The morning sun broke through the veil of mist hanging above Ikanbi, casting long golden rays across the training grounds and the fortified ridges. The air carried no chill now—only the warmth of a tribe no longer bracing against death, but rising toward something greater.
The 150 warriors, newly returned from the divine trials, stood in even rows. Some bore fresh marks. Others, new rings. All wore the silence of those who had seen death up close. Ben, Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru stood before them.
Ben raised a hand. "You've survived more than I asked of you," he said. "You are now pillars of this tribe. From this day forward, you will be divided among the four militia camps. Each camp will gain new life through you. You will strengthen them—and they will shape you."
At his nod, Sema stepped forward and called out the names. With military precision, the warriors split into four groups and followed their assigned commanders: Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru. Pride sat heavy in each leader's chest.
When the last warrior left the field, a quiet group remained behind—those who had been summoned with a mere glance from Khol.
The Shadow Blades.
They followed him without speaking, vanishing behind the bamboo treeline toward the hidden training ground behind Twa Milhoms' home. These were the ghosts of Ikanbi—silent, lethal, loyal only to the survival of the tribe.
In the days that followed, Ikanbi changed.
The forges no longer sat cold.
From the stone tunnels beneath the tribe's heart, the Duru people emerged with wide shoulders and dark eyes, dragging sleds of newly unearthed iron ore. They were cautious but no longer afraid. Under militia watch, they worked in teams—splitting rock, sorting mineral, pulling treasure from the deep.
Ben watched them from above and whispered to himself, "We begin."
He could already see the vision: iron-tipped spears, stone-forged steel, reinforced shelters, stronger tools, lasting weapons. Ikanbi would not remain primitive forever.
Not far from the forge, Mia stood beside a basket of twisted roots and bark, explaining to one of the younger warriors how to test the fibers for spinning.
"I need a tree with this kind of grain," she said, showing the shredded sample. "The bark peels thin. It breathes in rain and holds warmth. We can twist it into thread strong enough for clothes, maybe even bags."
Ben stood nearby, arms crossed. "How far does it grow from here?"
"North, past the frozen river bend. I've seen it once. Never had the tools to reach it."
He gave a single nod. Moments later, a Shadow Blade slipped from the shadows. Ben handed the bark over.
"Find it. Quietly. Bring a cutting back."
The Blade vanished.
Mia returned to her weaving, unaware she had just shifted the fabric of Ikanbi's future.
On the tribe's southern ridge, Sema stood surrounded by buckets of river clay and carefully shaped molds. She was showing a pair of curious civilians how to smooth a curve without cracking the lip of a pot.
"Once we fire it, it'll last seasons," she said, brushing wet hands on her tunic. "We can store water, seeds, stew—things we'd lose otherwise."
She set the mold down and pointed to the stone-lined trench nearby.
"This will be our kiln. We'll heat the stones with the same fire pits that warm our homes. The pottery will last longer this way."
She paused as more volunteers arrived. Men. Women. Even a few curious Duru.
Sema smiled.
"What we build now," she said, "will feed the ones who come after us."
As the sun arched higher in the sky, the rhythm of Ikanbi pulsed stronger.
The clang of stone on metal.
The hiss of bark being boiled.
The soft hum of spinning twine.
The grunts of warriors training in the distance.
The silence of Shadow Blades vanishing between trees.
It was not just survival anymore.
It was something more.
Something whole.
A tribe becoming a nation.
Sema crouched beside the trench kiln as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting gold and orange over the earth. Her hands were coated in drying clay, her tunic smudged from hours of shaping, smoothing, and testing.
Before her sat three partially formed bowls—each more refined than the last. The first was thick and misshapen, but it held water. The second was smooth but cracked after drying too fast. The third… the third was different. She had mixed in a bit of fine ash and pressed it slowly with her thumbs, letting the shape emerge from patience, not force.
She tapped its side gently. No cracks.
She smiled. "Almost."
Behind her, a few curious women and boys watched. None spoke. They had learned by now that Sema entered a different world when she worked.
