The last light of dusk slipped through the trees as Adrian shed the last trace of his human mask. Inside the old hut, his grandmother's legacy still lingered in every creaking beam, but it was the forest outside that called to him now.
He stepped into the night as Lakan.
His hooves struck the ground with a low rhythm, carrying him swiftly past the first row of trees. The deeper he went, the louder the forest became. Crickets buzzed, owls called, and the leaves whispered greetings. The canopy thickened above him, blotting out the stars until only faint shafts of moonlight guided his path.
By the time he reached the river clearing, they were already waiting.
Three figures emerged from the shadows, each as tall and strange as he was, their equine limbs gleaming faintly in the half-light. They bowed low as one, their voices rumbling with respect.
"Lakan."
Bayani straightened first. His mane was cropped short, his movements quick, restless. He looked every inch the warrior — bold eyes, strong arms, the kind to leap into battle without waiting for command.
Luntian followed, calmer, his coat a lighter shade, his eyes thoughtful. He carried a satchel at his side, filled with scrolls and herbs, always the scholar even among warriors.
Last was Pilat, the scarred one. His hide bore marks of old battles, his face lined by a long, pale strike that never healed. He did not speak, but his bow was deep, reverent.
"You have returned," Bayani said, a grin tugging at his mouth. "The villagers kept you long today. Do they tire you with their endless errands?"
"They trust me," Lakan answered simply. His voice carried deeper in this form, resonant. "And their needs remind me why the balance must be kept."
"They should worship you," Bayani muttered. "Not just thank you for fixing roofs and filling jugs."
"Enough," Luntian said softly, stepping forward. "Lakan does not need worship. What he needs are reports." He looked up, meeting his leader's gaze. "The elementals stir again."
Lakan's chest tightened. "Where?"
"At the southern ridge," Luntian said. "The duwende quarrel among themselves. Their mounds were disturbed by new farmers. They demand restitution."
Bayani snorted. "As always. Greedy little kings in their anthills."
"And the diwata?" Lakan asked.
"They keep to their groves," Luntian replied. "But there is unrest. The rivers are shrinking before the rains. If balance does not return, they may turn against the farmers who take too much water."
Pilat shifted, the ground trembling faintly beneath his weight. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravelly, rarely used. "And the kapre watches again. He lingers by the northern trees. Waiting."
At that, the air grew tense. Even Bayani's grin faltered.
Lakan inhaled deeply. "The kapre belongs to no one but himself. If he watches, it means he waits for change."
"Change brought by you," Bayani said quietly. "Or by… her."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Lakan turned away, staring at the river as moonlight caught its surface. The thought of Emma pressed against him like a weight. His men did not know her as he did — but they sensed it. They always did.
"She does not remember," he said at last, his voice low.
Luntian tilted his head. "But you do."
Lakan's hands tightened at his sides. "I always will."
For a moment, none of them spoke. The forest filled the silence, alive with whispers only they could hear.
Finally, Bayani stepped forward, fire in his eyes. "Then let us remind her. Let us show her what you are, Lakan. Why hide as a man when you were born to rule?"
"No," Lakan said sharply. His voice cut through the clearing, and all three bowed their heads at once. He closed his eyes, steadying himself. "If she remembers, it must be by her own heart. Not by fear. Not by force."
They bowed again, lower this time, the forest itself bending with them.
"Yes, Lakan," they murmured as one.
Pilat's scar caught the moonlight as he raised his head. His silence carried a message even louder than words: loyalty, unquestioned, until the end.
Lakan turned back toward the trees. He could feel the world shifting, the balance straining. The villagers thought him an orphaned man, kind and ordinary. Emma thought him a stranger. But here, in the forest, he was king, and the weight of both realms pressed upon his shoulders.
He breathed deep, his mane catching the night air.
"The forest remembers," he whispered. "And so will she."