Chapter 2: Chapter 2 - Whispers on the Wind

The village slept.

The jungle wind carried the scent of burning coconut husks, damp earth, and rice cooling in clay pots. Occasionally, a dog barked. Somewhere in the distance, the river whispered against the rocks.

And in that stillness, Ginto waited.

He crouched near the side of Apo Luntian’s hut, back pressed against the bamboo wall. He could hear them inside—the steady hum of Apo Luntian’s voice, the uncertain quiver of Mayumi’s.

The night clung to him like sweat. His pulse thundered.

He shouldn’t be here.

But Ginto had spent most of his life in places he shouldn’t be.

He had been five years old when he learned the weight of an empty stomach. Six when he realized that in a village as small as theirs, there were no futures for boys like him. He was not a warrior, not a hunter, not a fisherman’s son.

He was nothing.

Nothing—except clever.

Clever enough to listen more than he spoke. Clever enough to know that secrets were worth more than silver.

And now, he had a secret worth more than gold.

"Burn it."

Ginto inhaled sharply.

Through the thin slats of the hut, he saw the fabric glow in the fire. The dark, intricate threads curled and blackened, eaten by flames, devoured like something alive.

His stomach twisted.

This was not just cloth.

It was a prophecy. A forbidden one.

And they were trying to bury it.

Ginto took a slow, careful step back. Then another.

His foot brushed a pile of dried leaves.

A crack—soft but deadly.

Inside, the murmurs stopped.

His breath caught.

Then—he ran.

The river market was a living thing, pulsing with voices, smoke, and the quiet clinking of silver changing hands.

Ginto’s legs ached from the journey—five hours of moving in the dark, of slipping between trees, of whispering to himself that he had made the right choice.

Now he was here. And he needed to find the right man.

Not just any merchant. A spider.

That was what the village called Batuk. The man who spun webs, catching secrets like insects and trading them for gold.

Ginto had seen him before—draped in fine silks too rich for a common trader, his fingers heavy with rings, his smile slow and knowing.

People like Batuk didn’t just deal in rice and dried fish. They dealt in whispers.

Ginto scanned the docks.

There.

Batuk sat beneath the canopy of his boat, picking at his nails with the tip of a bone pin. His men lingered nearby, faces unreadable, watching the marketplace like wolves watching the edges of a herd.

Ginto inhaled deeply and stepped forward.

"Merchant," he said.

Batuk didn’t look up. "Everyone calls me that."

"I have something," Ginto said.

Batuk continued cleaning his nails. "Everyone has something."

"A prophecy."

Batuk’s hand stilled.

Slowly, he looked up, his gaze sharp as a kris blade.

Ginto’s pulse pounded.

"A ruler rising from the ashes," he whispered. "Apo Luntian wove it. But they burned the cloth."

Batuk’s expression did not change. "And how did you come across this knowledge, boy?"

Ginto hesitated. "I listened."

Batuk let out a slow breath.

"And now you wish to sell what you heard?"

Ginto swallowed. He had never done this before. Not like this.

"I want a place," he said instead. "A place where I'm not just another mouth to feed."

Batuk studied him.

Then, with a flick of his fingers, he gestured to one of his men.

"Find Kawili."

Kawili had been sharpening his kris when the messenger arrived.

The firelight flickered against the steel, illuminating the intricate waves etched along the blade.

The boy knelt before him, breathless. "My lord, the merchant Batuk sends word."

Kawili barely lifted his gaze.

"And?"

"A prophecy was spoken, my lord." The messenger’s voice wavered. "Apo Luntian. A ruler rising from the ashes."

Kawili’s grip on the kris tightened.

He exhaled slowly.

They had waited for this. The Rajah had waited for this.

He rose to his feet.

"Prepare the horses."

The time had come.

The torches burned low, their light casting restless shadows along the towering wooden pillars of the great hall. The scent of clove smoke, camphor oil, and blood lingered in the air, curling through the vast space like an unseen spirit.

At the center of the room, Rajah Sulayman sat unmoving upon his woven throne.

The corpse at his feet had long since stopped twitching, but the smell of burned flesh still clung thick in the rafters. No one spoke of it.

Instead, all eyes were on the Rajah.

Seated in a half-circle before him were his most trusted advisors, the warlords and chieftains who governed the lands under his rule.

At his right sat Datu Bolkiah of the Western Isles, a man with salt-worn skin and a gaze as sharp as a sea eagle’s. His fingers, adorned with golden rings, tapped rhythmically against the hilt of his kris.

Beside him, Lakan Dula, the quietest yet most cunning among them, sat draped in an indigo robe, the edges embroidered with the symbols of Bathala. His dark, hooded eyes missed nothing.

Across from them, near the fire pit, stood Datu Makisig, a younger lord from the northern highlands, his posture tense, his knuckles white from gripping the hilt of his dagger.

They had all gathered here because of one thing.

