CHAPTER 1
1329 Words
Long after the hearth has died down and the drums cease to beat, begins our tale— Not of kings nor gods, but of a boy who dared to chase both.
Before dawn broke, when the island was nothing but silence, a young man was already awake.
He wasn't supposed to.
Yet again, everything he did wasn't.
Barefoot on the damp earth, he thrusts his spear again and again, creating a faint swish and a gust of wind that screams its strength— a crude weapon he carved from bamboo. His Bangkaw.
Each strike was faster, sharper. His hands were blistered, his breath uneven, sweat trickling down his bare skin but he didn’t stop.
He could still feel the beat of drums thundering in his chest that night, the smell of resin in the air.
and when he closed his eyes, he could vividly see the grand ships approaching the shore, the Rajah's son standing in all his glory— like he was still there.
He could not stop thinking.
So he trains.
He trains until no thought could ever haunt him.
He lunged once more. The point hit the tree, and its bark split clean open. A small smile tugged at his lips—until the sound of footsteps came from behind.
“Kalas.”
The voice was rough. Familiar.
He turned, his spear still raised. It was Sulay, his brother, standing by the trees, his hands crossed against his chest.
“So you’ve heard,” Sulay said.
Kalas didn’t answer. He tore a strip from his bahag and polished his weapon. “About what exactly?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Kalas.”
Kalas smirked. “I don’t have to play dumb. I play the part, remember—”
“Children of Lakans and Sultans are competing tomorrow!” Sulay’s voice trembled, caught between fear and anger, “You think the gods will even look your way?”
The poor slave's son.
Troublemaker.
Stubborn bastard.
Maybe that's all he’s ever been— but at least, he’d been something.
Kalas held his spear tight. “Then maybe I’ll make them.”
Sulay grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t go.”
His voice faltered, “Please.”
Kalas finally looked at him and stopped. Sulay wore an expression he had never seen on him before. fear, worry or… maybe even dread.
The boy’s eyes flicked up—burning. “You’d rather die here, bowing to men who never even tried to learn your name?”
Sulay looked away. “And you think the gods will remember yours?”
Their chests were heaving, Kalas had clenched his fists until warm liquid dripped down his hands and the silence…
it seemed to answer each of their thoughts.
“You don't understand the pain of knowing you could be more if you were given enough ,” Kalas said as he walked past Sulay and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Think about it, Kalas,” Sulay calls after him.
“I will,”
Kalas never looked back—
though one day…He’d wish he had.
The corners of the old bahay kubo were all Kalas had ever known of home.
The damp earth beneath it, the thin walls that never belonged to him.
An alipin sa gigilid, bound not by chains but by the edges of another man’s bidding.
He wiped, worked, cooked by the edges and if he was lucky, he could at least step outside.
This was the life Sulay had wanted him to be content with, this was safe. For him, this was enough.
“Bring this down to the village,” an older servant ordered before giving him the sack.
Kalas took it without a word. The weight of it dragged on his shoulders as he stepped outside, the morning sun stinging his eyes.
From the hill, he could see the smoke of the village curled up from the trees, the sun just rising enough to kiss the green landscape with gold.
In these moments, Sulay’s voice echoed in the back of his mind and the word enough kept ringing.
“Move faster, Kalas! At this pace, I might die before we even reach the damn village!” The old man grumbled behind, carrying another sack with him as well.
“Don’t worry,” Kalas said with a playful smile, “I heard Sidapa likes beautiful things.”
Sidapa— the God of death and fate — as what elders said — wasn't known for mercy.
“What does that have to do with anything?” the old man asked, frowning.
Kalas walked a little ahead, glancing over his shoulder. “It means he wouldn’t even want you.”
The old man’s face turned red but before he knew it, Kalas was already sprinting down the slope, with a heavy sack at hand but a bright grin plastered on his face.
“Y-you! Come back here!” The old man yelled.
Kalas arrived at the village gasping, chest heaving, his body drenched in sweat and an old man clutching at the back of his bahag—the woven cloth men wore around their waist, now half undone from all the running.
Kalas drops the sack, “Let go, old man!”
The old man gasped for air and grinned, “Over my dead body, you punk—”
“What is all this, Aryas?” A woman's voice interrupted.
Nanang stood by the hut, her wrap skirt tied neatly at the hip, a strand of beads resting on her chest. Her hands were calloused but steady—the kind of strength born from tending both soil and children.
“If you're done acting like a child, you might want to carry those sacks back home,” her piercing gaze was enough to scare even a grown man like Aryas.
Aryas groaned and shuffled away with the sacks, muttering something about ungrateful youth.
Kalas stayed behind. “You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“He’s my husband, Kalas. Who else would deal with all his antics?” she replied softly. Her tone shifted—gentler now. “You’ve been training hard lately.”
“Trying to.”
“For what?”
Kalas hesitated. “I don’t know yet.”
She smiled faintly. “Well, maybe you could use those skills for the village, we need you here.”
He chuckled. “You sound like Sulay.”
“Then maybe he’s right.”
Her gaze softened as she looked at the market ahead, a look that reminded him of a gentle breeze, “Sulay only wants the best for you,”
Kalas' smile faded and he stared blankly at a tree in the distance, “The safest doesn't always mean the best, though.”
Her gaze lands back at Kalas, “What more is there in death, Kalas?”
He didn't answer. The silence hung between them but for a heartbeat, Kalas knew what he wanted to say— maybe it's something worth dying for.
Nanang noticed the spark in his eyes, that quiet longing for something more.
She smacked his arms lightly, “You're hopeless.” she said as she chuckled.
They walked together down the dirt path, the village already stirring awake—the chatter of vendors, the smell of smoke, the distant clang of metal.
A group of men passed by, their voices low but urgent.
“They said it’s happening tonight,” one whispered.
“The Sandugo?” another asked. “Here?”
“Aye. Word is, the Babaylan herself called for it. The gods demand a name.”
“Isn't it too early for that?” the other replied.
“It must've been because of the attack…”
Nanang’s expression darkened. “So soon…” she murmured.
Kalas looked ahead, unease curling in his chest.
The Sandugo. The test of blood and worth.
That night, Kalas was nowhere to be found.
- Writer
