Chapter 1 Where the Wind Learns Its Name
1378 Words
The forest knew Amihan before it knew her name.
She had been walking its older paths since she was a child, back when her feet were small and the ground still yielded to her weight like a patient animal. Now the earth resisted her. Roots rose deliberately. Branches pressed closer. The forest had grown exacting with age, and Amihan had learned to listen to its corrections.
She moved without hurry, patadyong gathered just enough to keep it from brushing the wet undergrowth. Her baro clung faintly at the collarbone where the air was damp. Dawn had not fully lifted. The light came thin and blue, filtering through leaves that no longer whispered unless asked.
Amihan did not ask.
She carried a small bundle wrapped in abaca cloth. Inside it, offerings. Rice, salt, a sliver of dried fish. Nothing extravagant. The forest had grown suspicious of excess.
At the edge of the clearing, she stopped.
The balete tree stood where it always had, its roots twisting down like petrified veins. But something had changed. The birds were silent. The ants had retreated. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what she would do.
Amihan placed the bundle at the foot of the tree and knelt.
“I am not here to take,” she said quietly.
Her voice sounded older than she felt. Or perhaps the forest had begun lending weight to her words.
She bowed her head and pressed her palm to the earth.
The ground was warm.
That was new.
A memory stirred, unbidden. Her mother’s voice, long ago, low and careful.
Do not mistake attention for affection.
The forest watches even when it does not love you.
Amihan withdrew her hand.
Only then did she feel it.
Someone else was there.
Not human. Not spirit, either. The air itself seemed to tilt, as if a presence had stepped into alignment with her. The hairs at the nape of her neck lifted. Her pulse did not quicken. It steadied, which was worse.
She stood slowly and turned.
At first, she saw nothing.
Then the light shifted.
He stood at the edge of the clearing where the shadows overlapped, tall, barefoot, his form half-claimed by the dark. His upper body was bare, skin catching the blue of early morning like polished wood. A dark cloth hung loose at his hips, moving as if stirred by a wind that did not touch the trees.
His face was unmistakably beautiful in a way that felt deliberate.
Eyes too bright. Smile too still.
A Tikbalang.
Amihan did not step back. She had learned that fear, shown too plainly, amused them.
“You are late,” he said.
His voice carried no echo, yet it filled the clearing.
“I did not know I was expected,” she replied.
His gaze moved over her with unhurried interest. Not hungry. Assessing.
“You are always expected,” he said. “Wind-daughter.”
Her jaw tightened despite herself.
Only three beings still used that name.
“Do not call me that,” she said.
He smiled then, slow and pleased. “It fits.”
She lifted her chin. “You stand on land that does not belong to you.”
A pause.
Then, laughter. Soft. Almost fond.
“You sound like your mother,” he said. “She used to say the same thing.”
The forest seemed to lean inward at the mention of Tala. Amihan felt it like pressure behind her eyes.
“You knew her,” she said.
“I knew her.” He stepped forward, and the shadows rearranged themselves to accommodate him. “Knowing her would imply equality.”
That made her angry, and anger made her careless.
“What do you want?” she asked.
His gaze flicked briefly to the offering at the base of the balete. “You first.”
“I want the forest to remain quiet.”
That earned her a raised brow. “Then you want too much.”
She exhaled through her nose. “And you?”
“I want to see how you lie.”
Her hand curled at her side. “I am not lying.”
“No,” he agreed. “You are omitting.”
The forest responded to that word. Leaves shuddered. Somewhere deeper within, something old shifted its weight.
The Tikbalang’s attention sharpened.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “It listens to you.”
Amihan swallowed. “It listens to everyone.”
“That is what humans tell themselves.”
He took another step closer. She could see the gold now, embedded along his collarbone and spine, catching the dim light. Not jewellery. Something grown.
“You should not be here alone,” he said, conversationally. “There are things that still remember your blood.”
“And yet,” she replied, “you have not eaten me.”
A flash of teeth. “Not today.”
She met his gaze and held it.
“What is your name?” she asked.
That made him still.
Names, among his kind, were not offered lightly.
“Silawán,” he said at last. “Haring Silawán, if you prefer titles.”
Her breath caught despite her effort to keep steady.
King.
She bowed, shallow but correct. “Then you stand far from your kingdom.”
His eyes followed the motion of her neck, the line where her pulse beat. “My kingdom stands where I do.”
She straightened. “Then leave.”
A laugh again, warmer this time. “You have your mother’s nerve.”
“And my father’s patience,” she said, though she was not sure it was true.
Silawán tilted his head. “You came to ask the forest for something.”
“No,” she said. “I came to apologize.”
That intrigued him.
“For what?”
“For wanting.”
The word settled between them.
The forest responded immediately. A low sound, like a breath taken underground.
Silawán’s expression shifted, something sharper passing through it.
“You should be careful,” he said softly. “Desire is a craft. Not a confession.”
She thought of Datu Ilyaon then, uninvited. His stillness. His refusal. The way his gaze never lingered, as if looking too long might invite disaster.
“I am careful,” she said.
“No,” Silawán corrected. “You are honest.”
He stepped close enough now that she could feel the heat of him, unnatural and steady. He did not touch her. He did not need to.
“Tell me,” he said, “who do you want?”
Her throat tightened.
“That is not your concern.”
“Everything that unsettles the forest is my concern.”
The balete creaked.
Silawán’s smile faded. “Ah,” he said quietly. “There it is.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Your wanting has already begun to tear at things.”
A chill traced her spine. “You are lying.”
“I don’t need to.” His gaze softened, almost kind. “But I can help you.”
She laughed once, sharp. “Tikbalangs do not help without cost.”
“True.” He leaned closer, voice lowering. “But sometimes the cost is worth paying.”
She should have left. Every instinct warned her to step back, to retreat to the safety of paths that still obeyed her.
Instead, she asked, “How?”
Silawán smiled again, slow and dangerous.
“I will teach you how to be desired,” he said “Properly.”
The forest went utterly still.
“And in return?” she whispered.
His eyes gleamed. “I want to watch what happens when you get what you think you want.”
Something moved behind him then. A shift in the shadows, deliberate and heavy.
Silawán straightened.
Amihan followed his gaze.
At the edge of the clearing stood a man in richly dyed cotton, gold-thread symbols catching the faint light. His expression was unreadable, as always. Smoke and resin clung to him like a second skin.
Datu Ilyaon.
His eyes met hers.
Then, slowly, they slid to Silawán.
The forest exhaled.
Silawán laughed, delighted.
“Well,” he said softly, “this just became interesting.”
- Writer