A prophecy.

Sulayman’s gaze flickered to Kawili, who knelt before him, his forehead pressed against the woven mat.

"My lord," Kawili murmured. "The elder Weaver, Apo Luntian, has spoken a vision."

A silence fell upon the room.

Sulayman leaned forward. "Speak."

Kawili lifted his head slowly but did not rise from his kneeling position.

"The prophecy tells of a kingdom in flames," he said. "The rivers running red. The land drowning in war. And from the ashes, a ruler will rise—one who will shape the new age to come."

The room remained deathly still.

Bolkiah was the first to move. He exhaled sharply through his nose. "The Weavers have not spoken a prophecy of rulers in a generation."

Makisig’s brows furrowed. "And yet she did not name this ruler?"

Kawili hesitated. "No, my lord."

Sulayman’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his kampilan.

"Clever old woman."

A prophecy without a name was a dangerous thing. It was not simply a vision—it was an invitation for chaos.

Every warlord, every chief, every ambitious ruler would believe the vision spoke of them.

Makisig scoffed. "How do we know this is not a trick? The Weavers have long been arrogant in their power. Perhaps she means to play us against one another."

"Perhaps," Lakan Dula murmured, his voice smooth as river stones. "Or perhaps she fears what she has seen."

Bolkiah’s rings clinked softly as he crossed his arms. "The gods do not choose kings."

"But men twist the will of the gods to suit them," Lakan Dula countered.

Sulayman let them speak. He listened, absorbing their reactions, watching how the firelight danced in their eyes.

They were testing the weight of this prophecy.

And so was he.

"The Weavers have been advisors to kings for generations," Sulayman finally said. His voice was even, measured. "Their visions have shaped the rise and fall of empires."

None of them could deny this.

The last great prophecy had named the war that ended the reign of the Lakanate of Namayan. The Weavers had foretold which Datus would rise and which would crumble into dust.

And now, after all these years—a new vision had come.

Sulayman stood, his shadow stretching long against the polished wood of the hall.

"The old woman will name this ruler," he said. "Or she will burn."

The moon hung low and swollen above the jungle canopy, bathing the village in silver light. The humid air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, the gentle rustling of palm fronds whispering through the silence of the sleeping village.

Tala sat cross-legged inside her family’s hut, her mother seated beside her, weaving dried reeds into a new mat. The soft scratch of fiber against fiber filled the space between them, a familiar rhythm, calming and repetitive.

Across the room, her father sat near the fire, sharpening a bolo knife, the metal hissing against the whetstone. His expression was calm, focused. He had always done this—even in peace, he prepared for war.

Tala exhaled and returned to her own weaving, fingers nimble, mind restless.

"You are distracted, anak," her mother murmured, not unkindly.

Tala hesitated. "I don’t know. The night feels… wrong."

Her mother’s hands did not still. "You’ve been listening to Mang Alon’s stories again."

Tala smiled faintly. "He says the wind can carry whispers from the dead. That if you listen closely, you’ll hear them warning you of what’s to come."

Her father snorted. "Mang Alon should listen to the wind less and pay attention to his net more. His last catch was disgraceful."

A laugh bubbled from Tala’s lips. The moment was normal. Safe.

Then—a dog barked.

Once. Twice.

Then—silence.

Her father stiffened. He exchanged a glance with her mother. Something had changed.

Then—the wind shifted.

Tala’s stomach twisted. The scent of something foreign carried through the air.

Smoke.

Metal.

Sweat.

She saw it then—a shadow moving through the trees. A flicker of torchlight against the darkness.

Her father’s hand clamped around her wrist.

"We need to leave. Now."

The first torch arced through the sky.

For a moment, it was just fire against darkness, a bright, unnatural thing.

Then it landed.

The hut erupted into flames.

And then—chaos.

Screams.

The second torch hit another roof. Then another.

Within seconds, the village was ablaze.

Rajah Sulayman’s warriors poured in through the trees, red and gold flashing in the firelight, kampilans glinting as they cut through the air.

A man tried to flee—a spear caught him mid-run, piercing through his back. He jerked forward, blood spraying onto the dirt before he crumpled.

A mother screamed, clutching her child to her chest—a blade slashed through her ribs. She collapsed, the child wailing beside her.

Blood pooled beneath bare feet.

Mang Alon had seen battle before.

But never like this.

His hands were slick with his wife’s blood, her body slumped against the side of their hut, eyes vacant, throat split open. Beside her, his son lay facedown in the dirt, limbs twisted unnaturally, body crushed beneath the boots of warriors who no longer noticed him.

Something in Mang Alon snapped.

A warrior lunged at him, blade raised, but Mang Alon was faster. He ducked beneath the swing, grabbed a discarded spear, and drove it into the man’s gut.

The warrior choked on his own blood.

Mang Alon ripped the spear free just as another enemy came for him.

