It came low through the trees, whispering warnings to those who could listen. Cold was coming. Not just from the sky, but from the east—from blood, from bone, from the old tribe that smelled of iron and pride: the Red Clawed ones.
Ben stood by the central fire, though no flame danced there. His shadow stretched long across the dirt, and men gathered around him, quiet as stone. These were his warriors, his hunters, his hands. Four stood closest: Kael, Mala, Enru, and Jaron. Their shoulders carried rings, their eyes carried weight.
Behind them stood others—those who kept grain, those who shaped tools, those who counted meat and watched the skies.
"Red Claw comes," Ben said. No shouts, no loud drums. Just the wind and his voice.
"They kill the small tribes. They take what's not theirs. They come hungry, and their hunger will look here next."
Kael stepped forward. "We ready. Our people strong."
"Strong," Mala added, "but few."
Ben nodded. "That's why we plan. We build. We gather."
He turned to Sema, the keeper of grain. "How much before snow eats the land?"
Sema knelt and scratched simple lines into the dust with a stick, her brow furrowed. "Enough to last the white moon," she answered. "But no waste. No feast."
Ben looked next to Jano, who watched the fish pens. "And the river?"
"Still gives," Jano said. "But less each dawn. We gather fast, or go hungry."
Ben nodded again. "Then we gather. We share. No fire burns alone."
Far from the meeting circle, past the new farmland where stones guided rainwater into tidy rows, three figures crept like ghosts through the bamboo—barefoot, silent, unseen.
Shadow Blades.
They had no names now. They were the hush between footsteps. One was once called Echo. Another, Ash. The third, Thorn. No one but Khol knew who they were anymore—not even their kin. Their families lived closer to the fire now, thinking them gone to some special duty. In a way, they were right.
Khol had spoken to Ben just days before, beneath a moon that watched like a judging eye.
"Red Claw feeds on weak tribes," Khol said. "They build for war. They strip bones from the forest."
Ben's eyes didn't move from the fire. "Go see."
Khol sent the three, and they returned without drums, without pride—only purpose.
Echo brought painted skins, symbols of war stacked like trophies.
Ash brought sounds—chants of Red Clawed youth roaring blood-prayers around roaring flames.
Thorn brought maps carved into bark, showing villages crushed, their fires dead.
"They don't come," Khol said. "They hunt. They break. They take. Winter gives them reason."
Ben looked east, toward the bones of mountains. "Then we ready."
He gathered Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru—not by the fire this time, but at the edge of the northern trees. The cold whispered between them. Each came with a second-in-command. Each wore the same expression: calm, sharpened.
Ben stood beside a line scratched into the dirt.
"This line is not land," he said. "This line is what we are."
He pointed east. "There, they burn. There, they tear. Here, we build."
Mala knelt and ran her fingers across the line. "We won't let them cross."
"They will," Ben said. "When they do, you don't hold this line. You bury it under their bones."
Enru's jaw tightened. "My men are ready. But the others whisper… they wonder if we are too few."
"We are," Ben answered. "But we are not afraid."
In the heart of Ikanbi, life continued—but not as before. It moved like water through stone: patient, reshaped.
Children fed beast cubs that now followed whistle commands. Women twisted cords of vine and animal hair into strong ropes for sleds, armor straps, and shelters. Sema divided food carefully, assigning fire pits not by want but by need. Sick ones were moved closer to the river, where hot stones boiled healing herbs.
The laughter still existed, but it came low, behind hands. The old no longer carved story poles. They carved spears.
Even the birds flew quieter.
In the bamboo grove, Khol watched his ten blades stand shoulder to shoulder, neither higher nor lower than the other. They wore no rings. They bore no color. But their posture spoke more than banners.
"You will not join the war," Khol said.
They didn't move. Not one.
"You will live in the cracks between shouts. You will strike when no one watches. Your hands will feed the silence."
They nodded.
"From this day, you are the other arm of Ikanbi. The one we don't raise. The one they never see."
Mist hung over the village like an unfinished breath. The sun failed to rise properly, smothered by thick clouds that dragged across the mountains. The hearths burned small and slow, fed only with fallen branches and dried beast dung.
Ben walked the paths without escort. His cloak hung heavy on his shoulders, but he bore it like he bore the weight of the tribe. The knife at his belt was simple, undecorated. His eyes, however, were sharper than blades.
At Sema's granary, he stopped.
She had lined clay pots beneath cold earth and sealed them with wax and woven bark. Her count was scratched onto a flat river stone.
"How long?" he asked.
"If none get lazy," Sema answered, "sixty-four nights. Seventy if they eat in silence."
Ben nodded. She added, "The meat goes fast. I told the hunters—no lucky walks. Every arrow counts."
"Good."
At the river, Boji and Jano stood near a wide patch of ice where fish moved sluggish beneath frozen water.
"We crack it twice a day," Boji said. "Just enough."
"And when it thickens too far?" Jano asked.
Boji stared into the clouds. "Then we eat boiled root and bitter salt. But we live."
Children fetched twigs nearby, gathering for the small family fires. No one wasted. No one wandered.
Jano dropped his voice. "Ben said this winter is war."
Boji nodded. "Then we make cold our blade. Let them starve when the land refuses them."
That night, Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru met with Ben again, this time around the cold ashes of the council fire.
Ben crouched and scratched four lines in the dirt.
"Four groups. Four walls."
He pointed to each one in turn.
"North—Jaron. Old hunters. They know the trees better than names."
Jaron grunted.
"South—Kael. You're fast. You cut those who try to circle."
Kael gave a nod.
"East—Mala. The Red Claw come loud. You meet them first."
Mala smiled.
"West—Enru. You've seen men like them before. You'll know when they shift."
Enru's hands stayed still, but his eyes burned like the coals of a cooling pit.
"What of the center?" Enru asked.
Ben looked into the cold ash.
"The center stays whole. We protect it. No blade reaches the heart."
There were no cheers, no drums. Only the hiss of wind between unfinished homes and frost on sleeping roots.
Khol stood beneath the trees, watching the leaders walk away.
Ten figures moved behind him like forgotten ghosts.
Khol whispered to no one, "Soon."
And one by one, the blades vanished.