By midday, the snow had thinned to scattered flakes and half-melted drifts, like the last breath of a beast too tired to bite.
Ben stood at the edge of the forest, arms crossed, watching the thirteen warriors vanish into the tunnel leading beneath the earth. No words were spoken. The command had been given already—clear the underground, bring the Duru to the surface.
The Special Forces descended like shadows cast by the sun. The icy stone swallowed them whole.
They did not take long.
Hours passed, and with them came the echo of movement, the rustle of bodies, and the subdued sound of fear. One by one, the Duru emerged into the gray light. Thin, ragged, weak from hunger—but alive.
Children clung to their mothers. Young men supported elders too frail to walk on their own. A few still carried makeshift clubs or bone blades, but when they saw the line of Ikanbi militia waiting above, they dropped them.
The thirteen returned without injury.
By nightfall, the entire network had been cleared.
⸻
The Duru were placed in wide shelters on the far edge of Ikanbi territory, well beyond the heart of the tribe. Fires burned in stone pits—deep pits connected to the warmth of Twa Milhoms, their heat constant and clean. These were not comforts. They were survival measures.
Food was portioned with discipline. No favoritism. No cruelty. The Duru ate what the Ikanbi ate—based on contribution, not desire.
Sema stood before them the next morning, surrounded by tribal scribes.
"You are not prisoners," she said plainly. "But you are not free to move about without agreement. Obey the laws. Earn your place. Or leave when the snows melt."
The Duru listened. Most said nothing.
Some nodded.
⸻
Later, in a quiet circle near the central fire, Ben sat with Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru. No guards. No titles. Just five warriors who had survived a world made of teeth.
He told them the plan. Not in detail. He didn't need to.
They had seen it—in that place beyond this world, where Twa Milhoms had thrown them into the broken mirror of time. They had walked cities made of shining blades. They had touched weapons forged from thunder.
They had seen metal.
"Stone carried us through winter," Ben said. "But Ikanbi can't stay in the cold forever. There's more. And the Duru… they've lived underground. They're used to the dark. They can show us the path."
None argued.
Not Kael, whose hammer split bones.
Not Mala, whose blade danced faster than thought.
Not Jaron or Enru, who had both once said aloud that the tribe would never grow unless they reached for something new.
And so it was agreed.
⸻
Druel—once only a craftsman, now the mind behind Ikanbi's growth—was summoned. He listened carefully, then nodded once and walked away to gather stoneworkers and draft a plan for identifying usable tunnels and ore veins.
Ben approached the Duru the next morning.
He did not shout.
He did not threaten.
"You know the dark," he said. "You've lived in stone. You can help us build something stronger. You're not forced. You can walk away once the paths are clear."
The Duru elder—a woman with burn marks on her arms from years beside smoky fires—stood and asked one question:
"If we stay and help… will we be Ikanbi?"
Ben answered:
"If you live for the tribe, then you are the tribe."
She bowed her head.
"We will stay."
⸻
The final arrangements came quickly. The Duru were divided into groups: diggers, scouts, cooks, and tool handlers. Each was paired with an Ikanbi overseer or stoneworker.
Near the quarry site, new huts were marked with fur-painted signs. A boundary was set—clearly defined, but not heavily guarded.
Far beyond the new shelters, behind the rise where the pine trees bent in the wind, the Shadow Blades began to move again.
Their mission was simple: map the cave systems. Report quietly. No weapons drawn unless needed. They were not hunters today. They were watchers.
⸻
That night, as the sky turned pale with early stars, Ben walked alone to the edge of the quarry zone.
The earth was beginning to thaw.
Birdsong had returned, faint and shy.
He stared at the stone beneath his boots, then to the horizon where jagged mountains waited like sleeping gods.
Stone kept us alive.
But metal will carry us forward.
He said nothing.
He simply watched.
And the tribe kept moving.
The ground had barely dried from the last melt of snow when they began to emerge—one by one, in groups of two or three—through the stone archway of the Trial Chamber.
