Realm of Thorns

Stolen Threads

Joaquin stood tall, his chest heaving with the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He did it. He had managed to turn the tide. The creature, once a symbol of terror, now trembled before him, its fear as palpable as the humid air that clung to the thick forest.

He remembered the time he was resting after hours of hauling crates at the market. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he leaned against a stack of sacks, eavesdropping on a group of old women gossiping nearby. Their voices were a comforting hum amid the chaotic buzz of the market.

"Ah, the tikbalang," one of them had whispered with a shudder, her voice barely rising above the din. "They make sport of us humans, twisting paths, confusing the mind until you're lost for days. Some never come back."

Joaquin had shifted, intrigued. The old ladies continued, their words carrying the weight of ancient wisdom.

"But," another added, "there are ways to break their game. Turn your shirt inside out, that's one. They say it breaks their magic—though no one knows why."

The other woman scoffed. "And the second way?" she asked, her voice low, filled with awe. "Steal three strands of the tikbalang's golden hair. But it's impossible. They move like shadows, faster than thought. No one's ever done it."

The idea had settled in Joaquin's mind like a stubborn seed. He could still hear the disbelief in their voices, the certainty that no one would dare try. But something in him rebelled against that impossibility.

No one had ever tried. But not him. Joaquin had lived his life with nothing to lose. What was one more impossible task? He had felt the familiar emptiness—his father's resentment, his own sense of failure—eating away at him, and in that moment, defying the tikbalang had seemed like the only way to prove himself.

He had to trick the creature, to make it lower its guard. He recalled the way it had toyed with his mind, its voice slithering through the trees, trying to unnerve him. But Joaquin had used its arrogance against it. And now, as the golden hairs glinted faintly in his hand, he knew his gamble had paid off.

"What have you done?" the tikbalang's voice trembled with disbelief as it stared at Joaquin, its eyes wide with shock. Its horse-like nostrils flared as it anxiously scanned the dark forest around them, the sharp scent of damp moss and earth heavy in the air. The creature's towering form seemed to shrink as fear crept into its once menacing gaze. "You have no idea what you've done, boy. You better give those hairs back... now."

Joaquin swallowed hard, his mouth dry, though he tried to keep his voice steady. "And what if I refuse?" His words came out sharper than he intended, trying to mask the tremor of fear curling in his gut. His hands shook, and he fought to keep them still, his palms clammy with cold sweat. His back prickled uncomfortably as icy tendrils of dread crawled down his spine, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to let it show.

The tikbalang's panic deepened. "Just give it to me! Now!" it ordered, its voice harsh and desperate. It was no longer the playful trickster but a creature on edge, its eyes darting toward the shifting shadows beyond the trees. "I will let you go out from here if you give it to me." The words tumbled out in a rush as it stepped forward, looming over Joaquin.

Joaquin stood his ground, though every fiber of his being screamed at him to run. The dark forest seemed to close in around them, the stillness broken only by the distant rustling of leaves. His heart pounded in his chest, so loud he feared the tikbalang could hear it.

"How can I trust you?" he shouted, his voice raw with frustration. "You tried to kill me!" His fists clenched tighter around the golden strands, the delicate hairs glowing faintly in the dim light.