The cold had lost its bite, but the land was still hard. Still watching. Still waiting.
At the far edge of Ikanbi territory, past the storage caverns and the ridge of bone-stacked sentry markers, a new ground had been carved out.
No one went there without purpose.
It was where the thirteen lived now—the ones who bore five rings, earned through frost and fire, through silent hunts and savage battles. Warriors reborn from the Trial Chamber. Chosen not just by strength, but by their willingness to be shaped.
The people whispered of them now as something more than soldiers.
Not gods. Not demons.
Just sharpened.
And even among them, there were no names spoken—only the sound of stone scraping against bone, of feet slicing through soil, of breath held between strikes.
They trained without commands.
They moved like memory.
They bled for no one but the future.
At the heart of the village, the sound of shouted cadence broke the morning frost.
"Again!" Kael barked.
Rows of young warriors dropped to the ground for another set of push-ups. Some collapsed. Some rose with trembling arms. A few found rhythm.
Enru walked between them, correcting form with a firm grip on shoulders and backs. Mala led the pull-up group near the stone arches, her own arms glistening with sweat. Jaron stood near the running circle, counting laps.
This was the Ikanbi militia now.
Not just defenders.
Builders of a future.
Every morning, before the sun broke over the trees, they ran the perimeter trail. They pushed, pulled, jumped, and strained. Then, under Ben's quiet eye, they learned the movements he once endured under Twa Milhoms—fluid motions that mimicked both beast and wind. Dodging, striking, flowing.
Discipline over brute force.
Flow over fury.
Balance over power.
Ben never shouted. He didn't need to.
He stood at the overlook, arms folded, watching. His presence alone carved the atmosphere into something rigid and sacred.
"They're better than we were at their age," Mala said once, wiping sweat from her brow.
Ben didn't respond.
He just kept watching.
Near the training fields, civilians gathered with wrapped roots and carved bone flutes, humming quiet encouragements. Children mimicked the drills from behind stones and huts, their faces smeared with ash in pretend battle paint.
It wasn't just about the warriors anymore.
The whole tribe moved together.
Sema had already begun drawing up age-group schedules and rotation charts. Former Red Clawed civilians now tilled frost-thawed soil. Duru refugees hauled stone or helped prepare meals. Elders taught new apprentices how to wrap hides or sharpen tools.
Even Druel, once known more for his arms than his thoughts, stood in a cleared area with two young boys, showing them how to twist stone with pressure and time. He was training a protégé in stonework now, fully invested in Ikanbi's growth.
"Shape the blade like shaping breath," he said. "Don't rush it. Let it come to you."
And in the shadows of the tribe, near the cliffs where the winds howled low, Khol moved without sound.
The Shadow Blades were now twenty-five strong. Still quiet. Still faceless.
A new recruit—barefoot, blindfolded—followed Khol down a path no one else could see, led only by the rope tied between them. The trees bent with knowledge but said nothing.
The Shadow Blade training ground sat behind Twa Milhoms' own dwelling, where few dared wander.
And there, the true silence began.
As the sun climbed higher, breath turned to steam and voices filled the central grounds. Morning drills ended, but the spirit did not fade.
Ben descended from the overlook and passed through the crowd of fresh recruits.
Some saluted. Some bowed.
He said nothing, but nodded once at a child copying a stance with surprising precision.
Behind him, the 13 warriors moved like ghosts through the brush, returning to their private training grounds, blades slung across their backs like sleeping spirits.
And far above them, from the highest ridge where only birds dared rest—
Twa Milhoms stood.
He watched it all: the sweat, the rhythm, the grind of effort shaping a future no one yet understood.
He said nothing.
But he was smiling.
And that was enough.
Three moons had passed since the last snow melted.
Summer had returned—slowly, then suddenly—melting the last of winter's grip. Grass pushed through old snow, rivers swelled with meltwater, and children's laughter began to echo between stone shelters and growing fields. But beyond the warmth, deeper into the training grounds, a different kind of growth was underway.
The Ikanbi militia was changing again.
A total of 150 newly marked individuals—some bearing no rings, others stepping into their first, second, or third—had chosen the path of the warrior. They were proud, hungry, and eager. They had seen what the Ikanbi could become and wanted to take part in shaping that future.
But this next step was not one taken lightly.
This was the second phase.
At sunrise, Kael stood at the southern ridge, arms folded.
Behind him, the 150 recruits stood in silent ranks, breathing heavily with anticipation. They wore determination on their faces—hope in their eyes. Whispers passed between them.
"This is the god's training, right?"
"I heard Ben once bled here."
"It changes you."
They were excited.
