Twa Milhoms

The morning sun filtered softly through the dense canopy, casting mottled shadows across the clearing. The tribe gathered—old and new alike—faces weathered and hopeful, yet tinged with uncertainty. Ben stood before them, the weight of leadership settling across his shoulders like a mantle.

Around him were the original marked—the few who bore Twa Milhom's sigils—standing quietly with measured strength. But the majority were the new survivors, unmarked and raw, their eyes scanning the unfamiliar territory and unfamiliar faces.

Ben's voice cut through the murmurs, steady and clear. "We are many now. Each of you has a place, a purpose. But before any mark is given, before anyone is called warrior, we must build our strength together."

He paced slowly, letting the words sink in.

"We will organize into three groups," he said. "The militia will protect us and provide the hunt. Builders will raise our homes and keep our village strong. And the fisheries will ensure the river feeds us well."

Heads nodded cautiously. Some glanced toward Kael, Jaron, and Mala, who stood ready to lead the militia divisions.

Ben continued, "Those who volunteer or are best suited for defense and scouting will join the militia. The rest will aid Druel with building or Boji and Jano with the fisheries. Women and elders will contribute where they are strongest—cooking, healing, crafting. Every role matters."

A few faces lit with relief; others wore the quiet anxiety of unknown futures.

Ben raised a hand to still the growing conversations. "No one here is marked yet. The marks and ranks—warrior levels—will come later. When you've proven your loyalty, your strength, and your heart. Until then, we are one tribe. Unmarked, but united."

A ripple of understanding passed through the crowd.

From the edge of the clearing, Twa Milhom watched silently, his unreadable eyes taking in the scene. He said nothing, but the air seemed charged with his presence.

As the meeting broke, small groups gathered under their appointed leaders. Kael spoke quietly to his militia hopefuls. Jaron laid plans for scouting patrols. Mala moved among the women, encouraging them to find their paths.

Ben lingered by the newly built stone fire pit, the pulse of warmth beneath his hand a steady reminder of the power he carried—and the responsibility he bore.

In the quiet, he whispered to himself, "Unmarked, but ready. This is only the beginning."

As the crowd began to disperse into their new roles, Ben remained rooted for a moment, eyes scanning the faces around him—young, old, hesitant, determined. Each person was a story, a survivor, and now a vital thread woven into the fragile fabric of their new tribe.

Kael approached, his expression serious but resolute. "We've got a long road ahead, but I believe this structure will hold. The unmarked may lack the sigils for now, but their hearts speak louder than any mark."

Jaron, stepping up beside Kael, nodded in agreement. "The unmarked are hungry—not just for food, but for belonging. We'll train them, teach them discipline. They'll rise."

Mala's eyes softened as she looked over the groups beginning their work. "And the women—they'll find strength in the roles they choose. Not everyone needs a spear. We'll build, heal, and support."

Ben gave a slight smile, feeling the weight lighten slightly. "Good. We build not just for survival, but for something greater—something lasting. Twa Milhom watches, but it's our hands that shape this future."

The sun climbed higher, promising both heat and hope. The tribe moved with renewed purpose, their unmarked bodies carrying the promise of warriors yet to be born, and a home yet to be fully claimed.

Days passed, and the rhythm of life began to settle. The unmarked worked tirelessly—lifting stones, clearing paths, forging tools, and learning the harsh lessons of survival. Each day brought new challenges, but also small victories that fed their growing confidence.

Kael led drills with the militia, emphasizing unity over strength. He reminded them that discipline would turn them into something greater than mere survivors—into a force that could protect and prosper.

Jaron oversaw hunting parties, teaching strategies to track and outwit the beasts that roamed the dense jungles. His experience kept the group focused, even as the jungle's dangers whispered from every shadow.

Mala nurtured those who were weary, organizing the women into vital roles that kept the tribe functioning—cooking, gathering medicinal plants, mending wounds, and weaving nets. She fostered a spirit of community, reminding them that every role was essential.

Ben watched it all, the weight of leadership settling deeper into his shoulders. He knew the unmarked would need time—time to earn the god's favor, to find their marks, and to prove their worth. But more than that, he knew the future depended on their unity, their willingness to become more than individuals.

One evening, as the firelight danced across the faces of the tribe, Ben sat beside Boji and Druel. They spoke quietly about the days ahead, plans for expanding the fishery, refining the farming techniques, and strengthening their defenses.

The path was long and uncertain, but with each passing day, the unmarked grew closer to becoming the tribe they were meant to be.

And somewhere beyond the bamboo, Twa Milhom watched, waiting.

The sun rose slowly over Ikanbi, casting golden light on the bustling village below. Smoke drifted from the cooking pits, voices hummed over morning routines, and a quiet order had begun to settle into the once-chaotic tide of newcomers.

But adapting was far from easy.

The people—unmarked and freshly settled—grappled with the weight of a new world that demanded more than survival. It asked for structure. Discipline. A willingness to trust something they could not yet see.

At first, the idea of a rank system felt foreign. In their old lives, most had known freedom as isolation—eat, hide, fight, survive. Now, they were being asked to follow commands, respect lines of authority, and accept that they were not all equal in burden or in power.

Some resisted.

A handful chafed at being grouped beneath the leadership of Kael, Jaron, or Mala. They questioned the legitimacy of one-ring warriors. Why should a mark mean more than experience? Why should strength be measured by unseen favor?

Others welcomed the order. For them, ranks gave purpose. Rules gave security. The feeling of belonging to something larger soothed the rawness left behind by the world's cruelty.

Ben knew this tension would not vanish overnight.

He did not force discipline—but he enforced boundaries. He walked among the people daily, answering questions when he could, correcting behavior when he must. He reminded them that the system was new, yes—but it was built to serve them all.

And slowly, the structure began to breathe.

The militia groups trained under Kael, Jaron, and Mala grew more cohesive. Daily routines took shape—morning movement, training cycles, hunting assignments, communal meals, and evening debriefs. Orders were not shouted, but spoken with quiet confidence. The people began to recognize who to follow, who to ask, and how to support one another without waiting for permission.

Druel's builders followed his measured pace, learning through sweat and scraped hands. He insisted on patience and craftsmanship—explaining that rushed walls fall faster than a beast's charge.

Boji's fishery workers, led now in part by Jano, learned not just to catch, but to sustain. They built nets, crafted feeding patterns, and recorded growth. Boji's calm intensity gave the group direction. His love of experimentation spread, and those around him began to offer ideas of their own.

And for the first time, Ben noticed something new.

The unmarked, once just survivors, now spoke of roles. Of responsibility. Of earning place and name.

The rank system was still an embryo—barely crawling—but it was alive.

And in the quiet moments between labor and rest, many looked toward the bamboo forest, where Twa Milhom walked unseen, and wondered not if—but when—they would be marked. When their efforts would catch the eye of the god who watched without praise and judged without favor.

Ben stood alone on the southern ridge as the moon rose, watching the fires flicker across his people.

It was working.

Not perfectly.

But it was beginning.