The Ear that can See Wind
The council chamber slowly emptied, elders drifting into the torch-lit corridors in tense silence. Their decisions weighed heavy, but heavier still was the unspoken fear that the North might soon stand alone.
Laine lingered near the stone wall, her thoughts clouded. She almost missed the sound—a sharp cough, followed by the dull thud of knees striking the floor.
"Elder Banua!"
The oldest of the Wind Clan had slumped forward, bracing herself against a pillar. Her shoulders shook as though the air itself pressed against her. Two clansmen rushed to help, but Banua raised a trembling hand.
"Wait—don't hush it," he rasped. Her voice cracked but carried urgency. "The wind... it's speaking. I can hear them."
The others exchanged uneasy looks. Laine stepped closer. "What do you mean, Elder?"
Banua's cloudy eyes lifted, unfocused, as if staring far beyond the chamber walls. "Voices... carried on the currents. Not here. Not now. From elsewhere." Her chest rose sharply as another shiver passed through her. "It's faint, but I can hear them."
The council head, Eldrin, studied him closely. He had seen awakenings before; some individuals gained swiftness, while others gained command of winds. Banua's gift was strange, but not impossible.
He gave a curt nod. "Take her to the cliff shrine. If the winds are speaking, we will listen."
Laine swallowed hard, following as the elders helped Banua to her feet. Her steps were frail, but her expression carried a new gravity.
The Whispers of the Cliff
The cliff shrine waited in silence, its stone pillars etched with spirals that glimmered in the moonlight. Chimes of bone and crystal swayed in the sea wind, their eerie tones rising and falling with each gust.
Elder Banua, the oldest among the clan, lowered herself into the circle with Laine's help. Her back was bent, her hair a river of white, yet her eyes were sharp as flint. She drew in a long breath, the air seeming to bend around her frail frame.
Laine knelt nearby. Eldrin and two others stood watch, silent.
Banua's chest rose and fell, slow and steady, until the night itself seemed to pause. The chimes quivered. Then, with a voice roughened by age but steady with conviction, she began to speak.
Batangas... "Gate breach... port destroyed... static evacu—"
Samar... "From below... the sea is not safe..."
Cebu... "Harbors... burning... waves won't carry us..."
Cordilleras... "...fog thick... shadows in the pines... can't tell friend from foe..."
Palawan... "...sea creatures in the market... they are walking..."
Pangasinan... "holding the river... some awakened... water... fighting back—"
Metro Manila... "Gates in the city... thousands gathered... they fight in the streets—barricades burning—"
Her voice wavered, but the words cut as sharp as the wind itself. The whispers overlapped, colliding in fragments of terror and desperation. In Laine's mind flared the broken image: crowds pressed together in the shadow of a towering gate, makeshift shields raised, some wielding scavenged steel, others unleashing sparks and bursts of raw power. Fires raged not only in destruction but also as rallying flames lit by the people themselves.
Then Banua's head tilted sharply, as though straining to catch a closer sound. Her lips parted, her voice almost breaking.
Laoag was described as having a "mall overrun with roaming beasts and survivors gathering at city hall."
Laine stiffened. Laoag was not a distant rumor—it was their doorstep.
Banua's hands trembled against her knees, her frail body shuddering under the weight of the storm's voices. Still, her words pressed on. "The whole archipelago..." she whispered hoarsely, "crying through the wind."
The chimes rattled wildly as a sudden gust tore across the cliff, nearly snuffing the torchlight.
Laine tightened her grip on the twin sword at her waist, heart pounding.
The Hidden Flame and the Roar
Banua's hands trembled lightly on her knees as the wind twisted through the pillars. The fragmented voices of the archipelago faded into murmurs, leaving a strange, singular thread cutting through the night air.
"...a spark... a flame... walking south... bound in shadow and blood..."
Banua's eyes widened. Her voice was hoarse, almost a whisper:
"The winds... they carry a fire I have never sensed before."
Laine leaned closer. "Fire? Who? Where?"
Banua shook her head slowly, her long white hair brushing her shoulders.
"I do not know... only that it moves south... and the storm bends around it. Whoever the person is... they are unlike any I have felt."
Eldrin's voice was steady but grave. "If such a one walks the land, then our silence cannot last. The clans must prepare."