But those who had already been through it—the older militia standing farther back—watched in silence. Their faces showed no joy. No pride. Only quiet pity.
Because they remembered.
And the new ones… had no idea what awaited them.
Kael said nothing.
He only raised one hand.
Then turned and began walking.
Only he would accompany them.
They moved through thick mist and narrow trails, past sharp boulders and under the thinnest slivers of sky. They passed places where trees grew twisted and strange. Where the wind no longer sang.
And then they reached it.
The Hollow.
The original training ground.
The 150 recruits formed ranks as instructed, their boots thudding lightly against the dry earth. The air was heavy here, even though nothing stirred. It felt like the world held its breath.
Kael walked in front of them, silent.
He turned. Nodded once.
And then—
They were gone.
Not in steps.
Not in light.
Not in sound.
They did not move. They simply disappeared. One minute they were there, the next they were gone.
Back in the village, those who had experienced the god's training before gathered along the ridges, eyes turned toward the south.
They knew.
They had walked into the Hollow once and returned changed—not because of what they'd been taught, but because of what they'd survived.
No one asked where the new recruits had gone.
No one said, "Good luck."
Because luck had nothing to do with it.
They were now walking the path of Twa Milhoms, even if the god himself did not appear. And when—or if—they returned, they would not be the same.
Far from the tribe's fires and laughter, beyond the edge of known paths, the Hollow stood still once more.
Waiting.
And the shaping of the next generation had begun.
From the stone ridge near the riverbank, a group of former Red Claw prisoners gathered in silence. Not far behind them stood the Duru—those who had once followed Mia, now fed and housed, but still uncertain of this strange place they had not chosen.
None of them spoke.
They simply watched.
Down below, 150 Ikanbi warriors—some marked, some new, some young—stood in perfect formation on the clearing ground. They had marched in with pride, led by one of the high commanders, Kael.
Now they waited.
"What are they doing?" one of the Red Claw murmured.
"I think… this is part of their god's training," another answered, voice tight with tension.
Mia said nothing.
She stood a little farther uphill, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes narrowed. She'd seen Ikanbi do strange things—fire pits that gave heat without flame, fish that jumped into the snow, stone blades sharper than any she had touched underground—but this…
This was something else.
Kael, standing alone before the recruits, raised his hand.
A breath passed.
And then— they vanished.
Gone.
Not a footstep. Not a sound. Not a blink.
They had not walked away.
They had not run.
One moment they were there. The next… nothing.
A hush spread through the watchers like cold fog.
A Red Claw woman gasped audibly. One of the Duru men stepped backward.
"That's not natural," he whispered.
"Where did they go?" another muttered, eyes wide.
Mia's lips parted, but no words came.
They had simply disappeared.
She looked to Kael—but he too was gone.
None of them could explain it.
Not the Duru, raised in fear and stone.
Not the Red Claw, forged in blood and strength.
All they could do was stand there, feeling the weight of something they didn't understand settle into their bones.
And for the first time—truly—they believed:
This tribe was not like any other.
And the warriors of Ikanbi… were becoming something else entirely.
While the watchers stood frozen in awe, high on the stone terrace above the gathering grounds, Sema was already moving.
She hadn't flinched when the 150 vanished. She hadn't gasped or questioned. She'd only exhaled, quiet and measured, then turned away from the edge of the ridge.
She had seen this before.
And she remembered what came after.
She walked briskly across the compound, her fur-lined wrap trailing behind her. Reaching the central kitchen, she whistled sharply—two short notes.
Within seconds, every young woman assigned to the militia cooking duty came running, hands still dusted with grain or wet from water jars.
They formed a loose circle around her. None of them spoke.
Sema didn't raise her voice.
"Listen carefully," she said, eyes scanning their faces. "Do not cook for the ones who vanished today. Not until they return."
Confusion flickered through a few of the younger ones.
"But—"
"They are not hungry," Sema said. "Not where they are."
She let the silence sit for a beat, long enough to press the weight of her words into the room.
"Instead," she continued, "clear the eastern training grounds. Flatten the snow. Mark the edge of the space. Leave nothing there—not stone, not stick, not shadow. I want that space wide, ready, and clean."
One of the older cooks nodded. "For their return?"
Sema gave a single sharp nod. "Yes. When they come back, some of them won't walk the same. Some of them won't want food. Some will just need space."
She stepped forward, voice quieter now.
"And some of them… will fall to their knees."
The kitchen went still.
"Prepare," Sema said. "Before the sun turns."
And with that, she turned and left.
The cooks scattered like trained warriors—no more questions, no more hesitation.
They knew by now:
When Sema gave orders like this,
It meant the gods were moving.