Twa Milhoms

Chapter 23: The Weight of a Season



The sun had not yet broken the rim of the trees when Ben called the council to gather. A chill crept through the air—a warning that the warmth of the rains would not last. Winter was coming, and it would not be gentle.

The leaders assembled in the long hut near the center of the village. Sema arrived first, grain ledger tucked under one arm, already flanked by two young runners who managed the granaries. Then came the four militia commanders—Kael, Mala, Enru, and Jaron—each dirt-streaked and taut from weeks of relentless drills. Druel entered last, eyes sharp and body lean from the burden of logistics. The door was sealed behind them. No outsiders allowed.

Ben stood at the head of the hut, arms folded. His presence was no longer questioned. Six rings marked him now—no sigil needed, no symbol burned into flesh. The way he stood was enough.

"The world is moving," Ben said. "We cannot afford to stand still."

He turned to Khol, who stepped forward from the shadows of the room. Quiet. Watchful. The blade behind the breath. No one questioned his presence anymore.

"I want full reports on every tribe within six days' walk. Number of people, supplies, structure, movement—everything. If any show signs of preparing for war, I want to know before they do."

Khol nodded once and slipped away. The Shadow Blades had already been waiting. They would be gone before the next full sun, moving without word or sound.

Ben looked to the others. "Now your reports."

Sema began. The granaries were over half full. If the weather held for another moon's cycle, they would have enough to survive winter—even with the newcomers. The fishing pens along the riverbanks were producing steadily. Farming remained strong, though water lines would need better reinforcement before the freeze.

Mala spoke next. "Hunting parties will need heavier equipment. The boar beasts move deeper into the forest during the frost. We'll lose people if we're not careful."

Kael added, "The militia is holding strong. Morale is high. Discipline even higher since the Shadow Blades returned—though no one speaks of it."

Ben said nothing. He didn't need to.

Enru leaned forward. "We should begin rationing now. Slowly. Quietly. So no one panics."

Jaron supported the idea. "Better a slow table than an empty one."

Ben listened, weighing each word. When the last report was given, he nodded once.

"We begin winter protocol immediately. Rotate hunting shifts. Reassign woodcutters to fortify shelters. Families with weaker elders or newborns move to the central clusters. No exceptions."

He looked across the room. "We will not beg. We will not scatter. Ikanbi survives—or dies—together."

There were no cheers. No loud declarations. Just steady nods. A people too familiar with hardship to waste strength on noise.

Outside, the wind began to shift—carrying with it the edge of the coming cold. But inside the hut, a fire had already started, not in flame, but in resolve.

And Ikanbi moved forward. Not with haste, but with intention.

Boji stood at the edge of the bamboo grove again, where sacred silence met the living dirt of Ikanbi. This time, he didn't hesitate.

No line could stop him. Not after all the times he'd come here. Not after what he'd already learned about the god who lived beyond the stalks.

Twa Milhoms wasn't one for empty rituals or flattery. He didn't care for groveling or titles. If you were real—if you had something that mattered—you just said it.

So Boji stepped across the boundary like stepping into a neighbor's yard.

"Alright," he said to no one, brushing off his tunic and walking deeper into the shade. "I've been thinking. A lot."

He didn't wait for a sign. Didn't bow. Didn't kneel. He just talked.

"You know how we dry meat, right? But that takes time, and it still spoils eventually. But what if—what if we buried it? Not just under dirt, but somewhere cooler. Like in wet soil with rocks around it. Jano says the riverbed stays cold even during the midday heat."

Still no sign of Twa Milhoms. But Boji kept going, his words tumbling out faster, like a boy rambling to an old friend.

"And what if—hear me out—we found a way to freeze water? I know it's not cold enough now, but if we figure out how the river makes frost in the cold months… maybe we could trap that cold. Keep it. Use it. Store beast meat in it so it doesn't rot."

He was pacing now, drawing lines in the dirt with a stick, sketching ideas that wouldn't make sense to most of the tribe.

"Also—ice fishing. If the river freezes, maybe we can crack a hole, dangle a line through it. I don't know what bait fish like in the cold, but maybe the oily meat works. Or bugs? Big ones?"

Then he paused.

Twa Milhoms was sitting on a large flat stone, arms crossed, watching him with one eyebrow raised, as if the god had been there all along and chose not to interrupt.

Boji looked up, caught off guard for only a moment, then grinned wide. "Oh. There you are. I didn't see you."

The god didn't speak yet. Just watched.

Boji pointed at the messy scrawl in the dirt. "It's all a mess, I know. I haven't figured it out. But we have time before winter. I want to make the cold work for us, not against."

Twa Milhoms exhaled quietly, not with amusement, but with something softer. Approval, perhaps.

He stood, approached the drawing, and with one finger, pushed a small pebble into the sketch Boji had made—right at the center of the pit diagram.

Then he turned away.

Boji stared at the pebble. His eyes widened.

"…You do listen," he whispered. Then louder: "I'll make it work. I will."

Twa Milhoms didn't look back, but Boji could hear the faintest mutter as the god vanished into the deeper bamboo.

"Then go build it."

Boji turned back toward the village, his steps lighter than they had been in weeks.

The shadows of the bamboo swayed around him, but Twa Milhoms was already gone—vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared, as always. No farewell. No praise. Just a single gesture and the ghost of a challenge to rise and build.

Boji didn't mind. He preferred it this way.

The grove behind him faded with each step, and the sounds of Ikanbi slowly returned—cooks calling across fire pits, the distant thud of warriors training, children laughing beneath the midday sun. But there was something else now. Something new.

He felt it first in his chest—a slow, blooming warmth, like fire sinking into the roots of his bones. His steps staggered for a moment, and he gripped his side, confused.

Then he stopped walking altogether.

His breath caught.

It wasn't pain.

It was power.

His mark—once a single ring resting quietly above his left eyebrow—began to shift. He didn't see it happen, but he felt it. As if the truth of him, the weight of who he was becoming, had finally aligned with something older, deeper, and watching.

Another ring flared into life.

Not from bloodshed.

Not from rage or grief.

But from purpose.

The fire didn't roar—it pulsed. Strong. Steady. Like the rhythm of a builder's hands, shaping the future from dirt and stone.

Boji straightened.

A smile played on his lips—not out of pride, but understanding.

This wasn't a reward. It was a responsibility.

He looked up to the sky, where clouds drifted lazily overhead, and muttered softly, "Alright. I get it. I'll make it work."

And with that, the man once known for tending rivers began to walk again—not as a caretaker alone, but as a two-ring warrior of Ikanbi, reborn with a vision that even the gods had chosen not to interrupt.


Tip: You can use left, right, A and D keyboard keys to browse between chapters.