Ariel's mother lived in a cave system in southern Bohol, guarded by ancient magic and older secrets.
Her name was Amihan. And when Ariel first saw her, he understood nothing.
She was beautiful—ageless, like all aswangs—with his eyes, his smile, his nervous habit of ear-twitching.
"Anak," she whispered, reaching for him. "My son."
"I was told you died."
"I was told you were better off without me." She glanced at Lola Basya. "They lied to both of us."
Four centuries of separation. Four centuries of longing.
They talked for hours—days—weeks. Amihan explained her capture by enemy creatures during a territorial war Ariel had never known existed. Her imprisonment. Her eventual escape, only to find her son gone, raised by others, living a life she couldn't reclaim.
"I searched for you," she said. "Decades. Centuries. But you'd changed your name, your form, your history. By the time I found traces, you were with Marikit, and I—" She paused. "I was afraid. Afraid you'd reject me. Afraid I'd ruined your life enough."
Ariel held her. "You didn't ruin anything. You're here now. That's what matters."
When Glad returned from Romania, Ariel met her at the airport with news.
"My mother's alive."
Glad's wings twitched. "What?"
"My mother. Real mother. She's been hidden for centuries. She's—" He laughed, overwhelmed. "I have a mother, Glad."
She pulled him into a hug. "Then we have a mother-in-law. Where is she? When can I meet her?"
"Tomorrow. She's nervous."
"So am I. But family is family."