The mist clung to Miguel's skin as he pushed through thick foliage, his feet stumbling over roots that seemed to twist and shift beneath him. Suddenly, the trees parted to reveal a village nestled in a valley, where smoke rose from stone hearths and women tended to rows of bitter melon and wild ginger.
"Stop right there." A voice cut through the air—sharp, but not hostile. Three women stood at the edge of the clearing, their robes dyed in shades of deep indigo and forest green. The tallest one, with tattoos winding up her arms, stepped forward.
"Who are you, and how did you find this place?" she asked, her hand resting on a wooden staff carved like a serpent.
"My name is Miguel," he said, raising his hands slowly. "I've been following clues about my family's heritage—they spoke of people who understood what I am."
The woman tilted her head, studying him. "An Aswang, walking alone through the mountains… that is rare. I am Amihan. Come—our elder has been waiting for someone like you." She turned, gesturing for him to follow. "But know this: what you think you know about your kind will change here."
As they walked into the village, curious eyes watched from doorways, and children hid behind their mothers' skirts—though Miguel sensed not fear, but caution.