Buganvilla moved her hands with flawless precision.Her fingers were firm, delicate, almost elegant… as if every movement carried an invisible purpose.
It wasn't just sewing.
It was magic.
—"The foundation isn't only for artisans," she said without looking at her. "It is for weavers as well. Unlike other shamans or heralds… we do not impose magic."
She paused.
—"We build it."
In front of her, Izel struggled with a red thread that seemed to have a will of its own. Her hands couldn't keep the rhythm, they tensed, failed… and the supposed "flower" she was trying to form looked more like a shapeless lump with a crooked stick.
She sighed.
—"It's not working…"
—"Of course it's not working," Buganvilla replied dryly. "You lack precision."
Izel dropped the thread, frustrated.
—"It's really hard…"
Buganvilla brought a hand to her forehead, massaging it slowly.
—"Normally, weavers have a natural aptitude for this… but you are an exception."
She glanced at her, evaluating.
—"Tell me something. Are you good at modeling?"
—"No… my figures look like monsters."
—"Drawing?"
—"I once drew a forest… and a kid thought it was a dog."
—"Painting?"
—"No."
—"Weaving?"
Izel raised the fabric in silence.
The answer was obvious.
Buganvilla exhaled.
—"Incredible."
Izel lowered her gaze, embarrassed.
Even so… something had changed.
Before, those words would have hurt her more.
Now she just… accepted them.
Because she knew they were true.
And because, deep down, she also knew something else:
Buganvilla did not despise her.
She was harsh, yes.
But she was there.
Helping.
Teaching.
Caring.
—"Listen carefully," she continued at last. "A weaver is not strong because of internal energy… like you. They do not cast magic directly. Instead, they combine energy to create something new."
Izel looked up, attentive.
—"Your problem," she added, "is that you don't excel at anything manual. And that's serious for this type of magic."
Silence.
—"Your fire is basic. Your light too. You have nothing extraordinary yet… so you need something to compensate for that."
Izel clenched her hands slightly.
She remembered.
The shadows.
The attack.
How her magic broke.
How she couldn't do anything.
—"Weavers use a representation," Buganvilla continued. "Something that allows them to visualize magic."
She pointed at the fabric.
—"Your grandmother does it through weaving."
Izel looked at her hands.
—"But you can't."
Silence.
She thought.
Searched within herself.
Something she could do.
Something that was hers.
And then…
—"Music…" she murmured.
Buganvilla tilted her head.
—"It could work…" she replied. "It's not my specialty, but it makes sense."
Izel smiled, faintly.
—"It doesn't matter."
Buganvilla raised her hand.
From her fingers, threads of green and red light emerged, intertwining in the air, forming a perfect rose beneath an open sky.
Beautiful.
Alive.
Then…
The image shattered.
And turned into wind.
A whirlwind crossed the room. The tables vibrated. The glass trembled.
—"For me," she said, "air is freedom… movement."
The wind vanished.
Izel watched it… amazed.
—"Now you."
Silence fell again.
Izel closed her eyes.
She thought of the sky.
She thought of running.
She thought of that life she had imagined… the one she almost had.
And she began to sing.
But this time…
she borrowed nothing.
She didn't recall songs.
She didn't imitate anything.
She simply let out what she had inside.
I walked without looking back,as if the world had no weight,as if the air were enoughto start again.
And for a moment I believed…that I could stay like this.
No fear in my chest,nothing to run from,no shadows telling mewhat I should feel.
If there were a placewhere I didn't have to run…where simply breathingwas enough…
I would stay there.
The air responded.
Not with force.
Not with violence.
But with presence.
A soft current moved through the room. It gently lifted Izel's hair. It made the light tremble… just slightly.
But it didn't break.
It held.
Izel opened her eyes, surprised.
—"That…" she murmured. "felt different."
Buganvilla was watching her.
And for the first time…
she smiled.
—"Because it's yours."
Izel lowered her gaze, still feeling the echo of magic in her body.
—"The longer the song," Buganvilla added, "the more power it will accumulate. And the more emotion it carries… the stronger it will be."
She tossed her a towel.
—"And it will exhaust you more, too."
Izel wiped her face, surprised by how soaked she was.
—"For now, that's enough. That spell can help you move, lighten yourself… even push enemies."
Izel nodded.
Five days had passed since the interview with Zeus.
Five days.
And the memory was still there.
The fear.
The pressure.
That feeling of having been… too close.
Sometimes it made her stomach turn.
Sometimes…
she wanted to forget.
But another part of her…
didn't want to go back.
She didn't want to be someone who only reacted.
She didn't want others deciding for her.
Not even Mictlantecuhtli.
That's why she was here.
Learning.
Even if she progressed slowly.
Even if it was difficult.
Because running away… was no longer an option.
Her phone vibrated.
"Welcome to the university…"
Izel smiled.
Her chest felt a little lighter.
Finally.
Journalism.
One step closer to her dream.
But then…
another message.
Unknown number.
"Remember you have an interview tomorrow. Don't miss it."
Mictlantecuhtli.
The warmth broke.
She didn't hate him.
But…
she couldn't see him the same way anymore.
There was kindness in him.
But also power.
And something else…
something she still didn't understand.
She sighed.
Closed her eyes for a moment.
—"Tomorrow…"
she murmured to herself.
—"It all begins."
But this time…
it didn't feel like the beginning of something.
It felt like the continuation of something she could no longer stop.
Even so…
she smiled.
Small.
Soft.