The sun rose slowly over Ikanbi, stretching its golden fingers across a land that had once been buried in snow. Now, where ice once ruled, green shoots pierced the dark soil. Smoke from the fire pits rose steadily, not as desperate lifelines to warmth—but as signals of life, of food cooking and iron heating, of pottery baking and voices rising.
Children ran barefoot on the packed dirt, their laughter joining the rhythm of stone hammers tapping against wood, and wooden mallets thudding against clay. Mia stood near the weaving post, her fingers rough from twisting tree fiber into cords, each strand pulled from the bark of a pale-gray tree the Shadow Blades had returned with weeks ago. Around her waist, she wore the first belt made from her new cloth—coarse, but warm and strong.
She looked up as Ben walked past with two of the newer militia recruits. They carried baskets of blackened iron stones freshly pulled from the Duru's mine shaft. He nodded at her, and she returned it with a small smile—one that held no seduction, only the slow warmth of something else growing, like a spark beneath ash.
Nearby, Sema knelt by a low kiln. She held a pair of bone-handled tongs and carefully turned over a shallow clay bowl. It was her third attempt that week. The first cracked. The second exploded. This one had held its shape. Behind her, children from the former Red Claw tribe watched in silence, the oldest holding a rough spoon carved from cedar. A meal was forming. One shaped by her hands. Not just for survival—but for living.
Across the camp, Kael and Mala sparred on the southern ridge. They used training spears tipped with flint and bound with braided sinew. They were no longer just warriors. They were symbols now. Warriors who loved, who bled, who laughed. The twisted vine rings on their fingers had faded to a dark green-brown, absorbing the dust of war and work alike.
Jaron was near the stream, speaking to a group of unmarked civilians. He pointed at the river rocks, explaining how some might serve as grinding stones. The people listened—half with awe, half with confusion—but none turned away. Even they had begun to understand: here, strength was not only in the ring or the spear. It was in the hand willing to build.
Twa Milhoms sat quietly atop the stone ledge near the northern lookout. He said nothing. But beside him, Ben crouched and passed him a freshly grilled fish wrapped in a woven palm leaf.
"You eat now?" Ben asked casually.
The god sniffed the fish, shrugged, and bit into it.
"They still believe it's all about blood," Twa Milhoms said, his voice low, as if amused.
"They haven't eaten enough," Ben replied, chewing slowly.
Twa Milhoms chuckled, then looked out toward the horizon. Smoke trails in the distance hinted at movement—other tribes, other lives. Farther off, deep into the forest, the signs of movement were darker: beasts returning to their primal hunts, warriors turning feral just to survive, mothers bartering children for root meat.
But here—here there were bowls and fire pits. Training spears and stone axes. Forged iron teeth and palm-woven cloth. And laughter.
In the forest beyond, life hunted life.
But within Ikanbi… life began to shape itself.
Beyond the hills that framed Ikanbi's valley, the world had not healed with the sun's return.
Where snow once numbed pain, the thaw brought sharp hunger and clearer death. In the eastern glades, a group of warriors from the Thorn-Eaters tribe crouched over a half-buried corpse. It was not a kill—they had simply waited for the man to die of cold. Now they fought over his leather sandals and the dried marrow in his bones.
Farther south, where the rivers forked and the moss grew thick between ancient trees, a hunting party from the Bone-Splitters tribe dragged a crying girl by her hair. She was not their kill either—but her village had no spears, only prayers, and prayers do not kill wolves. She would not see another moon.
There were no rules left—only one law: Eat, or be eaten.
In the broken ruins of a once-organized gathering site, where traders had once bartered stone beads for dried meat, a small band of women now ruled with bark-tipped spears. They called themselves the Ash-Crowned, and they wore necklaces made from human fingers. Every traveler they caught became a meal or a tool. No one escaped whole.
The Red Fangs had returned.
Thought to be gone after their failed siege, they now moved silently through the high trees, hunting children, ambushing wounded herds, and carving blood symbols into bark. They had no leaders anymore—only a prophet who fed on fire ants and claimed to dream through the eyes of beasts. When he screamed, they followed.
In the far west, a beast had awakened.
Not a god, not quite. But large enough to bend trees when it passed. It left crushed prints where no animal should tread. Tribes whispered about it. Some offered sacrifices—still breathing, begging—to keep it away. Others gathered all their numbers and weapons and went to hunt it.
None returned.
Smoke drifted endlessly through the skies, and carrion birds feasted for days without landing.
Yet despite it all, rumors spread of a place where the people shared their food and no child had yet died of frost since the winter broke. A place where men and women trained together, where iron was pulled from the ground, and water flowed even through the coldest nights.
They called it different things—"The Smoke That Sings," "The Place of Fire Without Flame," "The Village of the Ghost God." But none had dared come close. Not yet.
Those who once fled Ikanbi now looked back not with shame—but with regret.
And those who still wandered, still starved, still fought for scraps, wondered if such a place could be real… or if the ice had finally stolen their minds.
The air was thick with heat, the kind that stuck to skin and stone. Summer had returned in full, drying the last memory of snow. Under the wide sky, the Ikanbi tribe moved with a purpose not seen since before the war.
Ben stood at the crest of a ridgeline, flanked by Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru. Before them lay untouched land—a sprawling expanse of dense foliage, stone hills, and hidden ravines. It was wild. Dangerous. But necessary.
"This will be the edge," Ben said, voice steady. "Our reach ends here… for now."
Each of the four militia divisions had been assigned a quadrant of the new frontier. Their task was clear: cut, clear, burn, and build. But they were not simply clearing wilderness—they were laying foundations for the future. These reclaimed lands would become the heart of each militia's base, each uniquely shaped by their commander's vision.
Kael's men began with stone markers, outlining defensive positions and paths for patrol. He believed in discipline and visibility. Mala's group wove hunting paths and silent lookout posts into the tree lines. Her base would be the eyes of Ikanbi. Jaron oversaw water access and placement of gathering stations, placing emphasis on sustainability and movement. Enru focused on spiritual grounding—his camp would be closer to the mountain roots, integrating fire pits tied to Twa Milhoms for warmth and strength.
Primitive tools carved through trees. Stone axes and sharpened flint blades bit into bark and roots. Smoke rose as brush was burned and land flattened. Children not yet old enough for warrior training carried small rocks and cleared branches. Young newly-marked warriors took turns lifting heavy logs, guided by shouts and chants passed down during training.
Even the former Red Clawed and Duru members participated. Some were still wary, unsure of their place—but as they were handed tools and welcomed into the work without question, something shifted.
This was no longer about survival.
It was about belonging.
Sema coordinated the record keepers to mark which camp had what resources, tracking food, shelter, and weapon supply chains as the new land was shaped into tribal strength. Mia helped distribute food and fiber rolls, her eyes scanning for ways to improve clothing for rough terrain.
Ben stood silently and watched the lines being drawn into the earth—not with fear or domination, but with intention.
This was the next phase of Ikanbi.
And it had only just begun.