He turned, prepared to die—

Then he saw her.

Tala.

She stood frozen near the treeline, eyes wide with horror, hands trembling.

Behind her, a warrior advanced.

Mang Alon moved before he could think.

He sprinted toward her, dropping his spear, grabbing her arm. The blade meant for her sliced across his back instead.

Pain flared hot and blinding.

But he did not stop.

He shoved her forward. "Run!"

Tala gasped, eyes wet, hands gripping his bloodied arm. "I—I can’t—"

"RUN, TALA!"

And this time, she did.

The fire outside raged, swallowing the village whole, its glow casting writhing, flickering shadows along the bamboo walls. The thick scent of burning wood and blood filled the hut, mingling with the distant screams of the dying.

Inside, it was quieter.

Apo Luntian stood tall, unmoving, her aged hands folded before her. Smoke seeped through the woven slats of the hut, curling around her like a spirit's breath.

Before her, Rajah Sulayman stood rigid, kampilan slick with blood. His warriors flanked him, waiting for his command.

His voice was steady. Controlled.

"You wove a prophecy."

Apo Luntian tilted her head slightly, her lined face unreadable.

"I did."

He took a slow step forward, blade glinting in the firelight.

"You will name this ruler," he said.

A beat of silence.

Then—Apo Luntian laughed.

Soft at first. Barely more than a whisper. Then it grew, rising like the crackling of flames. It was not the laughter of a woman afraid.

It was the laughter of a woman who knew she had already won.

Sulayman’s fingers tightened around his sword.

"You find this amusing?"

Apo Luntian smiled.

"You already believe it is you."

His jaw clenched. "Is it not?"

She stepped forward slightly, so close that only he could hear her next words.

"You were given a throne," she whispered, her voice gentle—almost pitying.

"But you will never hold a kingdom."

The words slammed into him.

A flicker of something passed over Sulayman’s face.

Not anger. Something deeper. Something raw.

Apo Luntian saw it.

And she laughed again.

"Your father’s shadow still clings to your throne like rot on a dying tree," she said, her voice like a blade pressed to his throat.

Sulayman inhaled sharply.

And suddenly—he was no longer here.

The room stank of death.

The thick, cloying scent of medicinal herbs, sweat, and the slow decay of a man who had once been great.

Sulayman stood motionless beside the woven sleeping mat.

His father, Rajah Lontok, once feared across the archipelago, now lay sunken into his pillows, his once-mighty arms trembling with the effort of lifting a cup to his lips.

His breath was shallow. Ragged.

"You stand like a man already guarding his throne," the dying Rajah rasped.

Sulayman did not answer.

His father’s gaze, though clouded with sickness, was still sharp.

"Your brothers wait like vultures."

Sulayman’s jaw tightened.

"They will fight for it the moment I am gone," his father murmured. "You are not the strongest. You are not the eldest. Do you know what that makes you?"

Sulayman’s fists clenched.

"A survivor."

A low, rasping chuckle. "Then survive."

A long silence.

Sulayman’s fingers brushed against the woven pillow.

He hesitated.

Then—he pressed it down.

There was no struggle.

Just a slow, rattling breath.

Then—silence.

When Sulayman pulled back, his father’s eyes were frozen open, empty.

A part of him expected to feel something.

But all he felt was the weight of what must come next.

His brothers would come for him.

So he would go for them first.

The memory slammed into him like a blade to the gut.

His vision blurred.

Apo Luntian was still watching him.

Smiling.

"You are a boy still killing ghosts," she murmured. "Even now."

His kampilan shook in his grip.

His warriors shifted slightly, sensing the crack in their Rajah.

Apo Luntian saw it.

And she twisted the knife deeper.

"You were his choice," she whispered. "Not the people’s."

Something inside Sulayman snapped.

His blade flashed.

The kampilan sliced through flesh and bone.

Apo Luntian’s smile remained even as her body crumpled.

The only sound was the soft crackling of the fire.

Sulayman stared down at her motionless form.

His chest heaved.

His hands shook.

Then—a sound.

A breath.

A whisper.

One of his warriors took an unconscious step back.

The others glanced at each other.

Sulayman’s mind snapped back into place.

They had heard.

They had seen.

They would wonder.

They would whisper.

And whispers could kill kings.

His grip on his sword tightened.

The warriors barely had time to react.

His kampilan cut through the first man’s throat, blood spraying against the bamboo walls.

The second stepped back, eyes widening in horror—

Too late.

Sulayman’s blade tore through his chest.

The others didn’t beg. They didn’t run.

They knew.

And so they died without a sound.

When the last body hit the ground, Sulayman stood in the center of the carnage, breath ragged, hands covered in blood.

He closed his eyes.

Somewhere, deep in the shadows of his mind, his father’s voice whispered:

"You are not the strongest. You are not the eldest. Do you know what that makes you?"

A survivor.

And a survivor never left witnesses.