When Ligia opened her eyes, it felt as if the universe was breathing with her.
The ritual platform still pulsed—shadows and symbols danced around her in ancient, almost living patterns. The air felt thicker, almost liquid. Each heartbeat echoed like an ancestral drum, marking the beginning of something vast.
But now, everything was different.
Something inside her pulsed with a new presence.
Not just magic.
Consciousness. Heritage. Hunger to exist.
"Come now, sweet creation of the night," murmured Auren with a smile made of both shadow and light. "Show me what you're made of."
Ligia closed her eyes. Silenced the world.
She called Creation with her soul.
As she raised her hand, a crimson glow began to coil around her fingers.
Unstable at first, as if the spell itself doubted its own existence.
A hesitant line of energy traced a small circle in the air.
A beginning.
"Smaller," Auren guided calmly. "Think of how a rose grows. It doesn't appear all at once. It reveals itself... petal by petal."
Ligia nodded.
And tried to feel, not control.
A fragment of light appeared.
A petal.
Delicate like a forgotten happy memory.
It curved in silence with organic perfection.
She smiled, surprised.
Michael watched. His eyes softened. A discreet smile, almost imperceptible, touched the corner of his lips—but it was there.
Patiently, Ligia crafted another petal. Then another.
And another.
The motion grew confident.
The energy was no longer unstable—it danced with her.
Creation, she understood, was not only form.
It was intention. Emotion. Memory.
"Remember," said Auren, walking around the platform like a professor of ages. "In Creation, the void is not absence... it is potential. Learn to hear the silence before shaping the world."
The next petal was born from the memory of her mother.
The scent.
The soft laughter in the cold hallways of the d'Argêntea Manor.
That petal glowed brighter.
The next ones grew in a spiral. A slender stem, elegant thorns, leaves that swayed as if touched by an invisible breeze.
And finally, in her hands, rested a crimson rose.
Alive. Real. Born of herself.
"I did it," she whispered, between disbelief and enchantment.
Auren laughed softly.
"You didn't do it. You only began. But it's a beautiful first step, little star."
Michael crossed his arms, trying not to get emotional.
Inside, he wanted to stand and applaud.
But all he said was:
"Now try a daisy. Just to expand the portfolio."
Ligia laughed—and for the first time since the beginning, the ritual stopped feeling like a trial.
It had become a rebirth.
Auren exchanged a silent glance with Michael. A nearly imperceptible nod, as if watching fate take shape.
Then he turned to Ligia.
"Now that you've completed the Awakening Ritual… I must go."
Ligia, still enchanted with the rose in her hands, looked up.
A spark of childhood lit up in her eyes—that question only those who've known loss dare to ask.
"Will I see you again... out there? In the real world?"
Auren didn't answer with words.
He only looked.
And in that look, there was a quiet promise.
Not of an immediate reunion—but of eternal presence.
Ligia stood, her knees still marked by the ancestral platform.
She brushed off her clothes as if trying to hide a lump in her throat.
She bowed—sincere, grateful, respectful.
"Thank you... for guiding me."
Auren smiled—one of those smiles only someone who carries centuries in their blood can give.
"Well… I'm the one who created this ritual, after all. Maybe I should apologize for the pain."
Ligia let out a tired but honest laugh.
"Never want to go through that again."
Michael stepped closer, arms crossed.
"The family remains united," he said, like someone sealing a promise with the gods.
"The ancestors may rest in peace."
Auren gave him that usual look—half wisdom, half provocation.
"The ancestors aren't the problem. You're the one who prefers signing scrolls to dining with your daughters."
Michael activated his legendary technique: the sacred right to remain silent.
Auren scoffed and turned to Ligia.
"Girl… take care of yourself. And be happy."
Ligia's smile bloomed like her rose.
She didn't say anything.
Because Auren… had begun to dissolve.
Particles of shadow and light rose from him like stars returning to the sky.
Without thinking, Ligia closed her eyes.
She summoned Creation.
A new crimson rose was born in her hand—petal by petal, woven with gratitude.
She brought it to her chest, right over her heart.
When Auren finally disappeared…
the rose bloomed in silence.
The blood of the family… still alive.
Michael, hands in his pockets, looked at his daughter.
His voice came out in a tone even he didn't know he carried.
"Let's go back... home. Our home."
Ligia looked at the last spark of light in the air and smiled.
A melancholic smile—but complete.
"Yes. To our... home."
Michael turned. His cloak brushing the floor.
When he reached the black doors of the ritual hall, he spoke without looking back.
"Maybe… your mother's already returned."
Ligia's eyes widened like a child hearing the circus had come to town.
"It's been a while since she left... It's about time!"
And she ran after him—
laughing.
Like someone who, for the first time in a long time,
felt solid ground beneath her feet.
Michael, standing at the entrance, allowed himself a small smile.
And then, they walked through the doors together.