The fire in Ben's home crackled low, casting long shadows against the stone walls. Outside, the snow had thinned to patches of frost clinging to the earth, but the air still bit with cold. Inside, it was quiet.
Mia sat cross-legged on the thick fur pelt near the fire. Her hands rested in her lap, her posture calm, but her eyes held a storm.
"You brought them in," she said softly, looking up at Ben. "The Duru."
Ben didn't look at her right away. He was seated near the doorway, cleaning the edge of a stone blade with a strip of hide. "Yes."
"They weren't like me," she continued. "I left them. They were rotting. Lost. Some of them…" She shook her head. "Some were worse than the Red Clawed."
Ben stopped, placing the blade down. His gaze rose to meet hers. He said nothing, waiting.
"They'll infect what you've built," Mia said. "They won't understand Ikanbi. They'll tear pieces of it away until it's something else. Something ugly."
Her voice trembled slightly, not from fear—but frustration. Or perhaps jealousy. She had worked her way inside. She had endured the cold, the suspicion, the god himself. And now the others—those she had fled—were being welcomed?
Mia rose slowly, stepping closer to where Ben sat.
"I'm not asking you to exile them," she said. "But don't mistake hunger for loyalty. You give too much. You lead too gently."
Ben studied her.
And then, she shifted again. Her tone softened. Her fingers touched the edge of her tunic, tugging it slightly from her collarbone.
"You don't have to be alone in this," she said, stepping closer. "You need someone beside you. Someone who knows what it's like to come from nowhere. Someone who sees everything you've done… and wants to build with you."
She placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
"I can give you a child, Ben. I can give you a future."
Ben stood.
Not in anger. Not with cruelty. But with the unshakable silence of a mountain unmoved by wind.
Mia's hand fell away.
"I see you," Ben said at last. "More than you know."
He stepped past her and opened the door. The cold slipped in.
"You've survived," he continued. "And you've adapted. But I don't want what you're offering."
Mia's breath caught.
"Not like that," he added. "Not as a reward. Not as a trade."
He turned toward the dark sky, watching the distant glow of the fire pits.
Then, without another word, he stepped out into the night.
—
Kael and Mala arrived moments later, summoned by one of Ben's runners. They found him near the southern edge of the camp, where the snow had melted into muddy soil and spring threatened to bloom.
Ben waited with his arms crossed, eyes lifted toward the stars.
"You've kept something from me," he said simply, without turning.
Mala tensed.
Kael answered first. "We didn't mean to. We didn't want to—"
"I know," Ben interrupted. "And I don't care."
They both looked at him.
"I'm not angry. I'm tired," he said. "Tired of seeing warriors give everything to this tribe and leave nothing for themselves."
A pause.
"In three days," Ben continued, "you'll stand together by the fire pits. And I'll call Twa Milhoms. He'll marry you."
Mala's mouth parted slightly. Kael blinked.
"But—"
"No more secrets," Ben said. "You've earned more than respect. You've earned each other."
He finally turned to face them.
"Let the tribe witness it. Let them see that trust… is also a kind of strength."
They didn't know what to say.
So they bowed.
And for the first time in weeks, Ben smiled.
Just a little.
That night, the fire pits glowed low but warm in Ben's home. Mia moved silently, placing down a carved wooden tray filled with roasted root vegetables, smoked river fish, and boiled snowberry leaves. She said nothing, only glanced at Ben once before stepping back and sitting across from him.
Ben watched her for a moment. No seductive looks. No offers. Just food.
"Trying something new?" he asked flatly.
Mia nodded. "You eat. I'll eat. That's all."
Ben didn't reply. But he took a piece of fish.
They ate in silence.
Across the firelight, her eyes held a cautious hope. This—she had decided—was a better path. Not begging. Not bartering. Sharing.
Like Sema and Jaron.
She had seen them walking together earlier, arms full of thatch, speaking in low tones, laughing softly. It wasn't loud or grand. It was steady. Natural. She wanted that. Maybe not with Ben. But maybe near him. Maybe part of the warmth.
—
Later that evening…
Jaron and Sema stood before Ben outside the inner camp circle. The firelight etched soft lines into their tired but hopeful faces.
"We've decided," Sema said first.
"We want to be married," Jaron added, his voice firmer.
Ben looked between them, then gave a quiet nod. "I'll let Twa Milhoms know."
By morning, the god had appeared briefly at the boundary stone and spoke only once:
"After Jaron and Sema, those who wish for bond may walk into the Sacrificial Chamber. Bring the tribe to witness."
And just like that—marriage had become tradition.
Not through decree, but through presence.
And as the tribe whispered of weddings and shared fires, Mia sat alone outside Ben's house, hands dusted with flour and wild roots, planning the next meal.
Maybe, she thought, the fire inside a home burned longer than any warmth from the body.