Ramil stepped forward, fists clenched. "Then we cannot wait. If this fire is an ally, we must find it. If it is an enemy, we must be ready to strike before it burns unchecked."
Yet Elder Mireya raised her hand, her tone sharp. "And if we rush blindly, we fall into the same storm Banua warns of. Flames may warm... or consume. We must not gamble without knowing which."
A sudden gust tore across the cliff, rattling the chimes violently. Banua's body shuddered, and her voice rose over the roar.
"The storm... it carries something else... Something is stirring beneath the ocean!"
Laine spun to face the horizon, eyes narrowing. "What is it, Elder?"
Banua's hand went instinctively to her chest, gripping her robes. "Not from this coast... not from Ilocos. The wind calls it... a beast... or worse."
The sound arrived then—deep and vast, not the cry of any beast that walked the land. It rolled through the cliffs like thunder buried in the earth, rattling the stone beneath their feet.
Laine gripped her dagger tighter. "What was that?!"
Banua's eyes went wide, her face paling. She pressed her palm to the ground, trembling as if the soil itself whispered to her.
"The wind... the earth... they speak together."
Another shuddering rumble tore through the night, like a mountain exhaling. The sea below churned violently, waves crashing against the rocks as though something vast stirred beneath the surface.
Talian's voice was low, almost reverent. "The old songs warned of this. When the sea and sky speak as one, it is no mere beast that rises."
Banua's voice dropped, hoarse with dread.
"This is no ordinary beast... Something old turns in its sleep. Something the storms themselves fear."
Laine swallowed hard, glancing toward the horizon. "Old? How old?"
Banua shook her head, her voice breaking.
"Older than these cliffs. Older than the clans. The wind conceals its name from me, as if even uttering it would awaken it completely.
The ground quaked faintly once more, and the chimes overhead clattered in frantic discord. Banua clutched Laine's hand.
"Remember this night, child... For when it rises, no gate nor gatekeeper will be enough."
Silence gripped them until Eldrin spoke again, his tone firm.
"Then we prepare. If the old world stirs, the North must awaken with it. We will gather our kin, seek those newly awakened, and spread our reach beyond these cliffs."
Ramil's eyes blazed. "Messengers to every town. Fighters to every gate. Let the North stand before the storm."
Mireya's gaze remained cold and calculating. "And wisdom to temper fire. If we build recklessly, the storm will scatter us before we stand."
Talian nodded, eyes on the restless sea. "Yet we must build. For the old ones do not return to sleep."
Laine's grip on her daggers whitened. She didn't speak—because for the first time, she feared Banua's words were true.
Morning in San Nicolas
Dawn broke gently over San Nicolas. Pale light spilled across the ruined gymnasium where Marko and Ara packed their gear—cans, ropes, scavenged weapons, anything that would carry them south.
Ara tightened the straps of her bag. "If we move fast, we'll reach Batac by noon."
Marko nodded, adjusting the spear slung across his back. As he stepped outside, a breeze swept through the broken windows, rattling loose glass. For an instant, it seemed to carry a whisper—faint, almost too soft to hear.
He frowned at the horizon. But the wind was silent again.
"Marko," Ara called, and he followed. Together, they stepped into the pale morning.
At the gate of the gymnasium, Police Officer Rolly waited, his uniform torn but his stance unbroken. A handful of townsfolk gathered behind him, watching with worn hope.
"You two are really set on this?" Rolly asked, his voice heavy. "We're rebuilding here. We could greatly benefit from the presence of fighters such as yourself. Safety in numbers."
Marko shook his head slowly. "This isn't my path. I have to keep moving south. Something's pulling me there... and I can't ignore it."
Rolly studied him, lips pressed thin. Then his gaze shifted to Ara. "And you? Will you follow him? Or stay where it's safer?"
Ara's answer came quick and steady. "I'll go with Marko. But I also need to reach Paoay—my family might still be there. I can't stay here, not knowing."
Rolly's shoulders sagged, but he nodded with reluctant respect. "Then at least take this." He handed over a map, edges smudged and torn. "Routes I scouted. Stick to the old roads, and avoid the bridges—too many nests."
Marko accepted it with a brief bow of thanks. No more words were needed.
As the sun climbed higher, the pair set off down the cracked highway, leaving San Nicolas behind. Townsfolk watched them until they vanished from sight, two small figures against the vast morning.
The wind stirred again, whispering across the plain—carrying their names further south.