The Scout's Urgent News
The gates of Bangui stirred as a lone rider pushed through, his steed lathered with sweat, armor scarred with dust and claw marks. The crest of the Wind Clan gleamed faintly on his chestplate, worn but unbroken. Sent weeks ago to survey the abandoned Gabo Airfield, he now returned—breathless, grim, bearing dire news.
Hunters, elders, and survivors within the Wind Clan's stone courtyard gathered quickly, drawn by the sound of hooves and the urgency in the rider's posture. He slid from the saddle, legs trembling, yet his voice carried strong across the assembly:
"Laoag is threatened. Above the capitol, a gate has begun to form. Not a mere rift, but a massive one—growing larger each hour. If it fully opens, the city will fall... and with it, the north."
A stunned silence swept over the gathering. Mothers clutched their children closer, hardened hunters traded uneasy glances, and the elders of the clan bowed their heads as if the weight of destiny itself pressed down on them.
The scout steadied himself on the shaft of a nearby spear, his voice lowering but no less firm. "A few survivors are already gathering there, fighting to hold the line. But they cannot stop the rebellion alone. If Laoag falls, all of Ilocos Norte will follow. The Wind Clan's strength is needed. The people, especially the awakeners, must unite if we are to stand against this storm. If we plan to establish a new order... it begins now."
His words rippled through the crowd like a spark in dry grass—fear, but also a stirring of resolve.
At that moment, a figure emerged from the side gates—Laine. Dust and blood marked her clothes, but her eyes shone with determination. She had returned from her mission across the neighboring towns—rescuing survivors, finding scattered awakened ones, and gathering all who would answer the call.
Whispers chased her as she stepped into the courtyard. She raised her chin, her voice low but urgent. "What happened?"
The scout met her gaze, wild with exhaustion. "Above the Capitol—a gate, massive. I first saw it two days ago after I went to the Airfield, a shimmer swelling in the sky. It grows each hour. This is no ordinary rift—it's a disaster waiting to break."
A heavy silence settled over the courtyard. Faces turned toward Laine.
Her grip tightened on the scout's arm before she helped him down to a bench. Then she straightened, scanning the assembly of elders and hunters. "You've heard him. If Laoag falls, the north falls with it. We cannot wait for the gate to open. We move."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd—fear, doubt, but also a flicker of resolve.
An elder stepped forward, voice steady. "Then we ride with you. The Wind Clan must be seen in Laoag."
Laine gave a firm nod. "Gather the hunters. Prepare the awakened. At dawn, we march south."
Twin Mission
The courtyard of Bangui buzzed with urgency, but amidst the noise, Laine stood steady. Dust still clung to her cloak from the roads—evidence of her days spent combing through towns, pulling survivors from ruins, and urging the awakened to rise and follow her.
The scout's warning left no room for hesitation. Laoag's fate now teetered on the edge of the massive gate forming above the Capitol. If it broke, the province would bleed.
Laine stepped forward, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her blade. Though young, her stance carried both authority and urgency. "I will lead the march to Laoag. The survivors I've gathered, the awakeners I've brought back from my mission—they're ready. With me, they'll fight. If we can strengthen Laoag's defense, maybe the north will hold."
Murmurs of agreement swept through the crowd. Several elders—stooped but still sharp-eyed—stepped forward to stand at her side. Elder Ramil, bearded, his gaze so fierce but her grip on her staff unshaken, gave Laine a sharp nod. "Where you go, I go. The Wind Clan must be seen in Laoag, or the people there will lose hope."
Beside her, Harkan—a hunter whose scarred arm spoke of past battles—rested his heavy axe on his shoulder. "I've cut down enough beasts to know when the fight matters. This one matters."
Behind them came the awakeners Laine had rescued: a young woman with hands that sparked with lightning when she clenched her fists, a boy barely older than fifteen who could manipulate stone, and a quiet healer who had carried half a village on her back to safety. They gathered close, their eyes reflecting the fire of Laine's resolve.
Then her father, Clan Head Eldrin of the Wind Clan, rose from his seat. His broad frame and commanding presence silenced the gathering. He looked first at Laine, pride shadowed with worry in his eyes, before turning to the people.
"While my daughter leads south to Laoag, I will march north. Pagudpud, Dumalneg, and Adams are isolated, scattered, and waiting for aid. Survivors still hold out there. We will not abandon them. We will gather them, strengthen them, and bring them under the Wind Clan's banner. No Ilocano shall face this darkness alone."
The division was clear now. Two paths—two battles for survival. One to face the giant gate above the capitol, another to scour the north for the lost and the hidden.
Laine met her father's gaze. For a brief moment, their eyes held—hers bright with resolve, his heavy with both duty and a father's fear. He gave her a short nod, the unspoken blessing of trust. Alona, Eldrin's wife and Laine's mother, on the other hand, stays to help tend the rescued folks and lead the other people who stay behind.
The courtyard came alive with motion. Supplies were packed into crates, weapons sharpened, and horses fitted with tack. Laine's group was small compared to her father's—barely three dozen, a mix of elders, hunters, and awakeners—but it was a force with purpose.
As the campfires burned low that night, Laine's chosen companions gathered close, some whispering prayers, others simply staring south where the crimson glow of the gate pulsed against the horizon. For them, there was no turning back.
