The next morning came colder than expected.
The wind rolled down from the hills in hushed waves, and even the birds didn't speak. Benchy stood just outside the fire pit, the blade from Twa Milhom sheathed at his hip, and the skin on his arms buzzing faintly from whatever the god had woven into him the night before.
He didn't understand it.
But he could feel it.
Not like magic — there was no spark or glow. It was more like gravity had shifted in his chest. Like when he walked, the ground noticed.
Across the camp, Twa Milhom sat on the edge of a large boulder, sharpening another blade with a stone. He hadn't said a word since the pact.
He didn't need to.
Around midday, the silence broke.
Voices.
Two of them, echoing through the tree line — stumbling, afraid, unfamiliar.
Benchy's body went stiff. His hand dropped instinctively to the hilt on his belt. Twa Milhom didn't move. He just lifted his head and stared past the trees.
"Should we hide?" Benchy asked.
"No," the god replied.
"You're not prey anymore."
The first figure stumbled out of the underbrush, dragging a younger boy by the wrist.
Both looked starved, wrapped in torn cloth, skin raw from the sun. The older one — a teenager like Benchy, maybe a few years more — saw him and stopped cold.
"You live here?" he asked.
Benchy didn't answer.
The boy's eyes darted past him — to the fire, the lean shelter, the clean tools.
"We've been walking for three days," he said. "The roads are burned. The streams are dry. I didn't think anyone was left."
Benchy still said nothing.
The younger boy — a child no older than eight — collapsed near the fire pit.
Benchy knelt and held out water. The boy drank like he hadn't tasted anything but ash in a week.
The older one sat slowly, eyes flicking between Benchy and the massive figure seated on the stone.
"Is that your bodyguard?" he asked.
Benchy glanced at Twa Milhom, who stared like stone.
"Something like that," Benchy replied.
The First Choice
As night fell, the two newcomers stayed by the fire. They offered no thanks. Just survival.
Benchy sat across from them and finally spoke.
"If you stay, you work. You follow my rules. You answer to me."
The older boy scoffed. "And who made you chief?"
"Nobody," Benchy said. "I buried the last one."
The older boy stood. "We don't take orders from kids."
Twa Milhom didn't move, but his gaze fell on the boy like a hammer.
Benchy stood as well — not aggressive, but steady.
"Then walk back into the woods."
The boy hesitated.
Benchy didn't blink.
Twa Milhom said nothing.
Finally, the older boy sat back down.
Later that night, while the fire cracked low and the stars returned behind clouds, Twa Milhom finally spoke again.
"You didn't ask for my help."
Benchy shook his head. "I said I'd earn it."
"You could have scared him. Broken him."
"That's not leadership," Benchy said. "That's fear."
Twa Milhom nodded slowly.
And something shimmered in the air.
Not light.
Not heat.
But weight.
Benchy felt it in his chest — like a door opening inside his bones. That tiny thread of godhood he'd been given… expanded.
He stood straighter. His breath came easier.
He had made the god proud.
And for that, he carried a little more of the storm.
The Whisper of a New Name
By dawn, the two newcomers had told others. They had passed the word between whispers:
"There's someone alive near the old eastern ridge. A boy with fire. A boy with a shadow."
A rumor was already forming.
Not of a god.
But of a mortal with eyes like tempered steel, and a silent figure who never sleeps.
The fire was low again, but no one slept.
Benchy sat against the side of the shelter, legs drawn up, eyes half-closed. The two new boys—Jeron and Laye, they'd said their names were—slept like stones near the pit.
Twa Milhom hadn't moved in hours. Still seated on the boulder, rope coiled beside him like a sleeping beast.
The silence was broken by soft crunching in the trees.
Three figures this time.
Benchy stood, blade already in hand.
Jeron snapped awake, scrambling behind him.
The figures stepped into view—one man, two women. All older than Benchy. All armed.
The man lifted his hands. "We're not here for blood."
"Then keep your hands where I can see them," Benchy said.
He meant it.
They looked half-dead. Scarred. Sunburned. But their eyes were alert. Calculating.
The man stepped forward, slowly.
"We heard from a girl near the southern hill. Said there was a boy here… a leader. One the gods had taken an interest in."
Benchy's jaw tightened.
"We're not a camp," he said. "And I'm not a prophet."
"You have food. Water. Fire."
"We have rules too," Benchy said.
"You answer to me. Not to him."
He gestured toward Twa Milhom without looking.
The man blinked. "You speak like you've earned him."
Benchy didn't answer.
The Real Test
The woman on the left stepped forward. She had a long scar over her right eye and the gaze of someone who had once led others—and lost them.
"I've buried three children," she said flatly. "I'm not here to follow a boy who's still learning how to sharpen a knife."
Benchy didn't move.
But the air changed.
The crickets went silent.
And without turning his head, Twa Milhom finally spoke.
"Then leave. Or kneel."
The woman stiffened.
Benchy raised his voice—not loud, but firm.
"No kneeling."
All eyes turned to him.
Benchy looked straight at the woman.
"If you're going to follow me, it won't be because a god told you to. It'll be because you chose it."
A long silence followed.
Then she knelt anyway.
Not to Twa Milhom.
To Benchy.
The Branding
Twa Milhom stood at last.
He walked over slowly, silently, and stopped behind the woman.
"She kneels for you. That is enough."
He placed two fingers on the back of her neck.
And where he touched, a sigil bloomed — a mark like rope turned to ash, curling into a circle.
She gasped, eyes wide—but didn't cry out. Her breath came heavy.
The other two dropped to one knee.
Benchy's heart pounded.
"What did you do to her?"
Twa Milhom answered without looking at him.
"I branded her in your name."
Benchy stepped forward. "You said—only if they're loyal to me."
Twa Milhom nodded. "They are."
The Shift
That night, five people sat around the fire. Five, with nothing in common but the fact that they had chosen not just to survive—but to follow.
And though none of them said it, something had changed.
The boy with the blade was now a name passed on cold winds.
The god with the rope had moved again.
And somewhere deep inside, Benchy felt it:
The thread inside him had grown heavier.
He didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
He just sharpened his blade, and whispered to the air:
"One man. One god."