Where The Forest Chose Me

Chapter 1: The Night the Forest Looked Back

The last thing I expected when I tripped over a balete root was to wake up in a century that didn’t believe in indoor plumbing.

To be fair, I didn’t expect the balete to grab me back either.

One second I was hiking—fine, wandering aimlessly—through a forest outside my grandmother’s old province house, phone flashlight bobbing uselessly in the dark. The next, the ground tilted, the air thickened, and the shadows seemed to lean in like they had opinions.

Then the forest blinked.

That’s the only way I can describe it.

Everything went quiet. No cicadas. No distant karaoke. No signal-searching buzz from my phone. Just a heavy, breathing stillness, like the jungle was waiting to see what I’d do next.

I sat up fast, heart slamming. My palms pressed into damp earth, warm and alive beneath my skin. Too alive.

“Okay,” I whispered. “This is new.”

The trees were wrong. Taller. Older. Their trunks twisted like muscle and bone instead of polite landscaping. Vines hung thick and wild, not trimmed or shy. And the smell—smoke, resin, salt—hit my nose so sharply it made my eyes sting.

I scrambled to my feet, brushing dirt off my shorts, only to freeze.

The clearing wasn’t empty.

Torches ringed the space, their flames steady despite the breeze I could now feel against my skin. Bare feet shifted in the grass. Metal chimed softly. And then I realized—slowly, painfully—that every single person staring at me was holding a weapon.

Spears. Bolos. Curved blades I recognized from museum displays and history books I barely paid attention to.

None of them looked amused.

“Oh,” I said faintly. “This is… not a reenactment.”

A murmur rippled through the group. Their clothes were hand-woven, richly dyed, some embroidered with gold thread. Tattoos marked arms, chests, necks—bold, intricate, unmistakably deliberate. Warriors. Not actors.

Then they parted.

And he stepped forward.

He was taller than the rest, broad-shouldered without being bulky, moving with a calm that made the air around him feel suddenly tighter. His dark hair was tied back with a strip of red cloth, exposing a sharp, composed face—high cheekbones, a strong nose, a mouth that looked like it had never once begged for anything.

Gold glinted at his throat. Not jewelry for decoration. Insignia.

Royal.

His gaze landed on me like a blade laid flat against skin—not cutting, just promising that it could.

I swallowed.

He looked me over slowly, openly, with an expression that was neither hunger nor kindness but something assessing. Measuring. Like I was a puzzle he hadn’t decided was worth solving yet.

He spoke, and the sound of his voice sent a strange shiver down my spine.

“Anong uri ng diwata ang naglalakad sa aking kagubatan?”*

I understood him.

Not because I speak deep, old Tagalog—I don’t—but because the words slid into my mind like they’d always been there.

“What kind of spirit walks in my forest?”

Oh. Great.

“I’m not a spirit,” I said quickly, lifting my hands. “Just… lost. Very, very lost.”

The warriors tensed. A few laughed softly, sharp and disbelieving.

The man’s brow lifted a fraction.

“You fall from the balete,” he said. “You appear where no path exists. You wear cloth no woman of my lands would touch.” His gaze flicked to my tank top and hiking shorts with something dangerously close to curiosity. “And you speak as if the wind taught you our tongue.”

Well. When you put it like that.

“I can explain,” I said, which was a lie, but a hopeful one.

He stepped closer.

The space between us closed, and I became acutely aware of how solid he was—heat radiating from him, the faint scent of smoke and something clean and sharp. His presence felt… heavy. Commanding. Like the forest itself leaned his way.

“You will,” he said calmly. “But not here.”

He turned, already dismissing me, and gestured once.

Hands seized my arms.

“Hey—wait—no k********g—!” I protested, struggling more out of principle than confidence. The warriors’ grips were firm but not cruel, as if they were trained not to bruise valuable things.

The royal man glanced back over his shoulder.

“I am Rajah Alon of Talisay,” he said. “And you stand accused of trespassing, witchcraft, or divine mockery.”

He met my eyes again, something dark and intrigued flickering beneath his control.

“Pray you are more useful than dangerous, dayuhan.”

Foreign woman.

I was marched through the forest, torchlight casting wild shadows, my brain scrambling to keep up. Rajah. Witchcraft. No phones. No roads. No sign of now.

The Philippines.

But not my Philippines.

Bamboo structures rose ahead—longhouses elevated on posts, woven walls glowing warm in the firelight. People stared as I passed, whispering, making signs I didn’t recognize. Children peeked from behind their mothers’ skirts. Dogs barked once, then went quiet.

I felt exposed. Seen. And weirdly—this part I didn’t like admitting—alive in a way my normal life rarely demanded.

They brought me into a large hall, open-air but guarded, the floor polished smooth by generations of feet. Rajah Alon dismissed his men with a nod. They withdrew, leaving us alone except for two silent guards at the entrance.

He turned to face me fully.

Up close, he was worse.

Better.

His eyes were dark, steady, impossible to read. There was a thin scar along his forearm, visible where his sleeve was tied back. A warrior’s body, trained and used, but carried with effortless grace.

I straightened my spine. If I was going to be interrogated by a 17th-century king, I wasn’t doing it hunched.

“My name is—” I started.

He raised a hand.

“Later.” His gaze dipped, lingered—not leering, but deliberate. “First, you will tell me what you are.”

“I’m human,” I said. “Definitely human. Bad knees, allergies, student debt.”

He stared.

“…You speak strangely.”

“I’m nervous.”

A pause.

Then—unexpectedly—his mouth curved. Just barely. Not a smile. More like he found me… interesting.

“Good,” he said. “So am I.”

My pulse jumped traitorously.

He circled me once, slow, thoughtful, like a general surveying unfamiliar terrain. I resisted the urge to fidget.

“You do not smell of magic,” he said. “But the forest reacts to you. The balete opened. That has not happened since my grandfather’s time.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to open anything,” I said. “I tripped.”

“Fate often enters that way.”

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could count my breaths between his.

“You will stay,” he said simply. “Until I decide what you are meant to be.”

“And if I don’t want to stay?” I asked.

His gaze sharpened.

“Then you will learn,” he said quietly, “that this world does not bend because a woman wishes it.”

Oh.

I lifted my chin, heart pounding, equal parts fear and something dangerously like excitement.

“Funny,” I said. “That’s exactly what my world taught me too.”

For the first time, Rajah Alon laughed—low, brief, and real.

“Then perhaps,” he said, eyes darkening as they met mine, “the balete chose wisely.”

And somewhere deep in the forest, something ancient shifted—like a door settling closed behind me.