The wind was still.
A silence had settled across the Ikanbi valley—not the silence of peace, but the sharp pause before violence. Nearly the entire tribe was sealed within the Trial Chamber, their spirits chasing growth and recognition in the form of beasts and burdens. But outside, the ground stirred.
Ben stood on the southern ridge, cloak trailing behind him, arms folded. His eyes were fixed on the tree line. With him were only a handful—Kael, Mala, Jaron, Enru—and the thirteen who had earned their fifth ring in winter's grasp. Warriors now bound by a different oath. Warriors meant for war.
"They're coming," Kael said beside him, his tone unreadable.
Ben nodded.
From the trees, they emerged—dozens at first, then more. Over a hundred shadows, thin and hungry, stumbling with cold resolve. The remnants of the Duru.
They had survived the winter deep beneath the earth, but barely. Their skin clung to bones. Their clothes hung loose. Their weapons were broken, rusted, or stolen. But their eyes burned with the wild hunger of those who'd lost everything.
At their center marched three warriors, their bodies marked with jagged rope scars, each etched with a Roman numeral III. They moved like men who thought themselves gods.
Mala spat into the snow.
"They think we're weak," she said. "They think we're hollow now."
"They're wrong," Jaron replied.
Enru cracked his neck and pointed. "No time for speeches. They're splitting. South and East."
Ben spoke, calm and absolute.
"No one opens the Trial Chamber. If we fall, we fall silent. But the future remains."
Kael grunted. "Then we hold."
Ben's gaze swept over them—his closest, his strongest.
"Positions. Now."
They moved without another word.
Kael took the southern ridge, where the trees grew thick and the snow still clung to old blood. Mala went west, crouched behind makeshift stone barriers. Jaron melted into the eastern slope, where he had dug trenches weeks before, "just in case." Enru vanished north, a hunter once again.
The thirteen special forces dispersed across the village outskirts—silent, disciplined, patient. They held no insignia but their five-ring mark and no weapon but what they had mastered. One by one, they vanished into the terrain.
Then the Duru came crashing forward.
The assault began with a scream. A young Duru boy, no older than fifteen, charged with a broken spear. Behind him, others followed—howling, bleeding, wild. They hit the defenses like a tidal wave, expecting to crush what they believed to be a hollowed tribe.
But Ikanbi did not bend.
Kael's sword found the first attacker. Mala's axe silenced three more. Jaron's traps triggered, sending limbs flying in puffs of snow. Enru moved like a shadow—striking and disappearing, never staying still.
And the thirteen?
They danced through death.
One woman broke a Duru charge by throwing her own body into the snow, tripping five warriors, then rising to crush them with her elbows and knees.
Another man ripped a spear from a dying attacker and used it to skewer two more.
They did not fight for glory.
They fought because it was their duty.
The three-ring Duru leaders surged toward the village center. One locked eyes with Ben and rushed forward.
Ben did not move.
He waited.
And when the enemy was close enough to strike—
—Ben stepped aside.
One fluid motion. One broken ribcage.
The Duru leader collapsed in the snow, choking on shattered breath.
Another tried to flank him.
Ben turned, his hand barely rising.
A pulse of force, silent and unseen, sent the man flying.
The third hesitated—only for a moment—but it was enough.
From the flank, Enru's dagger slid under his ribs and out through his chest.
The battle slowed.
Then it stopped.
The remaining Duru—most of them barely warriors, most of them barely alive—stared at the bodies of their leaders and the precision of the defenders.
They had believed lies: that Ikanbi's warriors were gone, that the god had turned silent, that the tribe was ripe for plunder.
Now they saw truth.
They turned and ran. Not all. Some stayed, frozen in place, too weak to flee or too broken to believe what they had seen.
But the assault had failed.
Ben stood in the quiet.
His cloak hung torn at the edge. Blood from others clung to his boots. He looked toward the sealed Trial Chamber.
Behind him, Kael leaned on his blade. Mala checked her wounds. Jaron stood watch, breathing slow. Enru reappeared beside a snow-covered wall.
The thirteen returned in silence, spreading out around the village perimeter like sentinels.
Ben finally spoke.
"No more words. Clean the field."
They began gathering the fallen—not to desecrate, but to bury.
There were no songs. No celebrations.
Only the sound of the wind and the quiet breath of those who still lived.
And beneath the ground, the rest of Ikanbi remained in trial, unaware of the storm that had passed.
The line had held.
The tribe had endured.
And the god, though unseen, had not turned away.
As the last of the Duru attackers fled or lay broken in the snow, Ben did not return to his home. He stood still, eyes tracing the treeline, his thoughts already moving beyond the blood at his feet.
Kael stepped up beside him, wiping his blade clean. "What now?"
Ben looked toward the dark woods—toward the direction from which the Duru had come.
"They didn't all come," he said. "Some stayed underground."
Jaron nodded grimly. "The attack was desperate, but it wasn't all of them."
Ben turned to the thirteen—the newly forged warriors, the first of Ikanbi's primitive special forces. They stood ready, marked with five rings above their brows, bodies still humming from the fight.
"You've fought alongside your tribe," Ben said. "Now, you'll fight for it."
He pointed southeast, toward the shallow caves where the Duru once hid.
"Your first mission—clean it out. Bring the rest to the surface. No blood unless necessary. We've taken enough for one season."
The thirteen warriors saluted without words. They knew their purpose. This was no longer training. This was service.
Kael raised an eyebrow. "You're sending all of them?"
Ben nodded. "They move quiet. They work as one. If there are any leaders left down there, the thirteen will find them."
Mala grunted. "And if the Duru resist?"
Ben's eyes narrowed. "Then we take them. Alive if possible. Broken if necessary."
The thirteen dispersed into the trees, disappearing into the cold mist like spirits of war. Snow muffled their footsteps, and within moments, they were gone—slipping into the earth like blades into sheaths.
Ben turned to the others. "Keep the line. Keep the people calm. I'll be by the Trial Chamber."
And then he walked, quiet and steady, toward the sealed cavern where the future of Ikanbi still slept.
Behind him, the snow began to fall again—light, slow, indifferent.
But the tribe remained standing.
The blood was cleaned.
And the path forward had begun.