“Same thing, usually.” He pulled a crumpled pastelito from his jacket pocket—guava and cheese, her favorite—and handed it to her. “My abuela used to tell stories about the tejedoras . She said they weren’t scary. She said they were lonely. Because the magic wants to be used, but it doesn’t care how.”

“Accidents are for children. And you,” Doña Sofía said, stepping closer, “are a liability. There is a reason we hunted your kind. You cannot control what you are.”

Grachi slumped to her knees. Diego caught her. The grimoire was waiting on the altar, exactly where his abuela had left it.

“We’re two kids against professional witch-hunters,” Diego whispered.

Grachi’s stomach dropped. “You mean… you?”

“You have the don ,” her grandmother said, not looking up. “The Gift. It skipped your mother. It did not skip you.”

“Path of Heart,” she whispered.