Blurry.
Dark.
The world trembles like a wavering flame.
In the distance gunfire. Explosions. A storm of fire that never ends. The earth groans with every blow, as if it's being crushed beneath the feet of unseen giants. The sky bleeds rust and ash, weeping fire and smoke. Through the choking heavens, a pale moon peeks barely visible through the thick smog of war.
There are screams.
Laughter not human, but monstrous.
Cries of children. Howling dogs.
War drums pounding with rhythm, made from the leather of forgotten beasts.
Shadows race past too fast to recognize, like ghosts of a history long buried.
In the middle of it all
A woman.
Bleeding. Slumped against the roots of an ancient tree, its bark carved with the names of lost gods. She wears woven cloth wrapped around her body, like an abaca mat, embroidered with gold and threads of red. Her face is weary, streaked with ash and blood. Her hair is tied back, adorned with ornaments of bone, wood, and stones that shimmer like sacred relics from the mountains of Diwata.
She looks like a babaylan a priestess from olden tales.
But this... this is no legend.
In her arms, she holds an infant.
The baby is silent.
Not crying. Not squirming.
Just lying still eyes wide open.
Eyes far too aware.
The child gazes into the chaos. The smoke. The flames.
It cannot yet speak, cannot yet understand
But it can feel the weight of the world.
The grief.
The tears.
And even without knowing what pain is... the child already feels it.
"R-Remember your promise... Kalasag..."
The woman's voice is faint. Shaking. Blood trickling from her lips as she lifts the child toward a man standing before her.
A tall man broad-shouldered, built like a carved warrior from epic tales. Wounds run along his arms. His face is hardened, smeared with battle and sweat. Yet his eyes... his eyes still burn with resolve.
He kneels.
Takes the baby in his arms gently, as if holding light itself.
Their eyes meet.
The child.
And the man.
The baby doesn't know why
But something deep inside aches.
It doesn't understand the meaning of this moment
But it feels like something is being torn away.
The child glances back at the woman
His mother.
And then
"Waaah... waaah..."
He cries.
But it is not the cry of hunger.
Nor fear.
It is the cry of goodbye.
"Protect him..." the woman breathes, her words trembling. "No matter where he ends up… no matter what happens to the world… keep him safe."
The man nods slowly. He bows, pressing his forehead to her outstretched hand.
"I swear it. Even if I die... I will never let harm come to him."
"Thank you... Kalasag..." she whispers.
A final tear slips from her eye.
And one from the child's.
Not his tear. But it feels like his.
Then
The world splits.
A flash of blinding white
Reality folding inward like burning paper
And everything vanishes in a storm of light and shadow.
BOOOOM!!
"Kuya! Kuya Alden!"
(Kuya Tagalog of older brother)
Alden jolted upright in bed.
His chest heaved.
His shirt clung to him with sweat.
His ears still rang with echoes of explosions.
The memory of the smoke, the crying child, the name "Kalasag" still burned in his mind.
At his bedside stood a girl small for her age, no taller than his waist. Eight years old, sporting uneven bangs, barefoot, and wearing her favorite tank top that read: "Cute but Fierce."
His sister, Tintin.
"You were crying," she said, wide-eyed and unbothered. "You okay? Was it a nightmare?"
Alden rubbed his eyes. The tears were real.
But he forced a crooked grin.
"What? Nah. Probably just had an ant in my eye," he muttered. "Or maybe I'm crying because you woke me up right when it was getting good."
"Was it that dream where a mermaid was hitting on you again?" she teased. "Or the one where you got wrecked in PE?"
"Hey! For the record, I have no enemies in school," he replied. "Unlike you you're still losing fights to your math homework."
"Hmp! At least my homework doesn't cry at night," she said with a proud little smirk. "Come on. Mom said the food are getting cold."
"Ugh... Fine, fine. I'm up." Alden ruffled her hair and offered a genuine smile.
"Thanks for the wake-up call, boss baby."
Downstairs.
The comforting scent of garlic rice and fried eggs drifted through the house.
Mama Liza hummed along to a cooking reel as she buttered toast with questionable precision, wearing an apron that had definitely seen better days. Her high falsetto notes weren't fooling anyone.
In the living room, Papa Eduardo sat hunched over his phone, squinting at a Facebook post while sipping lukewarm coffee.
"Love," he called out, "someone just posted that a cow went missing from the next hacienda."
Mama replied"Then maybe you should go look for it,", eyes still on the pan.
"Maybe I should disappear too," Papa sighed dramatically.
"Maybe I wouldn't mind," Mama said without missing a beat.
Alden chuckled as he took his seat.
"Good morning."
"Eat up, anak," Mama said, handing him a plate of eggs and rice. (Anak Tagalog for "child" or "son/daughter")
"Kuya!" Tintin chimed from across the table, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Angela told me Sharmaine has a crush on you!"
Alden froze, mid-chew.
"Wait, what?"
"Yup! She said Sharmaine went all red when you lent her your calculator!"
"Maybe she was just moved by the power of a Texas Instruments scientific calculator," he said with a smirk.
"Oooh, vintage romance," Papa added. "Back in our day, calculators were elite gear."
The table erupted in laughter.
"So, kuya," Tintin leaned in with a cheeky grin, "think she'll confess her undying love by next week?"
"It's just breakfast," Alden said, groaning. "Can I eat one meal without being dragged into a romantic subplot?"
"Eh 'di wow," the entire family said in perfect unison.
And yet...
Even as Alden laughed and teased with them, a quiet unease lingered behind his eyes.
Something from the dream hadn't let go.
It clung to his chest.
An ache he couldn't explain.
He placed a hand over his ribs.
"Kalasag..." he whispered.
Who was that?
Why did it feel... real?
Why did it feel like something someone had been taken from him?
Unseen beneath his plain white shirt, pressed against the left side of his chest... a faint shimmer pulsed.
A mark.
A symbol in a forgotten tongue.
And it was beginning to wake.
Later. In the bathroom.
"♪ Kung ako na lang sana ang iyong minahal... ♪"
(Tagalog song)
Alden's voice echoed off the tiles. Steam rose from the dipper as warm water cascaded down his back. Half-key, but full emotion.
Shampoo therapy. Hugot songs.
That was his go-to cure for mystery sadness.
"♪ Then maybe this feeling… wouldn't have held on so tight… ♪"
But the ache in his chest wouldn't wash away.
Not with music. Not with jokes.
Not even with water.
Then
Knock knock knock!
"Kuyaaa!" Tintin yelled from behind the door. "You're butchering that song! Are you auditioning for The Voice: Sad Boy Edition?!"
"Respect the grieving process! Water bills aren't free, y'know!"
"Oh my God, are you crying while shampooing?!"
"Crying in the shower is therapeutic!"
"Yeah? Then sing Let It Go and freeze your feelings!"
"Don't mock the trauma-washing!"
"I'm counting to ten, then I'm recording this for TikTok!"
"NO! I HAVE RIGHTS! BATHROOMS ARE CAMERA-FREE ZONES!"
"Ten... nine... eight…"
"I'M DONE! I'M COMING OUT! DON'T EVEN!"
Later, dressed in his clean uniform, Alden tied his shoes and checked himself in the mirror.
His smile looked okay.
But inside, the ache remained.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder.
Took one last look at the ceiling.
As if expecting someone or something to answer back.
Nothing did.
He sighed.
Then stepped out into the rising sun of hacienda Salamanca.
The sound of tricycles, barking dogs, and morning radio filled the street.
Another ordinary day.
But beneath his skin...
Something old was stirring.
And soon...
It would no longer stay quiet.