Time inside the Trial Chambers did not flow as it did in the waking world.
Each warrior, alone within their chamber, trained under the silent tutelage of Twa Milhoms—not the god in flesh, but a flawless echo of him. His movements were tireless, exact, unbroken. The warriors mirrored him—clumsy at first, then more fluid, then instinctive. Days might have passed, or only moments. But when the final form was mastered, each warrior felt it—a stillness settle in their bones, the weapon no longer just held in their hands, but in their blood.
And then, the chamber shifted.
A door appeared in front of them—arched stone, rimmed in quiet blue light. None hesitated.
They stepped through.
Back in the central Trial Chamber
One by one, the warriors reemerged.
The moment their feet touched the black floor of the chamber, the weapon they had chosen vanished—dissolving into air, or perhaps returning to the wall from which it came.
The wall still held many weapons.
All others remained.
And Twa Milhoms was waiting.
He stood before them, unchanged, arms folded, eyes deep as a storm waiting to break.
"You've learned one way," he said. "Now choose again."
The warriors stared at him, some blinking with confusion, others already glancing at the wall.
It hadn't been easy. It hadn't even felt survivable. But this was not a test of strength alone.
It was a test of adaptability. Of humility.
Of mastery.
And so, they chose again.
One reached for a weapon completely unlike the first—a curved blade instead of a spear. Another picked up a crude hammer, though his muscles had only just finished learning precision.
And again, the stone wall behind them shifted.
Thirteen chambers appeared once more.
They stepped forward.
Twa Milhoms turned away without a word.
And the training continued.
The wind shifted.
Above the Trial Chamber, winter's grip had begun to loosen. Snow still blanketed the land, but sunlight now pierced it in places, revealing dark stone and thawing earth.
Inside, the thirteen five-ring warriors continued their silent discipline—each within their personal chambers, learning weapon after weapon under the quiet watch of Twa Milhoms. They no longer questioned the process. They no longer hesitated. Each time a weapon was mastered, it vanished, and another took its place. Again and again, the cycle continued.
Outside the chamber, Ben waited.
He had not left since they entered.
He sat still, cloak pulled tight against the cold, eyes half-closed. But he was not alone.
Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru visited often, bringing updates and sharing silence more than words. Twa Milhoms appeared occasionally, always with the same distant calm, sometimes speaking in cryptic fragments, sometimes saying nothing at all.
The rest of Ikanbi moved with quiet purpose.
The militia had resumed training in full. Patrols were reestablished, drills refined, formations sharpened. New recruits were taken in, tested not by rank but by effort. Every unit was returning to rhythm.
Near the rear ridge, hidden beneath bramble-covered stone and behind the home of Twa Milhoms, the Shadow Blades trained in silence. Their number had grown from ten to twenty-five—each selected without fanfare, each stripped of name and voice until their worth was proven. Their movements were ghost-like, swift, without warning or noise.
Ben rose on the fifth day.
He walked to the militia training grounds, where Khol and the other leaders stood observing formations.
"We've been focused on the rings," Ben said. "But now it's time to focus on the rest."
Khol's eyes narrowed. "You mean—"
Ben nodded. "It's time we begin the trial for the unmarked and lower-ringed warriors. The tribe is ready."
He called Khol closer.
"Summon the second-in-command from each militia unit. Send them to the Trial Chamber with you. I'll meet them there."
That same evening, just as the light faded behind the cliffs, Ben stood at the mouth of the Trial Chamber, flanked by his commanders. Before him stood Khol and the second-in-command from every militia group—men and women hardened by survival, marked and unmarked alike.
"In one month," Ben said, "we will open the Trial Chamber to the rest of the militia. This time, not just the marked or ringed. Everyone. If you wish to grow stronger—prepare."
They did not cheer. They only nodded.
This was not a celebration. It was an announcement of survival.
Sema, keeper of the tribe's oral laws and ancient customs, stood on the central stone of the Ikanbi square the next morning. Her voice was not loud, but it carried.
She explained the rules of the Trial Chamber:
Only those who could walk the hunt alone were allowed in.
No one may enter with weapons from the outside.
What is given inside belongs to the god alone.
There is no help once you begin. You succeed—or you vanish.
"Those unable to hunt may offer equivalent exchange—goods, labor, service—to a hunter willing to claim a beast for them. The hunter must accept freely, and both names will be recorded before the Trial begins."
"And for those who choose a life apart from the warrior's path," she continued, "those who have raised beasts from young—tamed, trained, and offered without aid—may present them to the farm as proof of worth. This is a trial of effort, not only blood."
The people listened.
The Red Clawed and Duru who had chosen to stay listened too—some with awe, others with confusion. Never had they seen warriors and civilians judged by effort over violence.
The next days were spent in preparation.
Stoneworkers carved fresh blades. Fletchers shaped primitive arrows. Young children were taught to gather, mend, observe. Hunters returned to teaching snaring and skinning techniques to the youth. Shelters were reinforced. Smoke-dried meats were preserved.
The fields were not ready, but the people were moving.
It became clear this would not be a one-time event.
It would be a yearly trial.
A new tradition.
Not one built on ceremony—but one built on the wild heartbeat of survival.
The Trial Season had begun.
One month passed.
The snow had melted into the veins of the earth. Grass pushed through wet stone. Birds returned to the sky, cautious and thin. The frost had withdrawn—but not forgotten.
And the day of the trial arrived.
The Ikanbian Annual Hunt—its first official season.
At dawn, the militia moved first. Hundreds strong, the bulk of the tribe's fighting force broke into groups and left through separate paths across the valley, mountains, and deep forest.
Then came the veteran hunters, moving silently in pairs or alone, their tools sharpened, their eyes knowing.
Then came the rest.
Those unmarked. Those with one or two rings.
Those who sought change.
And those who had hired someone stronger to go in their place.
For the first time, all were watched—not for how they left, but how they would return.
Each bore the same rule:
"Go out. Hunt a beast. Return to the chamber alone. No help. No sharing. No second tries."
Those who could not fight found different ways—bartering clothes, tools, favors, stones, or knowledge for hunters to go on their behalf. These deals were recorded, overseen by Sema and her scribes. Each name tied to the outcome.
And then there were the rare few—farmers and caretakers—who had raised beasts from cubs to full-grown. They carried their offerings gently, walking the path to the chamber with trembling pride.
Ben stood quietly at the top of the southern ridge, watching them disappear into the wide world.
No war drums. No cheers.
Only footsteps, breath, and the start of a tradition rooted in survival and strength.
This was Ikanbi now.
And the hunt had begun.