From its ancient threshold, they came bearing blood on their arms, new ink on their skin, and fire in their eyes.
The warriors of Ikanbi—militia, hunters, and civilians alike—returned not from the wilds, but from within. They had faced the Trial Chamber, and the chamber had changed them.
Some stepped out with beast hides draped over their backs, proof of their conquest. Others bore marks of near-death—bandaged wounds, broken teeth, blood still drying on their tunics. And a few walked out silently, alone, with no visible trophies but the heavy weight of survival in their steps.
But all who returned had changed.
Ben stood at the edge of the field, watching them emerge. Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru stood at his flanks, eyes scanning each forehead for the black rope-circle inked above the left brow—new Roman numerals inside them.
I → II → III → IV…
Sema stood nearby, her scroll open, quill in hand, recording each ringed warrior who stepped forward. She worked without pause, her scribes moving around her like wind over stone.
When the last participant had exited, Ben raised his voice.
"You've walked through the chamber," he said. "You've earned your mark. No one can take that from you."
He paused.
"But if you wish to serve more—if you want to protect this land, these people—step forward. The militia welcomes new strength."
Several stepped forward immediately—faces young and old, men and women alike. Others stayed back, heads lowered, hands clenched, uncertain or unwilling to take the path of war.
There was no shame in either choice.
Those who remained civilians were still seen, still honored. Some would go back to the granaries. Others to the carving halls. A few to the teaching circles or the healing tents.
The Shadow Blades made no speeches.
But as the marked passed by, a select few felt a presence behind them. No words. Just a whisper. A sign. A path not spoken aloud.
Ben turned to Kael.
"We're growing," he said.
Kael nodded. "And still sharpening."
Ben's gaze shifted to the distant outline of the Duru excavation site—where tools now struck stone and fire pits burned day and night.
From blood, they were building.
From tradition, they were evolving.
Ikanbi was becoming.
They emerged from the Trial Chamber with fresh marks and harder eyes.
The returning warriors—newly ringed or newly affirmed—walked with silent pride. Their bodies ached from the hunt, the cold, and the solitude of their trials, but their steps were steady. They expected to return to the familiar: fire pits, families, quiet nods of approval.
Instead, they saw strangers.
Dozens of unfamiliar faces moved among the shelters where the Red Clawed prisoners had once been kept. Thin-framed, hollow-eyed people with the look of recent hunger, dressed in mismatched scraps of hide and cloth. Some were sweeping, others hauling wood, a few being handed bowls of food from militia cooks.
A ripple of confusion spread through the returning warriors.
"More prisoners?" a two-ring asked, frowning.
"No. Not Red Claw," said another, eyeing the unfamiliar marks and sunken cheeks. "They're something else."
Ben stood nearby, arms folded, gaze firm. He offered no immediate explanation—only watched as the returning warriors observed, adjusted, and moved on.
Those who noticed asked nothing. Those who didn't—kept walking.
But not everyone moved so easily.
—
Mia's POV
From her usual place near the outer shelters, Mia stared at the scene unfolding in stiff silence.
Duru.
Her old tribe.
But not her people.
They had emerged like a mold from under stone—clinging to Ikanbi scraps now, warming their hands at Ikanbi fires, bowing their heads when spoken to.
Her jaw tightened.
She recognized a few faces—barely. Some were older children from deep tunnels, others women she'd never liked. The sight didn't stir joy, only caution. She had no fond memories of the underground. No real family left. And certainly no sense of kinship with these survivors.
Why are they here? she thought. What does Ben want with them?
Nearby, one of her own—a young girl named Nima—pointed to a Duru woman receiving food.
"Are they like us?" she asked quietly.
"No," Mia said without turning. "They're not like us. They never were."
She glanced toward Ben's house, where he stood talking with Enru. He had brought the Duru here. Just like he had let the Red Clawed live. Like he had let her live.
He always had a reason.
But Mia didn't trust these new arrivals. She didn't want to.
And deep down, part of her feared that letting them in would break whatever fragile peace Ikanbi had found.