The sky was still purple when Benchy opened his eyes.
The coals in the fire pit were warm, but dying. Smoke curled in lazy threads. His back ached from the ground, and his hands stung from gripping the blade through the night. The rope man hadn't moved.
Twa Milhom stood at the edge of the trees, arms crossed, head slightly tilted—as if watching the forest breathe.
He hadn't slept. Or maybe he didn't need to.
Benchy sat up, groaning.
"Still here," he muttered.
The god didn't respond.
He wasn't looking at Benchy. He wasn't ignoring him, either. It was worse than that.
He was waiting.
Benchy cleaned up camp with practiced movements—quiet, angry, mechanical. He boiled what root he had left, chewed it down to the bitter core, drank from a cracked gourd. Every step he took, he felt those eyes behind him.
Not judgmental. Not warm. Just present.
Like pressure on the back of the neck.
By midday, he'd had enough.
He headed west—toward a small clearing where the traps had been set. His father's snares used to catch rabbits. Not anymore. Everything had either gone hungry or gone feral.
The old snare was still half-standing. He crouched, trying to rebuild it.
One stick snapped.
He reset it.
Another slipped.
He cursed under his breath, slapped the branches together, over-tightened the vine cord—
Snap.
It recoiled and sliced his palm open.
He hissed and stood, pressing his thumb into the cut. Blood welled between his fingers.
A shadow fell over him.
He didn't look up.
"You watching again?" he said.
Twa Milhom crouched beside him, eyes scanning the pieces of the trap, then the cut.
Benchy glared. "You're a god, right? Fix it."
Twa Milhom met his eyes calmly.
"You bleed like a man. You fail like a boy."
Benchy's breath caught, and something white-hot snapped loose in his chest. He stood and threw a punch—not trained, not careful, just fast and furious.
Twa Milhom didn't move.
He let the punch come.
And at the last second, he stepped aside. Benchy missed completely, lost his footing, and fell to his knees in the dirt.
The god said nothing.
Benchy spat dust and stood back up, shaking.
Twa Milhom finally spoke.
"You want me to teach you?"
"Prove you can take pain without throwing it."
Benchy stormed off without answering.
He walked to the far edge of the woods, fists clenched, throat tight. The blood on his hand had dried by the time he reached the tree line. He sat under a crooked oak and let the silence sit with him.
He didn't understand it.
This wasn't how gods behaved.
No glowing eyes. No booming voice. No riddles or blessings or burning symbols.
Just a man with a rope and a mouth full of thorns.
Far behind him, Twa Milhom watched from the shadows.
This was new to him, too.
He had watched empires burn. Kings beg. Lovers kill in the name of gods they never met.
But this boy… he didn't beg. Didn't kneel. Didn't pray.
He didn't even ask for help.
He just kept moving.
It unsettled something in Twa Milhom he hadn't felt in centuries.
"Is will born," he thought, "or made?"
By afternoon, Benchy returned. Still angry, but quieter.
He had a job to do—check the traps, sweep the ridge, mark the animal paths.
Twa Milhom followed him without comment.
They walked together in silence for over an hour.
The weight between them wasn't hostile. It was something else.
Eventually, Benchy broke the silence.
"Do you even like mortals?"
Twa Milhom didn't pause.
"You're useful. Dangerous. Loud. Unfinished."
Benchy snorted. "That's not an answer."
"I don't give answers," the god said. "I give chances."
They reached the broken orchard. An old fruit tree stood crooked and half-dead, its bark blackened, its leaves bone-dry.
Benchy stared at it.
His father had planted it. Before everything collapsed. It had survived three dry seasons.
Now it was nothing.
He hesitated.
Twa Milhom stepped forward and unsheathed a blade—simple, sharp, balanced.
He handed it to Benchy.
Said nothing.
Benchy looked at it, then at the tree.
Then he swung.
One cut. Clean. Deep.
The tree groaned and fell sideways into the brush.
Twa Milhom nodded once.
"When you're ready to lead people, you'll have to cut things you love."
That night, they sat by the fire again. This time, there was warmth in the coals. And space between them that felt… less empty.
Twa Milhom broke the silence.
"You're the first mortal I've spoken to. The first I've chosen to walk beside."
Benchy glanced up.
"…Why?"
"Because I want to see if a man with no gods pulling his strings can still become something more than a survivor."
Benchy stared at the fire.
"And what if I don't?"
Twa Milhom met his eyes.
"Then I'll leave."
A long silence stretched between them.
"But if you do," the god said, leaning back, "then we build something the world's never seen."
The rope across his shoulder shifted slightly, as if aware.
Benchy didn't answer.
But the blade Twa Milhom had given him sat on his lap, cleaned and sharpened.
And he didn't hand it back.
The night had gone still. Not quiet — still. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if waiting for something to happen before it dared move again.
Benchy stared into the fire. Twa Milhom hadn't moved in a while, but Benchy could feel him. Like a storm behind a hill. Present. Waiting.
He finally spoke.
"What if we make a deal?"
Twa Milhom said nothing.
Benchy didn't wait for permission.
"No altars. No blood. No prayers shouted to the sky. Just me."
"One man. One god."
Twa Milhom lifted his head.
"You want to bind a god with words?"
"No," Benchy said. "I want you to watch me build something real. And if I do