The fire pit hissed softly, sap bubbling in the heartwood. Ben sat on a wide stone slab near the newly cleared field that would become Ikanbi's first trade post—his shoulders stiff, his eyes fixed on the horizon where dawn would come slow. Behind him, piles of bamboo, clay, and tree fiber waited to be shaped into stalls and storage huts.
It had begun. The idea of growth beyond survival.
But something was missing.
And then he felt it. A shift in the air, a stillness, a presence.
Twa Milhoms appeared like a shadow pulled from smoke. His form took shape across the fire, his gaze calm but heavy. He sat beside Ben, wordless at first, letting the silence stretch like animal skin over a drum.
Finally, the god spoke.
"You have order. You have warriors. But what do you give the ones who do not fight?"
Ben's brow furrowed. "Safety. Food. A home."
Twa Milhoms turned toward the trade post. "And when they want more? When one woman makes ten clay bowls, and another spins two bundles of thread, how do they trade fairly?"
Ben was quiet.
"Let me show you something."
Twa Milhoms reached into the fire—not burning—and pulled out a smooth lump of hardened clay. With his nail, he etched into its surface a single symbol: a hollow circle inside a square. Then he pressed it onto the earth.
"This," the god said, "is one."
Ben studied the imprint.
The god continued. "One unit. One token of value. It means that someone—anyone—can exchange this for something agreed upon. A clay bowl, a pinch of salt, a wooden spoon."
He then carved another clay disc and stamped it—this time with a double mark: two hollow circles stacked like eyes.
"This is ten. A higher unit. You can divide it. One ten equals ten ones. Or five twos. Or two fives. It lets your people understand worth not by what they feel—but by what they can count."
Ben stared at the two discs. "You're saying… value can be stored. Passed. Measured."
"Yes," Twa Milhoms said. "It lets a hunter trade a single kill for more than just meat. It lets a potter work ahead, knowing her labor can be saved. It lets a child earn… and choose what to do with it."
Ben looked down. "But it's not real."
"It's as real as your word," the god said. "And that's what makes it dangerous—or divine."
⸻
By morning, Ben summoned Sema, Mia, and two advisors from the civilian ranks. Around the cleared trade zone, he laid out the plan.
"We're going to make tokens," he said. "Clay discs. One disc means something small. Ten means something larger. But they're not just numbers. They're promises."
He took two clay stamps freshly carved that night. One marked with the symbol of 'one'—a hollow circle inside a square. The other bore two stacked circles—'ten.'
"These," Ben said, "will carry the seal of Ikanbi. And the chief scribe will record every set made. No copies. No forgeries."
Mia asked, "What will they be used for first?"
Ben smiled. "Salt. Spices. Cloth. Tools. Bowls. These are our gold. These are our coins."
Sema added, "Then we need prices. A bowl might be worth one. A cloak, maybe ten. Salt? Half a unit."
"We'll figure it out together," Ben said. "But no more guessing. No more trading a knife for three worms and half a fish. People deserve to know what their work is worth."
⸻
As the week passed, the first currency in the world of Ayesha was shaped not in metal—but in clay.
Sema molded the discs. Mia wove small pouches to hold them. A ledger was started, marking each person's contributions and their earnings.
At first, it confused many. But soon, they adapted. A hunter might receive five tokens for a day's catch. A weaver might earn ten for fine cloth. And with those, they could trade—openly, fairly.
And for the first time, value moved without violence.
⸻
That night, Ben sat again by the fire. Mia joined him, curling beside him with tired arms and soot-smudged cheeks. He handed her a ten-disc token, warm from the fire, stamped with his own seal.
"For what?" she asked, laughing softly.
"For your mind," Ben said. "You make things possible."
She leaned against his shoulder. "So… I'm worth ten?"
He chuckled. "At least."
Twa Milhoms' voice rose behind them, soft and dry. "A dangerous thing you've done."
Ben didn't turn. "Why?"
"Because now… they have something to lose."
And with that, the god vanished into smoke.
But the fire remained.
And the tokens—these small circles of clay—would one day outlast them all.
The moon hung like a silver bone above the canopy, and the jungle whispered its night sounds—beasts hunting, trees sighing, wind rustling over fire pits gone cold. But Ben couldn't sleep.
The clay tokens—money—had worked better than he expected. People now bartered less. They began to plan, save, assign value. But another idea had begun scratching at his thoughts like a beast pawing at the edge of a trap.
He rose from his stone bed, slung a fur cloak across his shoulders, and walked alone into the deeper wild.
He didn't have to call.
Twa Milhoms appeared ahead of him, leaning against the curved root of a towering tree, arms crossed, unreadable as always. His eyes glowed like cooled iron—dull, but deep.
"You're thinking again," the god said.
Ben stepped forward. "What if we change how trade works again?"
The god didn't speak, so Ben continued.
"Instead of people trading with each other… what if all goods were sold to the tribe first? Pottery, salt, tools, fabric, even meat. We pay them—clay tokens, like before. Then the tribe resells those things to others."
Twa Milhoms' brow lifted slightly. "Why?"
Ben looked around. "To protect them. And to build something bigger."
He explained, slowly, the vision that had taken hold:
Each family or worker would sell their goods to the tribe directly.
The tribe would store them in designated market huts—clean, dry, watched.
Then, when others needed something—be it a bowl, salt, cloak, or tool—they wouldn't go searching or bartering randomly.
They would go to the tribe, and buy what they needed with tokens.
"It gives us control," Ben said. "We can track supply. Control pricing. Prevent hoarding. Reward quality. And most of all—we can prepare for trade with outsiders."
Twa Milhoms was silent.
But his eyes did not leave Ben's.
After a long pause, the god said:
"You move like someone from another world."
Ben said nothing.
"You understand," the god continued, "that with this—your people will never again return to the old ways. This is no longer trade. It's management. It's… taxation."
Ben's voice was steady. "It's order."
The god grunted. "It is power. Power over hunger. Power over need. Do not pretend otherwise."
"I know what I'm doing," Ben said.
"No," the god said. "You don't. But you're doing it anyway. And that makes you worth watching."
⸻
By morning, Ben returned to the main camp and summoned Sema, Jaron, and a select few from the scribes and builders. He laid out the plan in short, sharp commands.
"We will build the Market Circle."
Four long huts would be constructed in a ring, each assigned to a resource:
Earth Hut – for pottery, tools, and crafted goods.
Salt Hut – for spices, salt, dried herbs, and medicinal plants.
Cloth Hut – for fiber, garments, furs, and hides.
Hunt Hut – for dried meat, bone, feathers, and bait.
Every tribe member who produced anything would be paid immediately in clay tokens—either one-token or ten-token pieces—depending on the item and quality. The goods would then become tribal stock, stored and protected.
Later, anyone who needed those goods would buy them from the tribe, using the same clay currency. The market would never haggle, never cheat, and never forget a transaction—Sema would make sure of that.
⸻
Some were hesitant at first. But then they saw the benefits:
No more waiting for a neighbor to have what they needed.
No more unfair trades.
No more spoiled goods wasted in private homes.
The tribe now had a center, a market, a heartbeat.
Even the warriors began using the tokens, trading their patrol-earned pay for fiber wraps, salted meat, and fresh-crafted spear handles.
Children watched their parents sell bowls and return with clay discs, wide-eyed as if holding treasure.
Ben smiled, watching from the edge of the market circle.
The old world had been tooth and fang.
This new world was clay and symbol.
But just as dangerous—just as primal.
He whispered to himself, "If we control what people need, we control how they live."
And for the first time since war had ended, he allowed himself to believe:
Ikanbi would not just survive. It would last.