulsing like heartbeats under a thin layer of ash. Boji was curled on a mat near the door, snoring gently, a half-tied net still in his hand. Sema dozed upright with her back against the wall, a wooden spoon resting on her shoulder. Mala sat with her legs crossed, chin on her knee, eyes open, watching the doorway like a sentinel even in peace.

Ben remained seated, unmoving. The blade in his hand was polished now, shaped into something real. It had no carvings. No god's name. Just balance, weight, and edge.

He placed it beside him and stood.

Outside, the bamboo grove whispered with the soft breath of night insects. The stars had come out like quiet witnesses—uncountable, ancient, and disinterested.

Ben stepped out from the warmth of the firelight and walked down the worn path to the edge of the grove. The house stood behind him like a sentinel of something newly born.

He walked barefoot into the heart of the garden, where Twa Milhom's hut sat—still and unlit.

The god was sitting outside it, rope in hand, carving new lengths of vine into coils.

He did not look up.

"I know I said not to build me anything else," Ben said quietly. "But thank you."

Twa Milhom gave a grunt, not quite a laugh. "You don't have to thank me."

"I do," Ben said. "You gave me a model. Now I'll make it mine."

The god twisted the rope and tied off a knot with elegant speed. Then he looked up, eyes catching a glint of starlight.

"You still don't understand, do you?" he said.

Ben folded his arms. "What?"

Twa Milhom pointed to the house.

"That house isn't just wood and bamboo. It's weight. They'll measure themselves by what you do with it. Your failures. Your strengths. Your silences."

Ben looked back toward the soft glow inside the home.

"I didn't ask for that," he said quietly.

"No one ever does," Twa Milhom replied. "But if you're strong enough to carry it, then you deserve to stand where others kneel."

There was silence between them.

Then Ben nodded once and pulled a stone from his satchel—smooth, black, sharp-edged. He walked to the center of the grove and, with his bare hands, began to carve a symbol into the soil. Not a sigil of worship. Not a god's name.

A circle.

Simple. Balanced. Complete.

He stood up and dusted his palms.

"This," he said, "isn't a shrine. It's a reminder. If I ever forget why I lead… bring me here."

Twa Milhom stared at the mark, eyes unreadable.

Then, without a word, he rose to his feet.

He stepped forward, raised a hand toward the symbol, and flicked his fingers.

The circle glowed for a breath—just a breath—and cooled again, the light fading.

Then he turned and walked back into the dark without another sound.

Ben stood there a little longer, the wind brushing his shoulders like an old friend.

Behind him, the house waited.

Inside it, a tribe—his tribe—slept for the first time beneath a roof that was theirs.

And above, the stars blinked, slow and eternal, as if watching a new fire begin to rise from the dust.