The fires of war had long since cooled, but ash still clung to the skin of the defeated.
What remained of the six tribes—the ones that dared to march on Ikanbi—were not slain to the last. Some had fled when their warriors were cut down. Some surrendered at the edge of a blade. Others had simply been too weak, too broken to move.
Now, they gathered in the shadow of a land they did not understand.
A border of stone and thorn marked their world. They were not inside Ikanbi, not welcomed as kin, but not cast out to die either. They were placed between breath and blade—watched, weighed, judged.
They were the remnants.
⸻
Ben did not greet them.
He walked through their temporary settlement once and only once, his footsteps slow, his expression unreadable. Warriors parted before him like trees before a fire, and the remnants—men, women, children—lowered their eyes in silence.
He said only one thing.
"Strength builds trust. Trust earns place. Until then—you are nothing."
Then he was gone.
⸻
The rules came after.
They were simple but absolute.
No one entered Ikanbi proper without escort.
No one spoke to the civilians or children of Ikanbi.
No one refused work.
Work meant survival.
They hauled stone, cleared brush, dug plots in hard soil. They slept in crude shelters—no fire unless granted. Those who refused to labor received no food. Three violations meant exile into the wilderness, no second chance.
Some tried to test the rules.
One did not eat for two days. On the third, he begged at the edge of the river path.
A militia warrior, five-ringed and silent, struck him once. The man didn't rise again.
The body was dragged beyond the thorn line.
No one wept.
⸻
The Ikanbi people did not jeer. They did not taunt the remnants. But they did not welcome them either.
Former Red Claw and Duru warriors—now fully bound to Ikanbi—watched the newcomers with the cold discipline of soldiers. They remembered what it was like to be weighed. And what it took to be chosen.
Civilians watched from afar. Children were warned not to speak to the strangers. Not yet.
"They walk the path of bones," Sema had whispered once. "Let's see if they make it to the end."
She watched them closely, her scribes taking notes. Behavior. Patterns. Promise. Corruption.
⸻
Among the remnants, cracks formed early.
A group of seven plotted escape.
The Shadow Blades, unseen and watching, reported it the night before they moved.
Ben said nothing. He gave no order to stop them.
Instead, they were allowed to run—into the night, into the trees, toward what they thought was freedom.
By dawn, the seven were returned.
Broken.
They were dragged into the camp by five-ringed warriors and left in the center where all could see. Ben arrived soon after, dust on his shoulders, silence in his gaze.
He stood over the broken bodies and raised his voice just once:
"You chose your path. Now the others will walk over your bones."
And they did.
⸻
But not all was bleak.
In the far corner of the settlement, a boy no older than ten built a shelter for himself. With broken fingers and a stolen shard of stone, he dug a trench around it. When an elder collapsed, he fetched water. When a stranger cried, he shared his last scrap of food.
Sema saw him. She wrote his name.
That night, Mia walked near the edge. Quiet as dusk. She did not speak to the boy, but she left behind a small bundle—woven fiber strips. Enough to warm a body at night.
It was not a gift.
It was an invitation.
⸻
The trials of the remnants were not done.
Some would break.
Some would betray.
But a few—
A few had begun to rise.
And in the dark of the settlement, where even moonlight feared to tread, a Shadow Blade stood alone, whispering to the night:
"None will be the same."
Eight days had passed since the wrath of Ikanbi scorched the land, and already the world trembled beneath the weight of its silence.
From the heart of Ikanbi, four Shadow Blades were dispatched—not to kill, not to scout, but to deliver words.
Ben's words.
They moved through the jungle like wind slipping through leaves—never seen, never heard, never stopped. But unlike before, they did not leave messages behind in secret or symbols in firelight.
They entered the camps.
They stood before the chieftains.
They spoke.
To each of the nearby small tribes, the Shadow Blades stepped out of nothingness and stood before their leaders—stone-faced, silent, deadly.
Then each one spoke the exact same words, their voices stripped of emotion:
"Ben of Ikanbi calls for a meeting.
At the edge of Ikanbi's border.
Bring no weapons. Bring no lies."
Not a single word more. Not a threat. Not a promise. Only the message.
And then they turned and vanished as swiftly as they had come, leaving behind stunned silence and pale faces.
No tribe in the history of the region had ever dared such a thing—to summon others, to call for words instead of war. It was not custom. It was not tradition. It was power.
And the Shadow Blades made that power clear just by standing there.
They were not diplomats.
They were not warriors seeking alliance.
They were the edge of something greater.
⸻
Three tribes received the message that day.
The first, a hill tribe known for their fast-moving raiders, jeered at the notion. Their chief spat on the ground and said, "I will not bow to a man who speaks instead of strikes." His warriors roared with laughter.
But when they turned to leave, one noticed that the Shadow Blade was still standing there, unmoving, watching them.
The laughter died quickly.
The chief said nothing else.
The second tribe, dwellers of the deep wetlands, trembled as the Shadow Blade appeared before their firepit. Their chief—an old woman with missing teeth and smoke-colored skin—listened in silence. Her eyes never met the Blade's, but she did not dismiss him.
She simply nodded.
"We will come. If only to see the shape of this new fear."
The third tribe was quiet. Too quiet.
Their chief, a tall man with a torn ear and bone beads wrapped around his arms, listened to the message, then waved his warriors back.
He stared at the Shadow Blade long after the words were spoken.
"No one calls the wolves," he said. "Unless they've become wolves themselves."
He did not refuse.
He did not accept.
But that night, scouts from his tribe moved closer to Ikanbi's border.
⸻
Back within Ikanbi, Ben stood on a high ridge overlooking the land.
He did not pace.
He did not speak.
He waited.
And somewhere in the trees, the Shadow Blades returned—quiet and grim.
They had delivered the message.
Now it was the world's turn to answer.