The study still smelled of his father.
Not the man himself—Don Severino had been dead three years—but the life he'd lived. Leather. Tabako. Old decisions and older money. Joaquin "Quino" Montemayor stood in the center of the room with his hands behind his back, feeling ten years old again. His father's portrait hung behind the massive narra desk, oils on canvas, the eyes painted with that look. The one that said: I'm waiting.
The board had the same look an hour ago.
"The Villareal merger is a done deal, Joaquin." Tito Rodrigo, in gold-rimmed glasses, the practiced certainty of a man who'd never been wrong in public. "The numbers are solid. But you know how it is—stability matters. Investors like to see a settled man. A family man."
Translation: get married. Smile for the cameras. Be the haligi ng tahanan they could point to in the annual report.
The study doors opened. His mother glided in wearing jusi, her hair coiled tight. She stood beside him, looking up at the portrait.
"He would be so proud of you, anak." Soft voice. Steel underneath. "The Villareal deal was his dream. Not just business—spirit. Family."
Quino kept his eyes on the painting. "The due diligence is nearly done. Projections are good."
"This isn't about projections." Her hand on his arm, cool through the barong sleeve. "Ang Villareal deal ay hindi lang negosyo, anak. It is a legacy." Her voice dropped. "Ito ang kahilingan ng Papa mo."
There it was. The trump card. The conversation-ender. Your father's dying wish.
"I know, Ma." The words tasted wrong in his mouth. He forced the shareholder smile. "I won't fail him."
"I know you won't." She patted his arm. Duty complete. "Dinner's at seven. Consuelo made kare-kare."
The door clicked shut. The silence rushed back in, thick as smoke. The portrait's eyes sharpened. Legacy. Duty. Family. The three walls of his very expensive cage.
His bedroom was three doors down. Might as well have been another country.
He peeled off the barong, the pina cloth suddenly feeling like a costume. Soft cotton pants. Faded Ateneo shirt. The daily transformation—heir to human, or something close to it.
He dropped into the armchair by the window. Manila glittered below, all those lives that weren't his. He tapped his tablet awake.
This was the escape hatch.
The cover of "Ang Mandirigma at ang Diwata" filled the screen. For the next hour, he wasn't Joaquin Montemayor III. He was just a reader, alone in the forests of Kagubatan ng Hiraya.
He tore through the latest chapter. Lakam tracked the Diwata Alon to the sacred falls. The setup was perfect—moonlight on water, sampaguita heavy in the air. Lakam's hand trembled as he reached for her. His lips parted—
And the Diwata turned away, eyes clouded with worry, and asked for a tactical report on the shadow engkanto movements.
Quino stared at the screen.
"Tangina." He shoved up from the chair. "Tanga mo talaga."
He paced the length of the narra floor, talking to a fictional character like the man could hear him. "The perfect moment. Right there. And you asked for a briefing?"
The warrior had everything—the moonlight, the privacy, the woman he'd been circling for six books—and he defaulted to duty. To the safe choice. To being the shield instead of the man.
"She wasn't asking for intelligence!" Quino said to the empty room. "She was asking you to see her!"
His hands were shaking. This was ridiculous. He was thirty-two years old, yelling at a book. But the frustration had nowhere else to go, so it went here, into this story about a warrior who couldn't stop being a soldier long enough to be human.
He sat back down. Opened Facebook. The group: "Mga Ka-Sining: Mandirigma at Diwata Fans."
Here, he was SagisagNgLahi. Here, nobody knew his last name or his stock portfolio. Here, his thoughts were just thoughts.
He started typing. Fast.
[SagisagNgLahi]Re: Kabanata 28 - Thoughts? More like FRUSTRATIONS
Lakam is a coward.
He hides behind duty because wanting something for himself terrifies him. He thinks his only value is his sword arm and his silence. But what good is a shield that just stands there? That never moves, never risks, never BECOMES something more?
The Diwata doesn't need another soldier. She's surrounded by them. She needs a partner. She needs someone who will look at her—not as his queen, not as his Diwata—but as the woman he loves. Someone who will fight for her, not just bow to tradition and hope she notices.
At this rate, she's going to leave for the Northern Kingdoms and Lakam is going to spend the rest of his life regretting his silence. And honestly? He'll deserve it.
#TeamDiwataDeservesMore #ConfessAlready #NotAnotherCliffhanger
He hit post. Exhaled. The tension in his shoulders loosened slightly.
He got up for water. When he came back, the screen was lit up like a Christmas tree.
94 Comments. 481 Reactions. 28 Shares.
He scrolled through, feeling lighter than he had all day.
@DiwataAko: GRABE HINDI KO NA KAYA SAGISAG!!! (OMG I CAN'T TAKE IT SAGISAG!!!)
@LakamDeSerye: Tama ka. He deserves happiness too. Naiiyak ako. (You're right. He deserves happiness too. I'm crying.)
@Suyo_for_Alon: THIS. Liwayway please read this!
@TradisyonFirst: Hard disagree. Lakam's restraint is his STRENGTH. Not everything is about feelings. #TeamDuty
The debate was already spinning out into sub-threads. This was his real boardroom. The place where what he said mattered for what it was, not who said it.
He was reading through the arguments, grinning despite himself, when a notification made him stop scrolling.
Not a comment. A reply. From a verified account with a small blue badge next to the name.
Liwayway (Author) replied:
"Patience, SagisagNgLahi. Some warriors need to learn they're allowed to be human first. 💙"
His thumb hovered over her name.
Liwayway.
The architect of his favorite escape. The person who'd built the world he disappeared into when his own got too small. She'd read his rant. She'd replied.
"Some warriors need to learn they're allowed to be human first."
The words sat in his chest like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading out to places he didn't want to examine too closely. It felt less like a comment about Lakam and more like—
He didn't finish the thought.
Downstairs, the dinner gong sounded. Deep and resonant, calling him back. Back to legacy. Back to duty. Back to the life of a warrior who'd forgotten he was allowed to want anything for himself.
He stared at the blue heart emoji for another few seconds.
Then he turned off the tablet and went downstairs.