She rose, stretching her back, and walked to the small pile of twigs and branches she had stripped earlier that morning. She picked up a curved piece of hardwood and examined it. With a sharpened stone in hand, she began carving.
Shaving. Smoothing. Turning.
It took her most of the afternoon.
But by nightfall, a small, elegant spoon rested on a flat stone beside her—its handle curled like a leaf stalk, the bowl rounded like a shallow seed pod.
By torchlight, she carved the fork.
Not perfect. Uneven. But the prongs were distinct.
She stared at it with quiet pride.
"We'll eat better," she whispered. "Not like animals."
When a young girl approached with a basket of wildroot stew and asked if the fork could be tested, Sema handed it over without hesitation.
The fork scooped. The spoon stirred. The bowl held steady.
All three passed their first trial.
Later that evening, Ben passed through the pottery ridge. He paused as he saw the simple collection: three clay bowls, one burned slightly dark; a small pile of carved wooden spoons; a fork resting atop the basket of leftover stew.
He said nothing.
But before he turned to leave, he picked up the fork, examined it silently, and gave a single nod.
Sema had not seen it. But someone nearby had.
And by morning, others were carving.
By dusk, the cooks in the militia camp were using spoons.
And by the next moon, bowls were being traded like gifts.
The Shadow Blade moved like smoke beneath the ancient canopy—three warriors, faces shrouded, bodies cloaked in mud and leaves. They followed no trail, only Mia's description: "It grows near water, but not in it. Its bark peels in wide, soft strips like skin, and its leaves are long with furred edges."
For three days they searched.
On the fourth, they found it.
Near a moss-drenched slope where fog hung heavy, a cluster of slender trees stood apart from the rest. Their bark peeled just as she described—light and fibrous. One Shadow Blade pressed a strip between his fingers and pulled. It stretched and coiled slightly like rope sinew.
"Tell Ben," one of them said.
They marked the grove and harvested several strips with obsidian knives, then returned with their prize—bundled and wrapped in large leaves, protected from moisture.
Back in Ikanbi – Mia's First Attempt
Mia held the bark like a newborn.
She sat alone in her crafting corner, far from the main food stores, with boiled water steaming beside her and flat stones ready for pounding. Her followers—formerly from the Duru—watched silently from the shade, unsure whether to offer help or just stay out of her way.
She dipped a strip into the water, let it soften, then pulled it onto a stone. Using a smooth rock with a flattened edge, she began the rhythmic pounding.
Thwack. Thwack. Scrape. Pull.
Bits of outer husk flaked away. The inner layer began to separate—thin threads like pale hair emerging from within the bark.
She twisted them gently between her fingers. They held.
"Thread," she whispered, wonder in her voice.
That night, she repeated the process with six more strips.
By dawn, she had enough to begin weaving.
Days Later – The Loom of Hands
Without a loom, she used her own arms.
Wrapping the fibers around two sticks buried in the ground, she braided them over and under, mimicking what she had seen in the old days beneath the Duru caves, where slave women used vines to make rope mats.
Only this time, it was cloth.
Rough. Scratchy. But cloth nonetheless.
She made a panel large enough to cover a thigh. Then another. Then she began stitching them with bone needles carved by one of the young boys in her group.
A New Garment
When she finally draped it over herself—a single-shoulder wrap that crossed diagonally and tied at the hip—she stood taller than she had in weeks.
She walked to the main square of Ikanbi where the cooks stirred pots and militia rested beside stone seats.
A few heads turned.
Then someone murmured, "Is that… fiber?"
The next day, Ben passed her near the training ground.
His eyes noted the wrap, the material, the stitching.
He said nothing.
But as he walked past, he stopped for just a breath's length and said:
"Make more."
Mia stood stunned, then nodded.
That night, her hands did not stop working. And soon, others—women, older children, even some warriors—began bringing her bark, asking to learn.
The clothing of Ikanbi had begun.
Meanwhile twa milhoms smiled at the man who had brought him a cup of amusement.