The Council of Elders
The council chamber lay in shadow, lit only by oil lamps and faint runes carved into stone.
The Council of Elders sat in a circle—some bent with age, others ageless, yet all carrying eyes that had witnessed centuries. For generations, they lived in silence, hidden among ordinary lives. But tonight, the storm summoned them back.
Council Head Eldrin spoke first, his voice low but carrying weight. "Ilocos bleeds again. Bangui was overrun two nights past—fields burned, homes abandoned. Survivors scatter where they can, yet the wounds of the last attack have not healed."
A heavy fist struck the wooden table. Elder Ramil, bearded and fierce, could no longer hold his tongue. "And now our towns suffer. The gates tear open faster than we can close them. Pagudpud's coast still reeks of ash from sea beasts, Bangui's windmills lie shattered, and we whisper of recovery while monsters gather anew. Have we forgotten what it means to stand?"
From the circle, Talian, her hair silver as moonlight, leaned forward. "Scouts confirm more sightings. Packs of scaled hounds prowl near Bacarra's farmlands. In Pasuquin, ruins attract something darker—creatures that do not flee the sun. These gates do not open at random. They pulse with intent."
The chamber grew quiet, with thunder muttering in the distance, as if the storm itself listened.
Ramil's voice rose, sharp as storm winds. "We cannot wait. If we hesitate, Ilocos will fall—town by town—until nothing remains but bones."
Mireya answered, calm yet cutting. "And if we reveal ourselves too soon, the clans will burn with the villages. Our bloodlines are scattered; too few are awakened. Without preparation, we invite extinction."
The chamber churned with voices, a storm of urgency and caution. Elder Banua, the oldest among them, listened in silence, eyes unreadable.
The clash grew until Eldrin raised his hand. His staff struck stone with a single crack, echoing like thunder. The chamber stilled. "Then we walk both paths," he declared. "We prepare the young and gather strength—but we do not shut our eyes. Messengers will ride the winds north and south. If the storm has returned, our call must ride with it."
The weight of silence settled once more. Outside the chamber, the cries of displaced families carried on the wind, a grim reminder of what waited beyond their walls.
The Wind's First Gatekeeper
The doors opened. Laine stepped in, boots dusted from battle, twin daggers at her side. Silence fell. Her mother, Alona, gave a steady nod from beside Eldrin.
"Laine, my daughter," Eldrin said gently. "We need you here."
Her gaze was wary but firm. "I know my duty as heir of the Wind Clan—you've reminded me enough, Father. But why summon me to the council?"
Ramil leaned forward, his voice cutting through. "Because today, you showed us more than duty. You awakened."
Laine stilled. "My… awakening?"
Talian's eyes shone with both awe and fear. "The wind answered your blades as it once answered Amihan—the First Gatekeeper. She, too, bore twin daggers that carved storms into battle. We believed her way was lost… until now."
Her grip tightened. She remembered Laoag—the wind rising at her call, alive in her strikes. She thought it was instinct. They called it destiny.
"I accepted my bloodline long ago," she murmured. "But I never sought to replace her. I fight because it is necessary, not to take on her name.
"No one asks you to be Amihan," Ramil said, firm yet kind. "But your awakening proves the clan has not merely endured—it has returned. You are the storm's answer to the gates."
A draft stirred through the cracked windows, swirling around her daggers like a whisper of approval. Shadows bent and shifted, as though the chamber itself acknowledged her.
Then the silver-haired elder spoke. "Remember: this storm is not new. It is the echo of what once was."
His voice carried the weight of ages. "When the first gates tore open the northern plains, chaos spilled forth. Amid despair rose Amihan, the first of our bloodline. She lived simply once, laughter carried by the breeze—but when the calamity struck, the wind bent to her will. It lifted her arrows, sharpened her blades, and shielded her kin. With her battles, the Wind Clan was born—swift guardians of the northern plains."
