The sky above Ikanbi was a dull silver. Winter clung stubbornly to the treetops, but the wind was changing. Snow no longer fell without pause. The earth beneath the tribe was beginning to breathe again.
Ben stood alone at the edge of the settlement, where the land met the thinning woods. His breath misted in the cold air. Eyes forward. Still.
Then, without wind or sound, Twa Milhoms appeared beside him.
He wore no cloak this time. Only the rope across his shoulders, skin bare to the cold that never touched him. His eyes were distant, yet locked on the horizon.
"They have arrived," he said.
Ben didn't need to ask who.
Twa Milhoms continued, voice like stone over snow. "The thirteen who claimed the blood of their beasts. They are now inside the Trial Chamber."
Ben turned his head slightly. "What will they face?"
"That depends," Twa Milhoms said. "On who they are. On what they've buried."
Ben's jaw clenched. "Will they survive it?"
Twa Milhoms didn't answer. His eyes remained fixed on something far away—something Ben couldn't see.
Inside the Trial Chamber
There was no sky in the chamber.
Only darkness.
And yet, everything was visible—every carved stone, every line in the obsidian floor, every breath that rose from the mouths of the thirteen warriors now standing in silence.
They had appeared one by one, in the order they had completed their hunts. Not with flash or flame, but with the quiet weight of fate. One heartbeat they had stood in the wild, bloodied and victorious—next, they stood here.
Before a god.
Twa Milhoms stood across from them. His presence was not larger than life—but deeper than it. He stood barefoot, arms folded, cloak unmoving in air that did not stir.
He said nothing.
Then, without raising his voice, he moved his hand once—a slow arc in the air.
Behind him, the stone wall of the chamber shifted.
From it emerged weapons.
Not summoned with light or spectacle, but revealed—as if they had always been there, waiting.
There were:
Bone-bladed spears etched with ancient symbols
Axes carved from obsidian and woven hide
Daggers shaped like animal fangs
A bow with a string made of sinew and stone-tipped arrows
Clubs reinforced with jagged shell
A crude hammer made from the skull of some extinct beast
And stranger weapons—shards of sharp coral, knotted hooks, forked antler blades…
Each one carried the feel of ritual and purpose. None were perfect. All were deadly.
Twa Milhoms finally spoke.
"Choose."
That was all.
No instruction. No test explained. No encouragement. Only that word.
The warriors looked at one another. Some stepped forward immediately, as if they'd known since the moment they entered which was theirs. Others waited, scanning each shape with wary eyes.
One woman approached the wall, brushed her fingers over three weapons, then paused before a simple, worn blade. She gripped it and stepped back.
Another warrior reached for a massive two-handed axe—but stopped. He turned instead to a shorter, thick-handled club that gleamed with frost. He nodded to himself and stepped away.
There was no applause. No sound.
Each choice felt like a confession.
Twa Milhoms watched without comment.
As the last warrior reached forward and laid his palm on the handle of a hooked spear, the chamber gave a deep rumble, like the echo of an avalanche far below.
None moved.
None asked what came next.
They had all made their choice.
And the trial had begun.
Outside, at the edge of Ikanbi
Ben's eyes were still on the trees. "So what happens now?"
Twa Milhoms turned to him, quiet as ever. "Now we wait. And when they return, they will no longer be warriors. They will be something else."
Ben looked at him. "What if one fails?"
Twa Milhoms tilted his head. "Then they will return… but not whole."
Ben said nothing.
After a while, Twa Milhoms smiled faintly. "Do not worry. You've trained them well. The real question is—will you know who they've become when they return?"
Then, like mist touched by light, Twa Milhoms vanished.
Ben stood alone.
Waiting.
Ben remained at the edge of the village for some time after Twa Milhoms vanished. The stillness around him was not empty—it was full of breath held by the earth, waiting.
Then, quietly, he turned and walked.
Through the thawing paths of Ikanbi, past quiet shelters and watchful eyes, Ben made his way to the Trial Chamber—a place buried beneath stone and time, known only to a few. When he arrived, he sat on a flat slab of ancient rock just outside the chamber's entrance.
He waited alone.
Then, one by one, Kael, Jaron, Mala, and Enru appeared. None spoke. They simply nodded, understood, and joined him.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, five warriors who had seen too much and still believed in more.
Moments later, Twa Milhoms returned, stepping from between shadows that hadn't been there before. He did not speak either. He sat beside Ben, like a mentor sitting beside a pupil—or a father beside a son.
They all watched the quiet stone entrance. Waiting.
Inside the Trial Chamber
As the last of the thirteen warriors stepped back with their chosen weapon, Twa Milhoms inside the chamber lifted his hand again.
This time, he drew no weapons.
Instead, the very walls began to shift.
Thirteen separate chambers opened behind the warriors—arched doorways leading to places unknown. Each was shaped differently: some wide and shallow, others narrow and deep. Each one reflected something of the warrior who stood before it.
No words were spoken.
The warriors stepped through.
And in each of those inner chambers, they found Twa Milhoms again.
But not as before. Not in silence. Not still.
He moved.
In each chamber, Twa Milhoms demonstrated the art of the weapon they held—not with words, but through motion. His movements were layered with knowledge, every strike carrying a weight far beyond mere technique. He spun a blade in ways that bent space. He held a bow with fingers that knew the wind before it blew. He walked the path of their chosen weapon as though it had always been part of him.
Each warrior stood alone before this vision.
And each began to mimic the god's movement.
First awkwardly. Then with rhythm.
Then with understanding.
Stone echoed with the sound of training.
No shouts. No commands.
Only breath. And motion. And meaning.
And far above them, at the threshold of the real world, five warriors sat in silence, waiting for what would return.