The wind blew strange that morning.
It came low through the trees, whispering warnings to those who could listen. Cold was coming. Not just from the sky, but from the east—from blood, from bone, from the old tribe that smelled of iron and pride: the Red Clawed ones.
Ben stood by the central fire, though no flame danced there. His shadow stretched long across the dirt, and men gathered around him, quiet as stone. These were his warriors, his hunters, his hands. Four stood closest: Kael, Mala, Enru, and Jaron. Their shoulders carried rings, their eyes carried weight.
Behind them stood others—those who kept grain, those who shaped tools, those who counted meat and watched the skies.
Ben lifted his chin.
"Red Claw comes," he said. No shouts, no loud drums. Just the wind and his voice.
"They kill the small tribes. They take what's not theirs. They come hungry, and their hunger will look here next."
Murmurs followed. Kael stepped forward.
"We ready. Our people strong."
"Strong," Mala added, "but few."
Ben nodded. "That's why we plan. We build. We gather."
He looked to Sema, keeper of grain. "How much before snow eats the land?"
Sema scratched marks in the dirt, then said, "We have enough to last the white moon. But no waste. No feast."
Ben turned to Jano, who watched the fish pens. "And the river?"
"Still gives," Jano said. "But less each dawn. We gather fast, or go hungry."
Ben nodded. "Then we gather. We share. No fire burns alone."
Far from the meeting circle, deep past the beast pens and past the new farmland where stone rows guided rainwater, three figures moved through the mist—barefoot, quiet, unseen.
Shadow Blades.
They had no names now. They were the hush between footsteps. One was once called Echo. Another, Ash. The third, Thorn. No one but Khol knew who they were anymore—not even their kin. Their families lived closer to the fire now, thinking them gone to some special duty. In a way, they were right.
Days ago, Khol had met Ben just before the moon slept.
"Red Claw feeds on weak tribes," Khol had said. "They build for war. They strip bones from the forest."
Ben had nodded. "Go see."
And so Khol sent them. The three blades.
They returned without drums or shouts, walking back into the bamboo one at a time.
Echo brought the signs—painted skins with symbols of war, stacked like trophies.
Ash brought the sounds—the chants of Red Clawed youth shouting blood-prayers by firelight.
Thorn brought a map scratched with charcoal on bark, marking small villages crushed and empty.
Khol took the news to Ben.
"They don't come," he said. "They hunt. They break. They take. Winter gives them reason."
Ben listened and said nothing for a long while. Then he looked to the mountain beyond the forest.
"Then we ready."
The Call Before War
Ben gathered the four militia leaders again—Kael, Mala, Jaron, Enru—this time not by the fire, but at the edge of the northern trees. Each came with their second-in-command. Each wore the same face: calm, but sharpened.
Ben stood beside a line drawn in the dirt.
"This line is not land," he said. "This line is what we are."
He pointed past it. "There, they burn. There, they tear. Here, we build."
Mala knelt and touched the line. "We won't let them cross."
Ben looked at her. "They will. When they do, you don't hold this line. You bury it under their bones."
Enru stepped forward. "My men are ready. But the others whisper… they wonder if we are too few."
"We are," Ben said. "But we are not afraid."
The Pulse of the Tribe
Back in the heart of Ikanbi, the people moved like water.
Children fed beast cubs that now obeyed whistle commands. Women in the weaving circle pulled cords from vine and animal hair, twisting them into strong bands. Sema led food counts, assigning fire pits by need. The sick were moved closer to the river huts, where hot stones boiled herbs.
The air had changed. There was still laughter—but it came low, behind covered mouths. The old men no longer carved stories on wood. They carved blade handles, bow arms, and spear shafts.
Even the birds seemed to fly quieter.
The Choice of the Blades
In the hybrid bamboo grove, Khol watched his blades stand shoulder to shoulder. They held no ranks. They wore no color. But he could feel it—each of them now different from the ones he first trained.
"You will not join the war," he told them.
They didn't flinch.
"You will live in the cracks between shouts. You will strike when no one watches. Your hands will feed the silence."
They nodded.
"From this day, you are the other arm of Ikanbi. The one we don't raise. The one they never see."
The sun barely rose that morning. Mist clung low to the soil like it feared the wind. Smoke curled from the hearth pits, thin and patient. Winter had not yet come, but its shadow crept across the tribe like a slow breath.
Ben walked the path alone.
He did not wear markings or war colors. Just the wrap of a hunter, a knife at his belt, and the weight of many lives behind his eyes. His footsteps were slow, deliberate—each one like a drumbeat no one dared play.
He stopped at Sema's granary first.
She had stacked dried grain into clay pots sealed with wax and dirt, then buried half beneath the cold earth. Her log was scratched onto a flat stone—animal meat, dried fruit, fish oil, winter root, bitter salt.
"How long?" he asked.
"If none get lazy," Sema replied, "sixty-four nights. Seventy if they eat in silence."
Ben nodded.
She added, "The meat stores will shrink fast. I've told the hunters they sleep in shifts now. No more lucky strolls. Every arrow counts."
"Good."
He moved on.
The River Mouth and Fire Lines
Boji stood by the frozen edge of the river with Jano, watching fish swim sluggish beneath ice as thick as a stoneplate.
"We'll crack it twice a day," Boji said. "Take only what we need."
"And when the ice goes too thick to crack?" Jano asked.
Boji looked at the sky.
"Then we eat nothing but boiled roots and grit. We'll survive."
They both looked downstream, where children now gathered small twigs to feed the fire pits near the family clusters.
Jano lowered his voice. "Ben said this winter is war. Not cold."
Boji nodded. "Then we make the cold our ally. Freeze what we can't kill. Let them grow hungry when their food dies."
The Circle of Four
That night, Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru stood around the council fire with Ben. No one else spoke. No one else came.
Ben leaned down, drew four lines in the dirt.
"Four groups. Four walls."
He pointed to each line.
"North—Jaron. You hold the oldest hunters. They know the trees better than their own wives."
Jaron grunted.
"South—Kael. You're fast, sharp. You stop them if they try to circle."
Kael gave a short nod.
"East—Mala. The Red Claw come loud. You'll meet them first. Don't blink."
Mala smiled.
"West—Enru. You've seen their kind before. You tell me if they change."
Enru's eyes didn't leave the flames.
"What about the center?" he asked.
Ben looked into the fire.
"The center stays whole. We feed it. Protect it. Let no blade reach the heart."
Night Falls Softly
The meeting ended with no cheers. No chants. Only the slow smothering of the fire with ash.
Each leader went their way.
Khol stood in the grove, watching them from afar. The blades behind him said nothing.
He whispered to the dark, "Soon."
And behind him, ten shadows vanished into the trees.