Ben entered his home, brushing frost from his shoulders as he closed the heavy stone door behind him.
The room was quiet. The same as he had left it—until he looked up.
Mia stood near the center mat, her fur cloak laid aside. Her body was bare, arms at her sides, her posture neither shy nor brazen. Her eyes were sharp, watching him like a hunter watches a trap.
Ben's expression didn't change.
He set his bundle of dried herbs and meat near the pit.
Then Mia spoke, her voice flat, steady.
"I can give you a child."
The words hung in the air—cold, deliberate.
Ben stood still for a moment, then turned to face her fully.
"I don't need a child," he said.
"You need loyalty," she replied. "You need people who will survive the winter and have a reason to stay loyal."
Ben narrowed his eyes.
"You think a baby buys you loyalty?"
"In my world," she said, "it buys food. Shelter. Maybe mercy."
Ben exhaled slowly and walked past her, not looking at her body, only at the stone bench near the wall. He picked up the folded cloak and held it toward her.
"We're not in your world anymore."
She didn't take it.
Ben turned back.
"I don't lead with my bed. I don't lead with fear. I don't lead with bargains made in the dark."
He stepped closer, quiet now.
"If you want to stay here, you'll do it standing up. Not laying down."
Finally, Mia reached out and took the cloak, wrapping it tightly around herself.
Her face was unreadable.
"You're the strangest man I've ever met," she muttered.
Ben almost smiled.
"No," he said. "I'm just free."
He moved to the door again.
"You want to be useful? Then learn how to use your hands for something that keeps others alive. We're not building families yet. We're surviving."
He opened the door, pausing once before stepping into the cold.
"Next time, don't offer yourself like meat. That's not how we see people here."
And then he left.
Mia stood in the silent room, heart racing—her plan dissolved, her future uncertain, her world turned sideways.
And for the first time in years, she didn't know what to do next.
Outside Ben's home, the cold wind had softened under a pale winter sun. Snow still blanketed the earth in thick silence, but within the Ikanbi camp, life moved steadily.
Warriors repaired shelter walls. Children hauled stone. Older civilians inspected storage pits and ration bundles with quiet focus. Winter had not broken—but it had eased.
Near the lower granary, Kael and Mala stood side by side, watching militia patrols trace the ridgeline paths.
Kael spoke first.
"You remember them?" he asked quietly. "The two by the watchtower?"
Mala didn't need to ask who. She nodded once.
"The woman who forgave him," Kael continued. "After what he did. After what Ben let her decide."
Mala crossed her arms. "She could've sent him away. No one would've blamed her."
"But she didn't," Kael said. "And now look at them. Every time she leaves for patrol, he waits by the gate. Doesn't speak. Just prays. And when he's out there—she does the same."
Mala exhaled slowly. "They built something real. After something broken."
Kael looked toward Ben's longhouse in the distance.
"I've been thinking about that," he said. "Not because we're like them… but because maybe we've been afraid to be seen."
Mala was quiet, snow crunching faintly beneath their boots.
"I want to tell Ben," Kael said finally. "Not just about us. I want to ask Twa Milhoms to marry us. Like them."
Mala turned to him. Not as a warrior. Not as a second-in-command. As the woman who had bled beside him. Who had held the line with him. Slept in frost beside him.
"It's time," she said.
They stood there a moment longer—two five-ring warriors, strong and scarred. Ready for something more than survival.
Inside the stone house, Mia sat cross-legged on a fur mat, wrapped in her cloak.
The underground warmth from the stone bed kept the cold at bay, but her mind was far from still.
Her first attempt had failed. She had offered Ben a child—and been met not with punishment or hunger, but with calm refusal.
A refusal that felt… foreign.
In the Duru tunnels, power was raw. Survival came through submission or dominance. Never in-between.
But here?
Here was something else.
She replayed his words. His stillness. The way he had handed her the cloak without anger.
And something began to shift in her.
