THE DESCENDANTS OF THE WOLF

The Sierra Madre Mountain breathed like a sleeping giant. In the heat of the afternoon, its forests shimmered with the endless hum of cicadas, while the river that snaked through the Mercado family’s land sparkled in the sun. To the villagers, it was ordinary—just another patch of green where boys chased carabaos – water buffalo, and girls learned to carry baskets on their heads. But to Adrian Mercado, the second son of four children, the mountain carried secrets. He could feel it in his skin whenever the wind shifted, could hear whispers in the rustle of the trees at night. He was only ten years old when he first sensed the pull. “Adrian!” Gabriel’s voice rang out from across the rice fields. “Hurry, before Tatay sees you daydreaming again!” Adrian blinked, shaking himself from his thoughts. His eldest brother, Gabriel, two years older and always acting like a soldier, waved from the dikes with a bundle of firewood over his shoulder. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, his shirt already muddied from work. Behind him, their younger brother Rafael was crouched in the mud, trying—and failing—to catch a frog. “Got you!” Rafael shouted, lunging forward. The frog leapt, splashing him with a spray of muck. He fell flat on his stomach. Gabriel groaned. “You’re hopeless,” Gabriel muttered. Adrian laughed as he ran to help Rafael up. “That frog is smarter than you.” Rafael scowled, shaking mud from his hair. “One day I’ll be faster than both of you.” His eyes, mischievous and fierce, glinted in the afternoon sun. A softer voice drifted from the hut at the edge of the field. “Kuya! Nanay says to come in before the sun sets!” Alessandra, the youngest, stood by the bamboo doorway, her long black hair catching the golden light. At only six years old, she already had a stillness that set her apart. While the boys wrestled and shouted, Alessandra would sit quietly, weaving small garlands of sampaguita or staring at the sky as if reading messages written in clouds. “Coming!” Adrian called. He glanced back at the mountain ridge, where the shadows had begun to stretch long and dark. The cicadas had fallen strangely silent, as though the forest itself was holding its breath. Something moved among the trees. Adrian froze. For a moment, he thought he saw a pair of glowing eyes watching from the underbrush—golden, unblinking. Then a bird burst from the branches, and the vision vanished. He shook himself and followed his brothers back to the hut. Their home was simple: bamboo walls, a nipa roof, and wooden floors polished smooth by years of bare feet. Smoke from the cooking fire curled lazily into the air as their mother stirred a pot of munggo. Their father sat on a woven mat, sharpening his bolo, the steel glinting. “You three smell like the carabaos,” their mother said with a laugh. “Wash up before you eat.” “Yes, Nanay,” Adrian muttered, splashing water from the clay jar outside. As they gathered around the low table, their father’s eyes lingered on Gabriel. “You’re growing strong, anak,” he said. “A firstborn must carry the weight of the family. One day, it will fall on your shoulders.” Gabriel straightened with pride. Adrian, seated beside him, felt a pang of something—was it jealousy? Or longing? He couldn’t tell. His father rarely spoke of his own childhood, rarely spoke at all about their clan. But sometimes, when the moon was full, Adrian would wake in the night to find his father staring out the window, eyes glowing faintly as though catching firelight from within. That night, after dinner, the children sat on the floor as their mother told stories. She always spoke of the old ways, of the creatures that haunted the islands long before colonizers came—tikbalang, aswang, duwende. Adrian listened with rapt attention, his heart pounding with each tale of the supernatural. But one story stood out that evening. “There was once a clan,” she whispered, her eyes flicking to their father. “Not human, not fully beast. They were guardians of the land, protectors of the ancient kingdoms. They had the strength of ten men, the eyes of wolves, and the loyalty of a pack. But the Spaniards feared them. The friars hunted them. And so, one by one, they disappeared into legend.” Alessandra shivered. Rafael laughed nervously. “Just