Amihan led Miguel to the largest hut in the village, its walls adorned with shells, bones, and woven symbols that seemed to glow softly in the dappled light. Inside, an old woman sat on a mat of woven palm leaves, her silver hair pinned with white sampaguita blooms that filled the air with sweet scent.
"Lola Sabel," Amihan said with a bow. "We've brought him."
The elder's eyes—clear and bright despite her age—settled on Miguel. She beckoned him closer with a gnarled finger. "Come, child. Let me look at you."
He knelt before her, and she placed her hand on his forehead. A warmth spread through him, like sunlight seeping into cold stone.
"You carry the blood of the first cultivators," she said, her voice low but strong. "I am Sabel, keeper of our ways for two hundred and thirty-seven years. Tell me—what brings you to our home?"
"My grandmother told me stories," Miguel replied, his voice steady. "She said I wasn't just… a monster. That there was more to being Aswang than what the stories say."
Lola Sabel smiled, revealing teeth that were perfectly whole. "Monster is a word others made for us. Let me show you who we truly are."