— Why do you, my son, always choose only black paint for your drawings?
— Because black is the strongest color.
It can conquer any other.
Chapter 1. The Prophecy of the Wind
The sun scorched the mountain slopes, burning away the last traces of green.
I, Ishtali, sat on the hilltop. The wind smelled of salt and dried grass as it pulled at my hair.
I was only ten, yet I already felt the weight of the world — a weight adults hide behind small talk about crops, hunting, and preparations for ritual celebrations.
I was born into the Roko tribe, in a small village lost among canyons and deserts in northern Mexico. My parents were farmers, simple people, but they believed there was something unusual about me. Even as an infant I never cried — I only watched the world with wide, black eyes full of inexplicable wisdom. My mother used to say I could see what others could not.
My earliest memories are of the wind passing through me as if I were made of smoke — a wind woven from the whisper of stones, the heartbeat of the earth, and the song of snakes beneath the cactus roots. At night I watched spirits walking the narrow paths toward the sacred plateau. Other children feared the darkness, but to me it was a refuge. In its silence, I felt at home.
Chapter 2. The Path of Spirits
When I was four, I wandered off during play. The other children grew frightened, and the adults raised the alarm. I still remember that day clearly. I followed a path no one else could see — a trail laid out for me by the spirits, winding through thick brush and dry riverbeds. When night fell, an even deeper calm settled over me. xI remember sitting beneath a tree in the darkness, listening to rustles that moved around me — now on the ground, now far away, now somewhere high above in the branches. And through it all, I felt protected, as though unseen hands were gently guiding me home.
When I finally ap
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