No Sound, No Name
Six months passed in Ikanbi—though no drumbeat counted the days.
The rains came and went, the fish pens widened, and the farmers traced new patterns in the soil. Children grew taller. Hunters brought back larger prey. The tribe breathed, lived, and adapted. To most, life returned to a rhythm—a primitive but steady pulse.
But just beyond that heartbeat, hidden behind the Trial Chamber and the Sacrificial Stone, where the bamboo took on an unnatural hue and the air grew still, another pulse thrummed deeper, sharper.
There, the Shadow Blades bled in silence.
They were no longer part of the militia. Their names weren't spoken aloud. When people asked, they were told the chosen were "on a long hunt" or "training in the highlands." Their families, relocated to central Ikanbi and placed side by side, bore the weight of half-truths with quiet dignity. When whispers rose—Why are they honored? Why them?—no one had the courage to ask twice.
Ben rarely visited.
He didn't need to.
Khôl was enough.
Each day, Khôl woke them before the first bird. No fire, no voice, no delay. They ran barefoot through cold mud until their breath sounded like battle drums. They fought one another in blindfolds. They memorized paths in pitch dark. They learned to stalk without scent, to kill without anger, and to vanish in open daylight. Punishment for failure wasn't pain—it was silence. Isolation. Reflection.
They trained in groups, but answered only to Khôl.
And at night, when the moon pressed low, Khôl sat with each alone, sharing techniques and philosophies from the world that had exiled him. Theirs was a brotherhood not of affection, but of precision. They did not train for war—they trained for what came after it.
Assassination. Espionage. Subversion. Protection.
Not one asked for rest. Not one tried to return.
Their marks—shifted above their hearts—meant something now. Something heavier than power. A burden none would ever speak of again.
—
Elsewhere, in the heart of Ikanbi, the world shifted without knowing.
Sema noticed families gathered closer. The elderly felt safer. Children no longer feared the river. The four militia leaders—Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru—kept close watch but said nothing when the chosen disappeared. They brought calm, not answers.
And Ben? He stood on a high ridge most mornings, watching the sun rise over a stronger tribe than he had ever imagined. But even then, he never looked toward the bamboo. That place was not for eyes. Only trust.
At the end of the six months, twenty-seven warriors emerged.
Their faces were the same.
But something behind their eyes had changed.
They did not kneel.
They did not smile.
And no one remembered their names.
They weren't meant to.
They were never there.
Only shadows.
And now they moved.
They returned as silently as they had left.
At sunrise, the people of Ikanbi woke to strange stillness—no news, no announcement, no call. Yet in the center of the village, sons walked past mothers, and daughters embraced siblings who no longer held warmth in their eyes.
There were no grand reunions.
Only quiet recognition.
A child ran up to her father and froze—he was smiling, but his eyes looked through her. Another husband kissed his wife gently on the forehead before walking away to chop wood without a word.
They were home.
But something had been taken from them… or buried deep.
The villagers whispered:
"They don't speak like they used to."
"They move too silently."
"He used to laugh—now, he listens too much."
Families asked questions.
"Where did you go?"
"What did you see?"
"Why does your mark look like that now?"
But the chosen only smiled, bowed gently, and said nothing.
Khôl's orders were followed perfectly.
What they had become… could not be shared.
Even among kin.
⸻
Beyond the Northern Mountains
Far from Ikanbi, where the cold began to bite at stone and skin, fires blazed inside the war camp of the Red-Clawed Tribe.
The chiefs of blood had gathered.
Around them, warriors sharpened bone axes and greased their skin with beast oil. Rations were measured by the week, and the shamans painted war symbols in dark crimson sap.
The scout commander, stripped of rank for failing to retrieve his full party, spoke only once:
"They move like one mind. They vanish and return changed. We don't know what they are… anymore."
He was beaten for saying that. Left to the dogs.
The war leader, a brute called Ordu, paced around the great flame, his bear-hide cloak dragging over bones of slain enemies.
"Before winter freezes the rivers," he growled, "we burn Ikanbi to ash."
The others grunted in agreement, pounding fists to chest.
But none noticed that behind the tent flaps, a young Red-Clawed warrior trembled—one who had seen Kael's unit drag the boar-beast like it was nothing. One who had watched men disappear and return… not men at all.
