Of Wind, Want and Bone

Chapter 10 Where Want Is Taught to Sit Still

Amihan woke to silk.

Not the woven cotton of her mother’s house, nor the bark-soft fabrics of the forest paths, but something finer. The cloth beneath her palm sighed when she moved, cool and yielding like water taught to behave.

Light filtered in from nowhere in particular. The Dalaketnon court did not believe in windows.

She sat up slowly.

The room curved rather than cornered. Pillars rose like pale tree trunks, etched with veins of gold that pulsed faintly, as if remembering sap. The air smelled of night-blooming flowers and rain that had not yet fallen.

“You’re awake.”

Liraya stood near a low table, unhurried, pouring tea from a vessel that changed color as it filled.

“You didn’t bind me,” Amihan said.

Liraya smiled faintly. “Why would I bind what walks willingly?”

“I didn’t come willingly.”

“You leaned,” Liraya corrected. “There’s a difference.”

She crossed the space between them, movements precise, unthreatening. She offered the cup. Amihan hesitated, then took it.

Warm. Sweet. Calming in a way that felt earned, not forced.

“You’ll stay here,” Liraya said, as if commenting on the weather. “For now.”

“And if I refuse?”

Liraya’s gaze softened. “You’ll still stay. But you’ll be unhappy about it.”

Amihan huffed despite herself. “You’re very sure of me.”

“I don’t need to be sure,” Liraya said. “Your wanting does the work.”

The word landed with weight.

Amihan looked away.

“Eat,” Liraya said gently. “Rest. Let the court look at you.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s an invitation.”

The Dalaketnon court did look.

Not with eyes, not exactly. With attention. With interest that felt like warm pressure against Amihan’s skin. She felt herself becoming more solid here, not less. Her thoughts sharpened. Her breath steadied.

And beneath it all, a quiet hum.

She was being considered.

Later, when Liraya left her alone with mirrors that did not reflect but remember, Amihan wandered.

The court unfolded in layers. Gardens suspended over nothing. Corridors that whispered names she did not yet know. Spirits drifting like perfumed smoke.

Then she felt it.

A pull, sudden and sharp.

Not from the court.

From elsewhere.

She pressed her hand to the nearest column, heart stuttering. The world shifted, not opening but thinning.

And she saw.

🌿

Silawán did not mean to touch Maharlika.

That was the lie he told himself even as his hand closed around her wrist, halting her sharp retreat through the shadowed grove at the edge of the Tikbalang realm.

“Don’t,” she said, breathless. “You don’t get to do this now.”

He released her at once.

Then didn’t step back.

“You should have told me,” he said quietly.

Maharlika laughed, brittle. “You would have stopped her?”

His silence answered.

Her smile faded. “Exactly.”

The forest around them leaned away, discreet.

“You failed her,” Maharlika said, softer now. “And you’re looking for something you can still hold.”

He stepped closer.

“You were never something I held,” he said. “You were something I—“

“Couldn’t choose,” she finished. “Say it properly.”

Their closeness crackled. Old things stirred. Regret. Admiration. A familiarity carved deep by battles survived together.

“You were the better choice,” he said.

Maharlika’s breath hitched. “Then why didn’t you choose me?”

“Because kings don’t get better choices,” he said. “Only necessary ones.”

Her hand fisted in his tunic.

“You still look at me like that,” she said. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

He did.

He hated that he did.

For a moment, it seemed as if he might lean in. As if memory might outweigh consequence.

Instead, he rested his forehead briefly against hers.

Just that.

A pause that meant too much.

“You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate,” he murmured.

“And you,” she said, “deserve the ruin you’re courting.”

She stepped back then, breaking the thread.

“Are you interested with that girl?” Maharlika said watching him carefully.

Silawán did not answer.

🌿

Amihan staggered back as the vision tore itself loose.

Her breath came fast, heart racing for reasons she could not fully name.

She had seen it.

Felt it.

The tension. The almost. The history that did not belong to her but brushed too close to ignore.

Her chest ached.

Not jealousy.

Confusion.

Liraya’s voice drifted from behind her. “Kings are rarely simple,” she said.

Amihan turned sharply. “You showed me that.”

“I let you see what you were already reaching for.”

Amihan swallowed. “Why?”

Liraya’s gaze was unreadable. “Because wanting feeds on uncertainty.”

The court hummed louder now.

“Rest,” Liraya said. “Tomorrow, we will talk about what you are willing to become.”

She touched Amihan’s shoulder lightly.

The world steadied.

But somewhere, deep and aching, Amihan felt something shift.

A claim not yet spoken.

A choice not yet hers.

And the forest, patient as bone, waited.