Twa Milhoms

Mist curled along the ground like a second skin, clinging to stones, tree roots, and ankles. Dawn had broken over Ikanbi, but the light was still slow in settling. The jungle had yet to decide whether it would be gentle or cruel today.

Boji stood alone at the riverbank, hand still faintly glowing with the sigil branded to his skin the night before. He didn't look at it. He didn't need to. The warmth of it pulsed through his bones with every motion, quiet but alive.

One by one, he checked his traps—woven baskets placed in the current, vine snares looped near still pools, sharp sticks anchored by stone. And already, the river had answered him. Clean catches. More than yesterday. Bigger.

Up on a slight ridge, Ben watched with arms crossed as Boji moved through the water like he belonged to it. Laye stood beside him, eating a slice of smoked meat.

"He doesn't even look up," Laye said, chewing slowly.

Ben nodded. "That's because he's already ahead of us."

"You think it was the mark?"

Ben shook his head. "No. The river's his. The mark just confirmed it."

They both watched as Boji turned to Mala and Laye—who had come down to help—and began to demonstrate how to reinforce a cracked basket rim with thin bark and cross-weave it without losing shape. His voice was soft, firm. His hands didn't shake.

Ben waited until they returned to camp before calling a meeting. The group gathered around the fire pit. It was small—eight people, the full count of his tribe—but something about the way they stood made the circle feel bigger than it was.

Ben looked to Boji, then spoke.

"Starting today," he said, "Boji's in charge of the river. Fishing, traps, tools—if it feeds us from the water, he runs it. You got ideas, you bring them to him. He answers to me. That's it."

Boji blinked, wide-eyed, but said nothing.

Sema looked surprised. Kael gave a short nod. Mala just muttered, "Took you long enough."

There were no objections.

Ben stepped away from the fire and made his way up the slope, toward Twa Milhom's stone home. He expected the same clearing, the same worn path.

But something had changed.

All around the god's home, a strange beauty had grown overnight—rows of thick, bamboo-like stalks, their joints tinged crimson, curled into perfect arches. Broad leaves hung overhead like a woven canopy. Between the stalks lay a soft trail of moss and silver stone, winding gently toward the entrance.

Flowers bloomed at the base of the stalks—petals like polished bone, radiant in the light, and fragrant with something wild and clean.

Ben slowed his steps.

Twa Milhom was seated at the heart of it, legs stretched, weaving a length of rope from pale jungle vine. His skin shimmered like bronze carved into flesh. The rope lay lazily across his lap, and a thin smile traced his face as Ben approached.

"You redecorated," Ben said.

Twa Milhom didn't look up. "I live here too."

Ben glanced around the impossibly perfect garden. "You showing off?"

Twa Milhom gave a low chuckle. "If I build something better, will you ask me to answer to you too?"

Ben smirked. "Not unless you plan on checking fish traps."

The god laughed again—quiet, amused—and turned back to his rope.

Back at the camp, not all voices were at peace.

Joren—tall, grizzled, with burn scars up one arm—stood near the drying racks, speaking low to Sema.

"So now a boy leads us?" he asked. "A child with a glowing hand?"

Sema didn't answer right away.

"He's feeding us," she said at last. "You weren't."

That shut him up—but not for long.

By the time Ben returned, he could feel the tension before he stepped into camp. It wasn't open conflict. Just the quiet strain of people beginning to compare their place in the circle.

So he called another meeting.

This time, there were no smiles.

"Some of you think the mark is a gift," Ben said, his voice low but unwavering. "It isn't. It's a chain. You carry it because you've done something none of the rest of us could. And it carries you because now you have to do more."

He gestured to Boji, who stood behind the fire with his head bowed, his hand hidden in his tunic sleeve.

"Boji didn't ask for this. He earned it. You want to be marked? Then stop waiting for miracles. Build something worth remembering."

No one spoke.

Even Joren stayed quiet, though his jaw tightened.

That night, Ben walked alone through the new paths of the garden Twa Milhom had made. The air smelled different here—wilder, somehow cleaner. He didn't need to speak. The god was already standing at the far edge, arms crossed.

"You warned me," Ben said. "About the mark dividing them."

Twa Milhom didn't move.

"Marks are lines," the god said. "The more you draw, the more they measure each other by what they aren't."

Ben exhaled. "So what? Stop giving them?"

Twa Milhom turned and looked directly at him. "No. Just know what you're drawing."

Then, with a crooked grin: "Want me to build you a house? I could use the practice."

Ben barked a laugh. "Only if you put a door on it that keeps you out."

Twa Milhom's eyes glinted. "You think I use doors?"

Morning returned with a different kind of light—one that landed not just on tents and logs, but on walls.

Laye had begun laying stone. Mala had started framing huts with straight timber. Boji's traps overflowed again, and he had already rerouted a side stream to create a basin for live storage.

Ben assigned jobs: scouts, water gatherers, builders, night watchers. No one argued this time.

At the center of the growing camp, Ben and Kael cleared a wide circle. It would be the place where stories were told, decisions made, and disputes ended.

By the river, Boji stood with his net slung over one shoulder, squinting at the current. His hand still glowed faintly. He didn't look back when Ben passed—but he didn't need to.

They were building something now. Not just shelter. Not just routine.

Something alive.

Ben turned toward the slope and spotted Twa Milhom watching from above, motionless in the shadow of his own strange garden. He said nothing.

And Ben, for once, didn't call out.

He just nodded.

And the god nodded back.

No words.

But the shape of something new had begun.