Chapter 3 What the Forest Forbids
856 Words
The forest did not want us apart.
I realized this when the rain began.
Not a gentle afternoon rain, not the kind that cooled skin and softened earth, but a sudden, deliberate downpour that crashed through the canopy like a command. The path back to the village vanished beneath mud within minutes, water rising fast enough to soak the hems of our clothes.
Luntian swore under her breath. “That’s not normal.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It isn’t.”
Kael glanced upward, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. “We’ll lose the trail if we keep moving.”
As if summoned by his words, thunder rolled low and heavy through the trees, the sound vibrating in my bones. The forest closed in—not threatening, not yet—but insistent, like a hand pressed firmly against our backs.
Kulas appeared beside us, unbothered by the rain. “Well,” he said brightly, “it seems the forest has decided on… togetherness.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Luntian muttered.
“You never do,” the Tikbalang replied. “But you’re alive. That’s something.”
A narrow shelter came into view ahead—a shallow cave tucked beneath a great balete tree, its roots arching like ribs. I had known of it since childhood, though I had never been forced to use it.
The forest nudged again.
“Inside,” I said.
We had barely crossed the threshold when the rain intensified, water cascading down the roots like silver cords. The air inside was cool and close, smelling of stone and old leaves.
Forced proximity did not begin to describe it.
Kael removed his cloak, shaking water from it before draping it carefully over a root to dry. His movements were controlled, precise—too calm for a man newly threatened by a forest that clearly did not recognize his authority.
“You’re used to this,” I said before I could stop myself.
He glanced at me. “To danger?”
“To being tested.”
A pause. Then, quietly, “Yes.”
Luntian shifted closer to the cave wall, giving us space with deliberate subtlety. She pretended to inspect her soaked skirt, but I knew better. She was listening.
The silence stretched, filled only by rain and breath.
“You didn’t have to stop me back there,” Kael said at last.
“I wanted to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when the forest is involved,” I replied. “It takes what it can. I won’t let it take you just to prove a point.”
His gaze sharpened. “You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
His eyes searched my face, as if looking for something he hadn’t expected to find. Whatever it was, it unsettled him.
The Tikbalang cleared his throat loudly. “Ah. Emotional honesty. How rare. I should mark the occasion.”
“Go away,” I said without looking at him.
He grinned. “Careful. Defiance is contagious.”
That word lingered.
Defiance.
The rain eased, but the forest did not release us. The air thrummed with tension, something coiled tight beneath the roots.
Then I felt it.
A pull—sharp, insistent—tugging at my chest.
I gasped, staggering forward.
“Tala!” Luntian was instantly at my side.
The forest surged.
Images flooded my mind—roots tightening, Kael falling, blood on leaves. A future the forest had already decided.
“No,” I whispered.
The pressure intensified, like hands forcing my head down.
Kulas stiffened. “Ah,” he said softly. “It’s early.”
“What is?” Kael demanded.
“The choosing,” the Tikbalang replied. “And she’s not meant to resist it yet.”
Yet.
Something in me snapped.
I planted my feet and pushed back.
The sensation was indescribable—like pressing against a tide with bare hands. Pain flared behind my eyes, heat blooming under my skin.
“Stop,” I said aloud, voice shaking but clear. “I said stop.”
The forest recoiled.
Just slightly.
Enough.
Silence fell, thick and stunned.
Kael stared at me. Luntian’s mouth was open. Even the Tikbalang looked… impressed.
“Well,” he murmured. “That’s new.”
My knees buckled. Kael caught me instantly, arms steady, solid, holding me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His voice was low, close to my ear. “What did you do?”
“I chose,” I whispered back. “For myself.”
The forest did not like that.
A new presence stirred—older, deeper.
From the shadows beyond the rain, a figure emerged.
Human.
Familiar.
An old woman stepped into the cave’s mouth, her hair white as ash, eyes sharp and knowing.
My breath caught.
“Grandmother?” I whispered.
I knew her face.
I had seen it in stories. In my parents’ silence.
Apo Lina.
And she looked at me not with pride—but with fear.
“Run,” she said.
The forest roared.
- Writer
