The ground was hard. Not from frost — the cold season had passed — but from old roots twisted beneath the surface like ribs under bruised skin.
Benchy drove the short stick down again, ignoring the sting in his fingers. Dirt lodged under his nails. His breath came fast. Not from effort, but from anger.
He hadn't cried when they buried his father.
There hadn't been time. No one left to dig a grave. No one left to mourn.
Now it was just him. Six others scattered in the hills, mostly children. Maybe one or two would return. Most wouldn't.
He scraped the last of the root from the earth, wiped it on his shirt, and bit into it raw. It tasted like bitterness and wet wood, but it was something.
The wind shifted. Not sharply. Not with warning. Just… shifted.
Benchy turned his head slowly.
A man was walking toward him.
No horse. No pack. No sound — just the crunch of weight on old leaves. Heavy steps, but calm. Like he didn't care what waited at the end.
Benchy stood.
The man was broad and dense like a cut stone, not tall but carved — skin dark, body layered in hard muscle, a thick rope coiled across one shoulder like it belonged there. He had no weapon. No shoes. His eyes were sharp, flat, unreadable.
Benchy gripped the digging stick like it was more than it was.
"You lost?" he called.
The man didn't answer.
"You looking for someone? I don't have food."
Still no answer. Just quiet footsteps.
Benchy's grip tightened. "You deaf?"
The man stopped ten paces away.
And then he spoke. Low, even, and without hesitation.
"I am a god."
Benchy stared at him. "What?"
"You heard me."
"…Right."
Benchy looked him over again. Rope. Scars. Callused hands. No light. No glow. No sign.
"Gods don't show up barefoot," he muttered. "Gods don't show up alone."
"That's because most of them are liars," the man said. "They want to be followed. I don't."
Benchy squinted. "So what do you want?"
The man looked him over. Not with kindness. Not with challenge. Just observation — like weighing a piece of fruit before buying.
"To watch."
Benchy laughed. It sounded strange in the empty woods.
"Watch what?"
"You."
Silence.
"I'm not one of yours," Benchy said, jaw set.
"That's why I'm here."
The god stepped forward and crouched next to the hole Benchy had dug.
"You went too shallow," he said. "The roots run deeper. Bend your wrist inward — it gives better leverage."
Benchy blinked.
"…You're here to give me farming tips?"
"No," the god said. "I'm here to see what a mortal without strings will do when everything breaks."
He stood again. "The others… the ones who survived? They're already pulling toward gods they don't understand. You haven't. You dig your own roots. Bury your own dead. Refuse help. That makes you dangerous."
Benchy's voice came sharp. "You here to kill me?"
"If I was, I wouldn't be talking."
"…Then why stay?"
The god shrugged. "Curiosity."
Benchy turned his back on him and sat down by the fire pit, poking at the old coals. "Well, I didn't ask for company."
"You didn't ask for anything," the god said. "That's what caught my attention."
He turned to leave — not far, just a few yards — and sat on a fallen log. Rope still across his shoulder. Eyes on the horizon.
Not a word more.
Benchy didn't sleep much that night. Kept the blade under his hand. Watched the man by the dying fire, unmoving.
But in the morning, he woke to the smell of boiled root, and the sound of stone scraping steel.
His blade — sharpened. His fire — relit. His world — unchanged. Except now, he wasn't alone.
The god didn't look at him when he spoke.
"You can die alone. Or live with someone watching. Either way, I'm not here to hold your hand."
Benchy said nothing.
But he didn't ask him to leave.
Benchy chewed slowly. The boiled root had lost its bitterness. It was plain, hot, filling. He hated that it helped.
Across from him, the god — or whatever he was — sat in silence, legs crossed, coiled rope resting like a badge of something old. He hadn't asked for thanks. Hadn't asked for anything.
Benchy threw the bone shard into the coals.
"You really think I'm worth watching?" he asked flatly.
Twa Milhom looked up. "I think you're worth seeing. That's rarer."
Benchy squinted. "You talk like a man who's seen too much."
The god stood.
"No," he said. "I talk like a man who's seen the same thing too many times."
He walked past the fire, motioning Benchy to follow.
They crossed through the edge of the valley where the wild had started taking back the land. Benchy watched the rope across the god's shoulder sway with every step — not limp, but coiled like a snake, heavy with memory.
They stopped at the edge of a field — once a garden, now overrun.
Twa Milhom turned.
"You want to know if I'm a god."
Benchy said nothing.
Twa Milhom reached behind him — not to his side, not to a weapon, but to his own back.
With one hand, he uncoiled the rope and dropped it on the ground between them. The earth beneath it trembled, slightly. Then stilled.
"You want proof."
He took a step back.
"Pick it up."
Benchy hesitated, then crouched and reached down.
The moment his fingers touched the rope, his body froze.
Not from cold.
From weight.
It was like trying to lift a thousand years of war, every broken oath, every buried brother, all wrapped in twisted fiber and sweat.
The rope didn't budge.
His arms shook. His jaw clenched. A sound like cracking bark rang in his ears. His own knees hit the dirt.
He pulled harder.
Still nothing.
Twa Milhom watched without expression.
Then, after a moment, he knelt beside Benchy and placed his hand gently over the boy's on the rope.
With no effort, he lifted it — clean, casual — like it weighed nothing.
He stood, slung it back over his shoulder.
"You want to lead? First, learn what weight feels like."
Then he turned.
And as he walked back through the ruined garden, every single blade of wild grass bent away from his feet — as if the land remembered him.
Benchy didn't follow right away. He sat in the dirt, palms trembling, heart hammering with something that wasn't fear.
It was clarity.
Whatever that man was… he wasn't lying.
And for the first time since the burial, Benchy smiled.
Just a little.
"Fine, then," he muttered to the dirt.
"Stay and watch. Let's see who breaks first."