The wind over San Esteban had changed.
Where once it smelled of salt and drying fishnets, it now carried the metallic scent of smoke and blood. Lukas stood at the center of the village square, the burned remains of an Aswang claw mark still etched into the earth. Around him, silence reigned—thick, uneasy, watching.
Everywhere he turned, he saw fear.
Not just of the monsters that had attacked the night before—but of him.
He overheard whispers.
"Anak ng diyos daw..."
"Fire came out of his hands..."
"No one survives the touch of the Aswang—except him..."
Lukas tried to ignore it. But the flame in his chest stirred, restless. He knew something bigger was coming. And he couldn't wait for it to strike again.
---
Lola Rosa was brewing salabat when Lukas entered their home, ducking beneath the low thatched doorway. Her eyes were tired, but alert. Her rosary beads were worn from prayer.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
"Neither did you," she replied, pouring tea into a clay mug. "Drink. You'll need it."
He accepted the cup with a nod. The silence between them was heavy with what hadn't been said. Finally, he broke it.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She didn't pretend to misunderstand.
"I hoped it would skip you," she said quietly. "Like it did your father. But now the fire has chosen."
She looked up, her eyes glistening.
"You're not just my apo anymore, Lukas. You're Bathala's heir. That power will change you."
He swallowed hard. "What if I don't want it?"
She reached across the table and took his hand. "Want or not, the fire is awake. If you run from it, others will burn in your place."
---
By midday, Lukas stood again at the edge of the balete grove, where the robed stranger—whose name he now knew as Kalem—waited beside an old trail that disappeared into the mountains.
"You ready?" Kalem asked.
"No," Lukas admitted. "But let's go anyway."
They trekked through fern-choked trails, up winding paths where the air grew thinner. Kalem spoke as they walked, voice low, sharing fragments of ancient history.
"The Agimat Stones were once eleven," Kalem said. "Gifts of power left behind by Bathala before he vanished from the world. Each one holds a piece of what he was—strength, wisdom, spirit, flame. You carry the heart."
"The others?" Lukas asked.
"Scattered. Sleeping. Or stolen."
Lukas frowned. "By who?"
Kalem's face darkened. "There are others who would use them for darkness. Some are already gathering."
They crested a hill, and before them lay a hidden valley—a place untouched by roads or time. In the center stood a stone ruin, shaped like a fallen star, half-swallowed by vines.
Inside, torches flickered as if they'd been waiting.
"Welcome," Kalem said. "To the Shrine of the Heirs."
---
Within the shrine, Lukas knelt before an ancient mural. Painted in soot and gold, it showed a massive figure—Bathala himself—rising from fire and smoke, casting light over shadowy beasts. Around him stood eleven warriors, each bearing a different sigil.
One bore wings. Another, scales like a dragon. One held a giant shield, and another sang with birds circling her.
At the center, the warrior of fire burned brightest.
"That's you," Kalem said softly.
Lukas touched the wall.
The mural pulsed.
The flame inside him surged, racing up his arms. His eyes glowed gold.
And for a moment, Lukas saw them—
The other heirs.
Not just images, but living souls. Somewhere in the world, the other agimat bearers were awakening. Children of lightning. Of stone. Of breath and blade.
But he also saw something else.
A mask. Made of bone. Worn by something wrong. Something ancient.
Kalem's voice broke through the vision.
"You saw it, didn't you?" he said. "The shadow that hunts the light."
Lukas opened his eyes.
"Yes," he whispered.
"A dark god rises. And you, Lukas... you're the fire that stands in its way."