The Winds in Motion
When dawn came, survivors moved under the direction of hunters, splitting into two columns. One would march south, their destination the heart of Ilocos Norte. The other would ride north into the mountains and valleys, seeking every last flicker of life still holding out against the shadows. And Laine knew in her bones: the future of the north hinged on what waited in Laoag.
The road split at the edge of Bangui, where the plains kissed the northern mountains and the path curved south toward Laoag. Dust rose under the steady tread of warriors as the Wind Clan divided its strength.
At the fork, Laine and Eldrin paused, standing before their gathered kin. The breeze tugged at their cloaks, carrying the scent of sea salt and pine from opposite horizons. For a heartbeat, the clan leaders faced one another—father and daughter in arms.
"Laine," Eldrin said, his voice low and steady as the mountains. "We cannot guard every road. So we choose this way." He leaned closer, his voice soft enough for her alone. "If I fall, do not mourn. Protect the highlands. Keep the clan alive."
"I will, Father," Laine replied, a faint smile flickering at the edge of her mouth. "But promise me you'll be safe and return back alive so you can still guide me well."
"I promise, my princess." Eldrin responded with conviction. "Go, carry the storm south. Remind them that the Wind Clan does not bend."
They clasped forearms, their grip like steel, then turned away without another word. Duty had already chosen their steps.
Laine led her thirty southward, her cloak snapping in the breeze, the banners of the Wind Clan fluttering behind her. At her back marched hunters hardened by battle, awakened ones still discovering the depth of their power, and elders whose chants carried protection for the company. Their footsteps beat in rhythm, a steady drum of resolve, echoing like a heartbeat across the fields. They were not many, but each carried the weight of ten.
To the north, Eldrin's fifty had already fanned into the mountain trails, their figures smaller with every step. Their voices carried across the wind, sharp with resolve, until the forest swallowed them. They would comb Pagudpud, Dumalneg, and Adams, searching for survivors, awakened ones, and scattered people.
The two groups had parted without hesitation, each bound to their duty. Where Laine's march south was sharp and focused—a spear thrusting at the heart of the threat—Eldrin's march north was wide and far-reaching, like the spread of wings gathering strength for the storms to come.
At the fork, for a moment, the two leaders looked back. Eldrin raised his hand across the wind. Laine answered with a nod. No words passed between them, but the meaning was clear: Hold fast. Return alive.
The wind turbines of Bangui turned behind them, their blades slicing the sky like silent sentinels, watching their champions leave. The people left behind stood at the roadside, silent, hands pressed together in prayer, their hopes tied to the backs of those who marched.
South and north, they advanced. The Wind Clan was in motion, no longer a whisper of guardians hidden in the highlands but the storm itself, carried on the wind, answering the call of the archipelago.
The March South
The march south began in silence, broken only by the crunch of boots and the whisper of grass as the wind brushed it. Laine strode at the front, hand resting on the hilt of her blade, eyes sharp on the horizon. She bore the calm of a leader, but inside her chest the weight pressed heavily—the responsibility of thirty lives, and beyond them, the fate of Laoag.
Behind her, the line of warriors stretched like a spine of steel. Elders walked near the middle, their chants weaving into the air, faint threads of strength binding the group. Hunters carried salvaged spears and bows, armor mismatched but worn with pride. A handful of awakeners, rescued from scattered towns, moved with uncertain steps—power flickering in their veins, still raw and untamed.
One young man, arms still scarred from his first fight, leaned toward his companion. "Do you think we'll make it before the gate... breaks?" His voice trembled, but the question carried forward.
Laine heard it. Without turning, she answered, steady and clear: "We will. Because if we don't, no one else will."
The words rippled through the group, and the line straightened, shoulders lifting. It wasn't certainty she gave them, but purpose—and in the face of the unknown, purpose was enough.
The path dipped into farmlands left untended, houses abandoned, and doors swinging on broken hinges. Survivors peeked from hiding—a mother clutching her child, an old farmer leaning on his staff. Some stepped forward to offer dried roots or gourds of water, their silent gratitude giving the march new strength.
Suddenly, a low growl came from a clump of overgrown bushes. The line tensed. From the shadows, a hunched, clawed creature lunged. Laine drew her blade in a fluid motion, intercepting its swipe. Behind her, hunters loosed arrows, and one awakener—hands glowing faintly—pushed the beast back with a pulse of force. Within moments, the creature lay motionless.
"Keep moving," Laine commanded, voice cutting through the adrenaline. "Eyes forward, but stay alert. There will be more."
And there were. Five more skittered from the roadside debris, smaller but vicious. Spears jabbed, blades slashed, and a young awakener sent shards of stone interfering with one creature mid-leap. Each encounter was brief but sharp, a test of reflexes and resolve. The group pressed on, unbroken, each skirmish bonding them closer.
As dusk drew near, the crimson glow from the south stained the clouds. The looming distortion above Laoag pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat in the sky. Every gaze lifted toward it. The gate was not yet born, but its presence already cast a shadow over the land.
Laine raised her hand, halting the march for a breath. She turned, scanning her people—the scarred, the weary, the hopeful, and the awakening.
"This is not just a march," she told them, her voice carrying like steel. "This is the stand the north will remember. We do not go at thirty. We go as the wind—unseen, unstoppable, carrying the hope of every life left behind. If we face monsters along the way, we will fight. And we will reach Laoag before the sky falls."
A murmur of assent rolled through the group. Some lifted weapons; others bowed heads in silent promise. The march resumed, stronger now—a storm building stride by stride.
The Wind Clan moved south—and with them, the fate of Laoag.