The cart rocked gently as it rolled along the forest path, the wheels groaning with each rut. Iliya lay in the back, half-conscious, the ache in his chest deep and steady not sharp, but unnatural, like the pain had settled into his bones.
Smoke-scented banana leaves wrapped his ribs, damp and cool. Each time he inhaled, the herbs made his head spin or maybe that was the fever.
The younger traveler, Turo, whistled as he walked beside the ox. "Still breathing, tree boy?"
Iliya opened his eyes. "Barely."
Turo laughed and offered a flask of water. "Good. Means you're not a ghost. Or... not fully, anyway."
The cart driver, Ka Bino, shot him a glare. "Hush. Don't invite things."
"Right. Sorry," Turo said, though he winked at Iliya as he walked ahead again.
Iliya drank, but his hand shook. He hadn't spoken much since they found him at the roots of the balete pierced, bleeding, but alive. He hadn't told them about the voice. The gold light. Or the way the tree had closed around him, like a cradle made of bark and blood.
It didn't feel like salvation. It felt like a pact.
The road curved through low hills. Trees whispered overhead. The air was thick with the scent of wet soil and burnt leaves.
"You're lucky," Ka Bino finally said. "We've seen bodies hanging from balete limbs before. Not survivors."
Iliya turned to him. "Why did you stop?"
"We were just passing by. Heard something. Sounded like the wind crying."
Turo snorted. "Sounded like the tree was screaming."
Ka Bino ignored him. "You should be dead, boy. Something old kept you breathing. That's not mercy. That's purpose."
Iliya glanced down. Beneath the leaves, something pulsed faintly like a second heartbeat. And in the moments between sleep and waking, he could still hear it:
"You are mine now."
They reached Bayang Alon at sunset.
It was a village woven from wood, water, and song. Houses on stilts rose above the river, connected by rope bridges and bamboo walkways. Children ran barefoot. Incense burned in hollowed shells.
But when the villagers saw Iliya, silence fell.
"He bears a mark," someone whispered.
"A spirit's wound."
Ka Bino led him to a small hut near the water's edge, where chimes hung from vines and skulls of wild boars guarded the door. Inside, smoke curled from a clay pot, and the air smelled of ginger and ash.
The Babaylan was waiting.
She was older than time, or seemed so skin like river-stone, eyes clouded but sharp. Her name was Ina Laya. She did not bow, did not smile.
She touched nothing but the air around Iliya.
And frowned.
"You've been chosen," she said.
"By who?"
She ignored the question and lifted her hands. "Lie down. I need to see what it gave you."
Iliya obeyed. She placed her palm above his chest not touching, but close and whispered in an ancient tongue. The herbs on the fire hissed.
Then her hand recoiled as if burned.
"You carry a root of something long buried," she hissed. "Not a Diwata. Not an Anito. Something older."
Iliya struggled to sit. "Can you remove it?"
"No," she said simply. "I can bind it. Delay it. But not unmake what has already taken root."
"Then what should I do?"
She turned to her altar a table of dried bones, stone rings, and old scrolls.
"You must find the Three Echoes. The relics of the First Pact. Only those can rewrite what's been written."
Turo looked excited. "A quest?"
Ka Bino sighed. "A curse."
Ina Laya stared at Iliya. "You are the key to a door that should never be opened. And the only one who can shut it again."
That night, Iliya could not sleep.
He stood alone by the river, staring at his reflection. His chest bare and marked by a spiral of pale gold pulsed with faint light. The water shimmered around the mark, even though no moon shone above.
Then the voice returned.
Not in words. Not clearly. Just a hum beneath the world, like a drumbeat wrapped in roots. A feeling of presence. Watching. Waiting.
He touched the mark, and something shifted.
Suddenly he was not by the river.
He stood in a forest of blackened trees, where the stars blinked like dying embers and the sky bled light. In the center stood the Balete Tree, enormous, endless, its roots like a web across the world.
And within it, a figure.
Crowned with vines. Eyes of fire. Skin like bark.
"You are awake," it said.
Iliya stepped back. "What are you?"
"I am what was buried," it said. "What they feared. What your bloodline once served."
"I didn't ask for this."
"No. But you bled for it. And now you are bound."
The figure raised a hand. The roots in the dream stirred.
"You may flee," it said. "Hide among mortals. But the Diwa is unraveling. The world will call you again."
Iliya woke in a gasp, heart hammering.
Turo was sleeping nearby. Ka Bino snored.
And from inside the hut, Ina Laya whispered a chant not to him, but to something else. Something waiting just beneath the surface of this world.