And maybe food—not flesh—was the better offering.
The sky was clear. The snow, though still thick, had softened under the morning sun, forming a quiet path that led toward the Sacrificial Chamber.
Word had spread quickly. The Ikanbi people—marked and unmarked, warriors and civilians—stood outside the stone structure in silent anticipation. Children peeked from behind their parents. Red Claw and Duru observers lingered near the trees, uncertain but respectful. There were no drums. No chants. Only the sound of breath and wind.
Kael stood straight, a fresh scar still healing along his cheekbone. His rope-ring mark, the Roman numeral "V" above his left eyebrow, caught the light.
Mala walked beside him in silence, dressed in ceremonial hide stitched with polished bone. Her own five-ring mark mirrored his.
At the entrance of the chamber stood Ben, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Behind him, Twa Milhoms waited.
He wore no cloak, no shirt—only the rope that wrapped across his shoulders and back, fused into his flesh like it had always been part of him. His chest was broad, his stance unmoving, and his eyes quiet as still water.
As Kael and Mala stepped forward, the god extended one hand toward the gathered tribe. The fire inside the chamber flared to life without spark or flint, casting dancing light across the carved stone walls.
"You stand," Twa Milhoms said, voice like a rockslide slowed to speech, "not only as warriors—but as those who choose to share breath, burden, and the cold weight of time."
Kael and Mala did not speak. Their silence was their vow.
Twa Milhoms raised his hand. From the smoke of the fire, two coils of dark mist slithered outward, reaching toward them. The mist wove around their hands—and when it cleared, each wore a simple but sharp-looking ring made of twisted vine and thorn. It pulsed faintly against their skin, alive.
Their foreheads glowed for a breath—then faded.
"You are seen," Twa Milhoms said. "You are joined."
And that was all.
No long chant. No feast. No song.
Only fire, god, and tribe.
Kael took Mala's hand, their new rings catching the light. They stepped down from the chamber as one. The tribe parted for them, offering silent respect. Warriors nodded. Civilians bowed their heads. Some smiled.
Ben stepped aside, watching them pass. As Twa Milhoms moved past him, Ben leaned in to say something—too soft for others to hear. The god only grunted and walked on.
From a cluster of Duru women, Mia watched. She said nothing. But her eyes followed the pair until they disappeared into the heart of the camp.
That night, the fire pits burned higher than usual.
There was no feast.
But there was warmth.
And in this world of ice, blood, and stone—warmth was a sacred thing.
The tribe was quiet at dawn. Smoke from the fire pits drifted gently upward, curling into the pale sky. Snow no longer howled through the trees, but it still blanketed the ground, reminding all that winter had not yet fully loosened its grip.
Inside the Sacrificial Chamber, the fire flickered low, casting long shadows on the stone walls where carvings of hunts, beasts, and vows marked the passing of time.
Jaron stood alone at the entrance.
His five-ring mark—a bold "V" enclosed in the rope-circle style of the Ikanbi—glowed faintly above his left brow. He wore no armor, only a thick-woven tunic of dark fiber and bone trim. His spear rested against the stone beside him, untouched.
Sema stepped into view a moment later.
She wore a simple wrap of white hide, tied at her waist with woven black reeds. Around her neck was the wooden talisman of her scribe's craft, carved with her name and the earliest stories she had ever recorded. Her hair was tied in two thick braids down her back, and her steps were quiet, but sure.
The people gathered just beyond the chamber—militia and civilians alike, including the newly arrived Red Claw and Duru who had begun to witness more of Ikanbi's traditions. They did not yet understand everything, but they respected the stillness of it.
Inside the chamber, Ben waited.
As Jaron and Sema entered, Twa Milhoms stepped forward from beside the fire. He didn't speak right away. He only looked at them—eyes unreadable, body still, snow melting on his skin without steaming.
Then, he raised both hands.
"You choose not just a bond," he said, "but a witness. A life seen. A life shared. That is heavier than war."
Jaron nodded once.
Sema didn't look away.
From the flames, two threads of dark mist slithered again—just like before. They wrapped around the pair's left hands and coiled into form.
When the mist faded, each wore a twisted vine ring—woven through with thorns, bone splinters, and the faint gleam of ash.
The fire pulsed once.
"You are bound," Twa Milhoms said.
The god turned and walked away without another word.
Ben stepped forward, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. "We saw you before. We see you now. Let no one call it lesser because it is quiet."
Jaron and Sema stood in silence, hand in hand.
Outside, the tribe didn't cheer. They didn't clap.
But when the couple emerged, warriors bowed their heads and civilians stepped aside. One child offered them a strip of dried fruit. Another offered a stone charm from their mother's pouch.
That night, Jaron and Sema returned to their shared shelter beneath the old watch tree. No feast. No ceremony.
Just warmth. And each other.