And he whispered to himself, "We are not ready."
But like the silence in Ikanbi's shadow grove, his words would never be heard.
Not until it was far too late.
The grove was silent. Not with the hush of wind or the stillness of night, but with a silence carved into the bones. The hybrid bamboo trees grew tall and thick, casting jagged shadows over the moss-covered floor. In that secret place, sound had long been exiled.
Khol stood at the center of it all, his presence like an anchor in the quiet. His eyes scanned the ten figures before him—once warriors, now blank slates. They knelt in rows, faces hollow from discipline and deprivation. Their bodies bore bruises, dirt, and the weight of a thousand unspoken commands.
No words passed between them. None were allowed. Every instruction came in gesture—fingers slicing through the air, hands held at precise angles. Misinterpretation meant punishment, but not from Khol. Nature punished them. The cold floor beneath bare feet, the hunger gnawing at their ribs, the weight of endless expectation.
Movement was a privilege granted only when unseen. Each step had to be calculated—no snap of twig, no breath too loud. They learned to kill the sound of their own existence.
One broke on the third week. His mind buckled. He ran—scrambling through the trees toward the faint scent of fire from the village. He didn't make it far. Khol brought him back, dragging him by the wrist, not in fury but silence. No punishment followed. Just a long look. Cold. Final.
The lesson was clear: There was no outside world for them anymore. Only shadow.
They learned to watch from within the walls of Ikanbi, tasked with slipping in and out without being seen. One of them returned with an elder's prayer stone, another with a child's wooden toy. Neither item was missed. That was the point.
—
In the village heart, life pulsed on.
The families of the ten were moved to the center of Ikanbi—near the command huts and food storehouses. No one said why. The commanders explained only that it was "for safety," and that their loved ones were on "special duty." But no messages ever came. No visits. No signs.
The families bonded through uncertainty. Wives sat beside sisters, husbands leaned on brothers. They shared food, stories, silence.
Meanwhile, the rest of the tribe thrived. The irrigation channels carved from bamboo were extended, feeding rows of primitive crops. The beast cubs, once feared, now nuzzled the legs of children. The women began spinning threads from animal hair and river vine, producing crude but durable cloth. A sense of order emerged, one heartbeat at a time.
—
Not everyone was content.
A few warriors whispered at night. The silence of their missing comrades lingered like ghosts in the village wind.
"Where did they go?"
"Why hasn't Ben spoken of it?"
Some claimed they had seen one of them—just a flicker—in the dark of the treeline. Others insisted the chosen had died, their bodies burned in secret. Tension grew.
Ben summoned the four militia commanders. They sat around the fire, the air thick with unspoken thoughts.
"Some truths," Ben said, "are meant for later."
Mala frowned but didn't press. Enru remained still, watching the flames, unreadable as ever.
—
In the grove, Khol changed the training.
Live trials began. The chosen were tasked with slipping into militia camps to retrieve specific items—tokens, blades, food portions. One returned with a commander's cloak. He smiled. Khol left a scar on his back as reminder: pride was poison.
Detachment was enforced. Emotion was a crack in the armor. Regret, grief, love—these were stripped like skin.
"You are not weapons," Khol told them. "You are the silence before death."
—
The sixth month arrived.
The final phase began.
Names were taken. Each was assigned a new one—short, forgettable labels that matched traits they had shown:
Ash – who moved like smoke.
Echo – who struck only after another moved.
Thorn – who never smiled.
And so on.
They no longer answered to their old lives. They were stripped clean. Polished into tools. Sharpened into ghosts.
"You are not to exist in song, nor in story," Khol said. "Only in effect."
None of them resisted. They knelt. They accepted.
—
That night, as the moon cast pale shadows over the grove, Khol stood before them one last time.
From a leather pouch, he pulled ten blades. Each one simple, unmarked, sharp enough to whisper through bone.
He handed them out in silence.
Each accepted the gift with both hands, bowing—not in submission, but in recognition of what they had become.
Ten shadows. No past. No promise. Only purpose.
And in the village beyond, the fires burned as always, never knowing what had been born beneath the bamboo.