The morning in Ikanbi began like any other. The mist curled low over the ground, rising from the roots of the bamboo groves. The militia stood in formation, their muscles still sore from the previous day's training, but their eyes focused. The routine had become part of them—movements, breath, silence.
Ben walked the line once, hands behind his back, nodding occasionally. Enru adjusted the stance of a younger soldier. Kael, Mala, and Jaron stood like stone.
Then the air shifted.
Twa Milhoms appeared, not with sound or flash, but with a presence that silenced birdsong. His gaze swept over them once, unreadable. And then, with the flick of a hand, everything vanished.
Their feet landed on stone—hard, dry, cold.
Massive walls stretched up into the sky. Not trees, not cliffs, but something carved by human hands and sharpened by time. The Ikanbians stood at the base of a fortress more enormous than any structure they had imagined. Banners flapped above them, foreign symbols dancing in a language they did not know.
Men in iron armor marched overhead, eyes forward, boots striking in unison. Curved horns bellowed. Massive beasts—armored horses—snorted and shifted behind the walls.
Ben looked down. They were clad in tight-fitting leather tunics. Strange round shields clung to their arms. Bronze-tipped spears weighed down their hands. None of it felt like their own—but it was theirs now.
A grim-faced commander—helmeted, scarred, efficient—strode forward, pointed to a breach in the wall, and jerked his chin toward it. No words. No questions. Just expectation.
The Ikanbians were being ordered to defend a place they had never seen.
The formation dragged them along. Their confusion was evident: why do the others move so uniformly? Why did they eat in silence? Why did they obey without being told twice?
Enru answered, quiet but steady. "This is their way. It must become ours—at least for now."
They trained alongside these silent warriors. Lunch was given in bowls they did not recognize. They sat in rows and ate without speaking, watching how those around them moved.
Then the sky darkened.
A line of siege towers lumbered across the horizon. Each step of the towers sounded like thunder. Arrows rained from above, slicing the wind. The gate shook as a battering ram struck.
Ben lifted his shield. The others followed.
The enemy came—silent and armored, machines of muscle and will. The Ikanbians fought desperately. Their weapons were simpler, their shields lighter, but their hearts were not.
Jaron took a spear to the thigh. He gritted his teeth, snapped it off, and kept fighting.
Mala and Kael moved like wind, knocking down ladders and slashing ropes. They turned jungle agility into battlefield rhythm.
Enru gathered those near him and charged up a spiraling stairwell, driving the enemy back long enough to seal a crack in the wall.
Boji—steady Boji—was at the gate. When a part of the wall crumbled, he threw two others to safety before the stone crushed him.
Ben fought without pause. Blade, then spear, then bare hands. He could feel every heartbeat of his men. Then the banner fell. The defenders broke. The end came swiftly.
And silence took them.
One by one, they died.
Some with terror. Others with peace. Many confused. But all fell.
Then breath returned.
Ben opened his eyes. His face was in the soil of Ikanbi. His chest burned. Around him, others gasped and rolled to their knees.
They were whole—but changed.
No one said anything. Not immediately.
They walked to the meal circle, still in silence. Sema brought them food, but many did not eat. Some stared into the dirt. Others looked toward the sky, blinking like men who had seen something they could never unsee.
That night, no one returned to their huts.
They lay down in the dirt, shoulder to shoulder. Their bodies needed rest, but their minds wandered.
Ben stood as the last rays of light died beyond the bamboo line. His voice was steady, but low.
"We died for a place we didn't understand. One day, our enemies will do the same for ours."
No one answered.
But no one slept alone.
The third time it happened, no one screamed.
No one ran to the fields. No one shouted into the forest. The sky broke like it always did, the wind rolled down from the ridges like it always did. But when the militia vanished—again—it was as if Ikanbi held its breath in mourning, not confusion.
The first time, there had been panic. The second, unease.
But this?
Now there was silence.
Only Sema moved with urgency. She laid out the food bowls the way she'd learned from Twa Milhoms himself, grounding herself in rhythm and duty. She didn't ask when they would come back. She only made sure they'd have food if they did.
Around her, the rest of the tribe moved like ghosts. Work was slower. Conversations hushed. The forge rang less frequently, the children didn't wander far. The bamboo groves beyond the clearing suddenly felt too quiet—like they, too, were waiting.
Then, near dusk, the first of them reappeared.
He collapsed face-first into the dirt, then rolled onto his back and began to sob—not loud or broken, but soft and steady, as if he were unsure he had survived at all.
Another returned soon after—gripping his head, looking up at the sky with haunted eyes. He muttered to no one. "They screamed. They screamed until there was no sound left in their throats."
Sema froze.
She had seen this before—but this time, it was different.
This time, they didn't just look shaken.
They looked hollowed.
One by one they came, each more fractured than the last. Some vomited. Some dropped to their knees and kissed the soil. A few fell into the arms of the onlookers, crying without shame.
The people of Ikanbi didn't ask questions. They only watched. This was the third time. And now, they understood the pattern.
With every disappearance, something inside the warriors was stripped away—and something else was forged in its place.
By nightfall, most had returned. But they did not gather near the fire pits or eat in groups like before. They found quiet places to sit, to breathe, to remember.
No one talked about where they had gone. They never did.
But they all looked at each other with the same question behind their eyes: Would there be a fourth time? And if there was—how many of them would return as themselves?
Sema stood over the food that had grown cold. She watched Ben return last again, his walk slower than before, his gaze distant.
She didn't ask.
He didn't speak.
But the look he gave her held a truth deeper than words.
They were still alive—but not unchanged.
And the world that shaped warriors had begun to carve into them for real.