"Maybe I came at him wrong," she thought. "Too direct. Men like him… maybe they need something softer first. Something earned."
She adjusted her posture, smoothed her hair. Reframed her plan.
If not a child, then comfort.
If not comfort, then usefulness.
If not that—then something.
She didn't know what yet.
But she would figure it out.
Outside, the wind skimmed over stone and snow.
And inside, Mia prepared her next move.
There were still ways to survive.
And she wasn't done.
Ben returned late, silent as always, shaking snow from his shoulders at the threshold. Mia was seated near the hearth, fully cloaked this time, her hair tied back, hands busy weaving narrow vines into rope.
He glanced at her briefly before setting down his foraged bundles.
"You're up," he said simply.
"I asked for something to do," she replied. "One of the older women gave me leftover cord. Said the last batch split too easy in cold."
Ben nodded once.
She didn't rise. Didn't smile. She just kept weaving.
"You were right," she said. "About not needing another mouth. About standing."
Ben watched her fingers for a moment.
"I don't ask people to change," he said. "I ask them to grow."
She met his eyes. There was no anger in them. No warmth either. Just stillness.
Mia hesitated, then spoke with quiet resolve.
"I'd still give you a child," she said. "But not as a trade. Maybe one day… because we
The door creaked open, and Ben stepped inside, his cloak dusted with snow. He said nothing as he shook it off, moving with that same quiet, unreadable weight. Always calm. Always watchful.
Mia sat near the hearth, cross-legged on a thick hide. Her hands were busy, threading dried vine into tight lengths of cord.
She didn't look up when he entered, but her voice was steady.
"I asked for something to do."
Ben glanced at the bundle in her lap, nodded once, and set down a sack of dried roots and wrapped meat.
"I don't ask people to change," he said. "I ask them to grow."
She looked at him then. Really looked. There was no visible ring above his brow—no rope-mark or Roman numeral like the other warriors bore. Just smooth, silent skin and eyes that seemed far older than his face.
And still… the way people moved around him, the way they obeyed without hesitation…
She couldn't read him. Couldn't feel anything.
It made her uneasy.
Still, she spoke softly.
"I'd still give you a child," she said. "Not for food. Not for safety. Maybe one day—because we survived the same winter."
Ben held her gaze for a beat. Then turned toward the door again, as if her words had passed through him like mist.
Before he could reply, a soft knock came from the other side.
Ben opened it without pause.
And Kael and Mala stepped into the room.
Mia went still.
She had seen them once, from a distance—two of the tribe's strongest. She hadn't known names then. But now, seeing them up close, she noticed the marks: dark rope circles inked just above their left brows, each etched with a bold V in the center.
Five-ring warriors.
Not elders. Not chiefs.
Fighters. Survivors.
And yet, they bowed their heads slightly as they entered—to him.
Ben, who still bore no mark.
Ben, who showed no energy.
Mia's stomach tightened. She realized, too late, she'd stepped into a world where power didn't roar—it whispered.
Kael nodded in greeting. "We'll be brief."
Ben stepped aside. "She stays," he said.
Mia kept her eyes on her hands.
Mala spoke first. "We've been together. Since before the Red Claws."
"We want to make it known," Kael said. "To you. To the tribe. To Twa Milhoms."
Ben looked at them both. He said nothing at first, only studied them in the quiet way he always did—like weighing stone.
"You're sure?" he asked.
"We've bled together too long to doubt it now," Mala said.
Ben nodded.
"Then be ready at dusk," he said. "You'll speak to Twa Milhoms."
Kael and Mala gave one last glance—at Ben, then briefly at Mia—and left as silently as they had entered.
When the door shut again, the warmth in the room seemed thinner.
Mia let out a breath she hadn't known she'd held.
She'd thought him strange. Quiet. Maybe lonely.
Now she understood something else.
He didn't need to show power. Because everyone else already knew it.
And she—
She was just beginning to understand what kind of world she had stepped into.