Chapter 1 Where I Trip Over Fate
1501 Words
If the forest had not caught me, I would have fallen flat on my face.
That would have been the first thing Datu Kael of the Northern Coast ever learned about me—that I tripped over a root like a fool, arms flailing, dignity abandoned, while carrying a basket of cassava and smoked fish.
Instead, the vines moved.
They did not snap or tangle the way dead plants do. They lifted. Soft, deliberate. One coiled around my ankle, another steadied my knee, and a third brushed my wrist just enough to keep the basket from spilling. I gasped, heart pounding, as the world tilted—and then righted itself.
I stood frozen at the forest’s edge, breath caught between my ribs, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and green life.
“Show-off,” I muttered under my breath, glaring at the trees. “You didn’t have to make it so obvious.”
The forest, as usual, did not answer.
It never did—not in words. Only in gestures. In nudges. In quiet little humiliations like this, reminding me that no matter how long I had lived beside it, I was never fully alone.
I adjusted the basket against my hip and stepped into the clearing, sunlight spilling through the canopy in broken gold. The village lay just beyond, smoke curling from cooking fires, roosters arguing over nothing. It should have been an ordinary morning.
It was not.
I felt it before I saw it—that strange tightening beneath my ribs, as if something unseen had drawn a slow breath and was holding it. Even the cicadas had gone quiet. The forest leaned in, listening.
“Don’t,” I warned softly. “I have work to do.”
A snort answered me.
Not the sound of a boar or carabao. This one was sharp, amused, and far too close to my ear.
I turned.
He stood half in shadow, half in light—tall, broad, unmistakably not human. The head was that of a horse, sleek and dark, mane falling like smoke down a powerful neck. His eyes glowed amber with intelligence far too old and far too entertained. His body, from the shoulders down, was unmistakably that of a man—barefoot, long-limbed, relaxed in the way predators often are.
The Tikbalang grinned.
“Well,” he said pleasantly, “that would have been a very memorable entrance. Shame.”
I stared. Then, because fear had never been my strongest instinct, I said, “You tripped me.”
“I tested you,” he corrected, stepping closer. His hooves made no sound on the earth. “You failed beautifully.”
“I did not fail.”
“You flailed.”
“That was momentary.”
He laughed, a rich, rumbling sound that made the leaves shiver. “Ah, Tala. Still arguing with spirits. Your mother would be proud.”
That made my spine straighten.
“You knew my mother.”
“Intimately? No. Respectfully? Yes.” He tapped one hoof against the ground. “Fearfully? Also yes.”
I crossed my arms. “You’re early.”
“I’m late,” he said lightly. “Which means something important is about to go terribly sideways.”
That was when the wind shifted.
Not the playful breeze of morning, but a deliberate sweep, carrying with it a scent I did not recognize—salt and metal and something sharp, like crushed leaves under armor. The forest stiffened. I felt it the way one feels a held breath against the back of the neck.
Hooves sounded on the path.
Human ones.
I turned just as a horse burst through the tree line—large, dark, beautifully trained. It stopped abruptly at the edge of the clearing, muscles bunching beneath glossy skin. The rider pulled the reins with effortless control, scanning the area like a man accustomed to being obeyed.
And then his gaze found me.
The world, inconveniently, tilted again.
He dismounted in one smooth motion, boots striking earth that suddenly felt too soft beneath my feet. He was tall—taller than anyone in our village—and built like someone who had never doubted his place in any room he entered. His clothes were rich but practical, deep blue threaded with gold, his dagger worn like an extension of his arm rather than decoration.
Handsome was too small a word.
Trouble felt more accurate.
“Well,” he said, voice calm and sharp-edged, “this is not what I expected.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
The Tikbalang leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Ah. This one.”
I stepped forward, because the forest nudged me and because I refused to look like a stunned fish. Unfortunately, the same root from earlier chose that moment to betray me again.
I tripped.
This time, the forest did not catch me.
I collided directly with the stranger’s chest.
The basket tipped. Smoked fish slid out. Cassava rolled across the ground. My hands clutched instinctively at the nearest solid thing—which turned out to be his tunic.
We froze.
I was pressed against him, face level with the laces at his collar, acutely aware of the heat of his body and the way his breath hitched once—just once—before steadying.
Slowly, deliberately, his hands came up. He did not touch me at first. Then, with infuriating care, he gripped my elbows and held me upright.
“Are you always this dangerous,” he asked mildly, “or am I special?”
I looked up.
His eyes were dark, sharp, and—annoyingly—amused.
“I was pushed,” I said.
He glanced at the forest. “By the trees?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not kind. The sort of smile that suggested he enjoyed problems very much.
“I see,” he said. “Then perhaps you should apologize to them.”
The Tikbalang snorted so loudly the horse stamped.
I yanked my hands back, mortified. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Fall into me?” he finished. “I’ve survived worse.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I’m told it rarely is.”
Behind me, the Tikbalang circled, inspecting him openly. “Bold,” he murmured. “Confident. A little arrogant.”
The man’s gaze flicked to the spirit. “And loud company.”
“Rude,” the Tikbalang replied. “But accurate.”
I cleared my throat loudly. “You’re… blocking the path.”
“And you’re standing in the middle of it.”
“This is my village.”
“And I am expected,” he said smoothly.
Something in my chest tightened. “Expected by whom?”
“By you,” he said, eyes never leaving mine. “Though you don’t know it yet.”
The forest thrummed.
I hated that my pulse did the same.
Before I could reply, footsteps hurried toward us. “Tala!”
Luntian burst into the clearing, breathless, taking in the scene—the fallen cassava, the noble stranger, the Tikbalang lounging like he owned the place.
Her eyes widened. Then she leaned close to me and whispered, “Is he the problem?”
“Yes,” I whispered back.
“I meant the human one.”
“Also yes.”
The man inclined his head politely. “Datu Kael of the Northern Coast.”
Luntian bowed stiffly. I did not.
“I’m Tala,” I said. “And you just crushed my breakfast.”
His gaze dropped to the ground, then back to my face. “I’ll replace it.”
“You’ll do more than that.”
“Oh?”
“You’ll explain why the forest has been restless for three days,” I said, surprising even myself, “and why you smell like decisions that weren’t mine to make.”
The Tikbalang laughed outright.
Kael studied me for a long moment. Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
Then he said, quietly, “Because I’ve come to claim what was promised.”
The forest went silent.
Even the wind stopped.
“What,” I asked carefully, “was promised?”
He stepped closer—not invading, but close enough that I could feel the weight of him, of expectation and authority and something dangerously personal.
“A marriage,” he said.
My heart dropped straight into the roots beneath my feet.
Behind him, the Tikbalang grinned, sharp and delighted.
“Well,” he said, “this should be fun.”
And from deep within the forest, something answered.
A low, unfamiliar growl.
Not playful.
Not amused.
The trees shuddered.
Kael’s hand went to his dagger.
Luntian grabbed my arm.
And I realized, with terrifying clarity, that the forest had not tripped me earlier by accident.
It had been positioning me.
For this.
For him.
For whatever was about to step out of the shadows next.
- Writer