His tone darkened. "Amihan did not stand alone. Together with the other six clans, they fought to seal the darkness. Yet even their strength faltered before a greater threat. Another clan—mightier than any—chained the Calamity beneath the earth. But envy poisoned unity. Betrayal broke them. That powerful clan was erased, its name buried, leaving only fragments. The rest endured—scattered, dwindling—until they chose silence."
The vision faded. Oil lamps steadied, but the air hung heavy.
Eldrin's voice cut through. "Laine, you awaken not only Amihan's blades but also her burden. The storm she faced rises again. The Seven Clans may rise too—but remember, betrayal walks in shadow still."
Laine's fists clenched. She was not the only heir. She was the reverberation of a storm that was older than memory, and once a storm is released, it never goes away quietly.
The Present Problem
The elders stirred uneasily until Alona, Laine's mother, broke the silence. "Legends will not save us. How do we reach our kin—the Cordillera, the coast, the south? The gates choke the land, and the air is thick with interference. Towers lie silent, radios hiss with static. We are cut off."
A heavy pause settled. Some bowed their heads; others clenched their fists.
Elder Ramil's voice cracked with frustration. "If Ilocos stands alone, then it will fall alone. Families flee with nowhere to go. Shall we sit here, bound by ancient vows, while the rest of the north is devoured?"
Elder Marisol, stern and sharp-eyed, countered. "Do not mistake urgency for recklessness. We are few. We cannot scatter like dry leaves in the wind. If we spread too thin, the gates will swallow us one by one. We must endure—train, rebuild, and send aid only when we are certain we can sustain it."
Tension rippled through the chamber. Some murmured agreement; others shook their heads.
Then Eldrin spoke, calm but firm, his words steadying the room. "Both of you speak truth. Fear without order leads to ruin, yet caution without action is surrender. We cannot rely on broken towers or failing signals. Then we return to the old ways—the runners of the wind. These messengers carried messages from the coast to the mountains long before steel towers were built. Let them ride once more. From Laoag to the peaks of the Cordillera, our message will flow."
He turned toward the circle of elders. "Select the swiftest among us, those whose spirits still bear the blessing of the wind. They will serve as our voice in places where no one can speak. And if we find remnants of machines—radios, aircraft, even the rusting birds in Gabu Airfield—we shall breathe life into them again, even if we must call the wind itself to move their wings."
A hush followed, then slow nods of agreement spread through the council.
Alona lifted her gaze, soft yet resolute. "Then we are not broken. The old ways and the new will walk together. We may be few, but we will not be silent, nor will we be blind. Our kin will know we endure."
For the first time since the gate had torn open the sky, the chamber felt more like a heart beginning to beat again than like a tomb.
The New Order
But Eldrin was not done. His voice grew grave. "One more matter. Not all who awaken carry clan blood. Reports speak of farmers, smiths, and even youngsters unleashing power when pressed by monsters. The gates choose no lineage."
A ripple of unease swept the circle.
"Strays," Ramil spat. "Power without discipline is as dangerous as any beast."
"Or salvation," Talian countered swiftly. "The clans cannot stand alone. If the gates awaken many, perhaps this is the balance the storm itself demands."
Mireya added quietly, almost to herself. "Perhaps the gates awaken not to punish, but to prepare. Every soul touched may be a thread in the storm."
Eldrin's gaze swept the council, then fixed on his daughter. "Then we will gather them. Not to dilute the clans, but to strengthen them. An alliance of all who awaken—guided by us, tempered by discipline. Ilocos will rise not through bloodline alone, but through every hand that dares to fight."
Ramil frowned but finally nodded. "An order, then. With training, with oath, we make them a shield—not a blade turned against us."
The decision settled like thunder in the chamber. Eldrin lifted his staff. "From scattered winds, we will raise a storm strong enough to sweep the darkness from our lands. Laine—you will not only bear the blades of Amihan. You will forge the new order."
Laine met his gaze, the weight of destiny burning in her chest. She had not chosen the storm—but the storm had chosen her.
And outside, the winds howled, carrying their vow into the night: Ilocos would not fall divided.