stories, Nanay.” Adrian, however, felt a chill crawl down his spine. He glanced at his father, who had gone silent, the bolo resting across his knees. For a moment, his father’s jaw tightened, as if he wanted to speak—but instead, he rose and left the hut without a word. Adrian never forgot the look in his eyes. XXX The blood moon came weeks later. It began with the dogs. Every mutt in the village began howling at dusk, their cries echoing through the valley. The villagers locked their doors early, whispering prayers. The Mercado children huddled together, restless. Adrian couldn’t sleep. Something gnawed at him, a pull he couldn’t resist. When he peeked out the window, he saw his father and Gabriel slipping into the trees, their figures dark against the red-lit sky. “Where are they going?” Adrian whispered. Rafael stirred beside him. “Don’t. Nanay will be angry.” But Adrian’s curiosity burned. He crept out of the hut, barefoot, the earth cool beneath his feet. The forest swallowed him whole, and yet he felt no fear. Instead, a strange exhilaration coursed through him, like every nerve in his body was alive. Through the trees, he saw them. His father stood in a clearing, shirtless, his chest heaving. Gabriel stood opposite him, trembling, eyes wide with both fear and awe. Above them, the moon hung huge and crimson. “Breathe,” their father said. “Feel it in your blood.” Adrian gasped as he saw his father’s body begin to change. Muscles swelled, bones cracked, his face elongating into a snout. A low growl rumbled from his throat as fur sprouted across his skin. Gabriel’s scream echoed—but his body too was convulsing, bones reshaping, hands twisting into claws. Wolves. They were wolves. Adrian stumbled backward, a branch snapping under his foot. Both heads snapped toward him, golden eyes glowing in the dark. “Adrian!” his father snarled, voice distorted. “Go back!” But Adrian couldn’t move. His heart thundered in his chest, yet another sound rose within him—a howl, building, desperate to break free. Something inside him had awakened. XXX When Adrian awoke the next morning, he was back in his mat inside the hut. His mother sat beside him, eyes weary, holding his hand. “You saw,” she said softly. “Didn’t you?” Adrian nodded, tears pricking his eyes. Vanessa Mercado, Adrian mother stroked his hair. “Our blood is old, anak. Older than this village, older than this land. One day, you will understand. But until then, you must be strong—for yourself, and for your brothers and sister.” Adrian swallowed hard, the memory of golden eyes burning in his mind. He glanced at Gabriel, who sat in the corner, silent, his face pale. His elder brother would not meet his gaze. From that day forward, nothing between them was the same. XXX The tragedy struck a year later. The Mercado children were asleep when the fire started. Shouts rang through the night as flames devoured the hut. Their father Victor Mercado burst into the room, dragging them out into the night. Smoke choked the sky. “Run!” he roared. But shadows moved beyond the flames. Figures with red eyes and twisted grins, neither human nor beast. Adrian would remember their smell—rotten and sweet, like meat left to rot in the sun. Aswang. His father transformed before their eyes, launching himself at the attackers. Gabriel followed, his body half-shifting, howls tearing through the night. “Take Alessandra!” Adrian screamed, grabbing his sister’s hand. He pulled Rafael with his other, dragging them toward the trees. Behind him, the sound of snarls, of blades, of screams—his parents’ voices lost in the chaos. By dawn, the hut was nothing but ashes. Their parents were gone. The four siblings sat beneath a tree, smoke still rising in the distance. Alessandra sobbed quietly. Rafael trembled with rage. Gabriel’s face was hard, his eyes cold, a new weight on his shoulders. Adrian stared at the horizon, fists clenched. That night, he swore silently: he would never be powerless again. He would rise above this cursed blood, above poverty, above loss. He would build something so vast, so untouchable, that no one—neither man nor monster—could ever take it from him. And in the distance, as the moon climbed pale and silent over the Sierra Madre, a lone wolf howled. Adrian felt it vibrate through his bones, a call that would haunt him for the rest of his life. XXX