The humidity of the New Orleans night hangs heavy in the air, thick with the scent of blooming magnolias and the distant strains of jazz music. The city is alive with a dark, vibrant energy, and in the heart of the French Quarter, Zavianna LeBlanc moves like a shadow through the narrow, cobblestone streets. She is no longer the frightened girl who arrived here years ago, but a woman who has found a place in this world, albeit one that exists in the murky spaces between light and darkness.

The voodoo shop is nestled in an alleyway, its exterior modest and unassuming, but within its walls lies a sanctuary of potent magic and ancient rituals. Zavianna stands outside the shop, her presence is both enchanting and unsettling, a siren who has learned to wield her power with precision and purpose.

As the night deepens, she begins to sing, her voice weaving through the night air like a spell. It is a haunting melody, filled with longing and sorrow, designed to draw in the curious and the desperate. Her song is a net cast wide, ensnaring those who seek answers, solace, or something more sinister.

Soon, figures begin to emerge from the shadows, drawn by the irresistible pull of her voice. A man with a broken heart, a woman seeking revenge, a couple desperate for a child—they all converge on the shop, their eyes glazed with desire and desperation. Zavianna steps aside, allowing them to enter, her expression unreadable.

Inside, Lisette and the other witches await. The shop is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and herbs. Shelves lined with potions, charms, and talismans glimmer in the candlelight. The witches move with practiced ease, tending to their customers, their voices low and soothing.

Zavianna watches from the doorway, her mind elsewhere. She has become proficient in her role, but it is a role that weighs heavily on her soul. Every night she sings, and every night she brings in those who seek the witches' aid. But her power comes with a price—she has not had her own dreams in years, her nights filled instead with the dreams of others, a chaotic and often nightmarish tapestry that leaves her exhausted and restless.

As the last customer leaves, Lisette approaches her, a knowing look in her eyes.

"You did well tonight," She says, her voice gentle but firm, "But you seem troubled."

Zavianna sighs, running a hand through her dark curls, "It's the dreams, Ma. I can't remember the last time I had a peaceful night's sleep."

Lisette nods, her expression thoughtful, "Your gift is a blessing and a curse, child. You must find balance."

Zavianna's gaze drifts to the flickering candles, their flames dancing in the darkness, "It's hard to find balance when I'm constantly walking a tightrope."

Lisette places a hand on Zavianna's shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring, "We provide a service. People come to us because they need something the world cannot give them. We are a last resort, and sometimes, that's enough."

Zavianna nods, though her heart is heavy with doubt. She knows Lisette speaks the truth, but the moral ambiguity of their work often leaves her feeling adrift. She is neither hero nor villain, existing in a gray area that offers little comfort or clarity.

The night grows later, and the witches begin to tidy up the shop. Zavianna steps outside for a moment, the cool air a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere within. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tries to center herself. But the moment of peace is fleeting, shattered by the sound of footsteps approaching.

She opens her eyes to see a man standing at the edge of the alley, his face obscured by the shadows. He steps forward, and the light reveals a gaunt, haggard figure, his eyes wide and haunted. Zavianna can sense his desperation, a palpable aura that clings to him like a shroud.

"Please," He whispers, his voice cracking, "I need your help."

Zavianna's heart aches at the sight of him, but she remains composed.

"What is it you seek?" She asks, her voice steady.

The man swallows hard, his eyes darting nervously, "My wife... she's dying. The doctors can't do anything. I heard... I heard you could save her."

Zavianna feels a pang of sympathy, but she knows the weight of such requests, "There are limits."

The man steps closer, his desperation turning to anger, "You have to try! I'll do anything, pay any price. Just... please, save her."

Zavianna hesitates, torn between her desire to help and the knowledge of the potential consequences. Fortunately, Lisette relieves Zavianna of her duties before she has to make any decisions.

Later that night, as she lies in her bed, Zavianna closes her eyes and prepares for another restless sleep. The dreams of others will come, a torrent of images and emotions that will leave her drained and weary. But she is ready, her mind steeled for the challenge.

As the first dream takes hold, she sees the man and his dying wife, their faces twisted with pain and fear. She reaches out, her power flowing through her, and she begins to weave a dream of hope and healing. It is a small comfort, but it is something.

The cemetery lies shrouded in the heavy mist of early morning, its graves and monuments emerging like ghostly specters from the fog. The air is cool, the silence broken only by the distant cawing of ravens and the occasional rustling of leaves. This is where Zavianna finds solace, a sanctuary amidst the final resting places of the departed.

Zavianna steps through the wrought-iron gates, their intricate patterns distorted by the mist. Her presence is almost ethereal, her dark silhouette blending seamlessly with the shadows. She moves with a grace born of familiarity, her footsteps soft on the damp grass.

The cemetery has always held a strange comfort for her, a place where the boundary between life and death is thin. Here, she feels a connection to her own power, a reminder of the delicate balance she must maintain. The dead are her kin in a way, and she respects their peace, understanding that her own power over life and death is a double-edged sword.

As she walks past rows of tombstones, she stops at a large, ancient mausoleum, its stone facade weathered by time. She traces her fingers over the engravings, the cold stone a stark contrast to the warmth of her skin.

"Rest peacefully," She murmurs, her voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of the cemetery's silence.

A shiver runs down her spine as she speaks. It is as though the air itself is charged with a faint, electric energy, a reminder of her past encounters with the dead. Yet, she respects the quiet repose of the cemetery, having long sworn off using her powers in such a sacred place.

The fog continues to swirl around her, the mist thickening as the morning light weakens. Zavianna pauses in front of a large oak tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. She feels a chill, not from the cold, but from a presence she cannot quite place. It is a feeling she has come to associate with the spirit world, a whispering reminder of the unseen.

Sighing, she sits down on a nearby bench, her gaze fixed on the gravestones before her. Her thoughts turn to Lisette's beliefs, to the notion that she has been touched by Papa Legba himself. She has heard the stories and seen the signs, and though she remains skeptical, she cannot ignore the peculiar occurrences that seem to follow her.

"Papa Legba," She whispers, her voice carrying on the breeze, "Are you listening?"

The silence responds with a haunting stillness, but Zavianna continues, as though expecting an answer, "Ma believes you gave me my gift."

Her words drift away into the fog, absorbed by the cemetery's timeless quiet. She closes her eyes, trying to focus on the sensation of being watched, of the connection to the spirit realm. It is a practice she has adopted, speaking to the air as though engaging in a one-sided conversation with Papa Legba.

A soft rustling catches her attention, and she opens her eyes to find a raven perched on a nearby tombstone, its dark eyes gleaming with an intelligence that feels almost human. The bird cocks its head, as though listening to her thoughts. Zavianna shivers, the sight both eerie and oddly comforting.

"You're a messenger, aren't you?" She asks the raven, her tone half teasing, half serious.

The raven caws once, then flutters to a nearby branch, its presence now more unsettling than reassuring. Zavianna watches it with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. The bird's appearance is an omen, a sign that she is being observed, but the nature of that observation remains elusive.

As the morning fog begins to lift, Zavianna stands and begins to walk again, her path taking her deeper into the cemetery. She pauses at a small, neglected grave, overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. The inscription is barely legible, the name worn away by time. She kneels beside it, her fingers brushing away the foliage.

She pulls out a small trowel from her bag and begins to clear the weeds. The task is meditative, a way to connect with the souls buried here, to show them the respect they deserve. As she works, she whispers softly, her words a silent prayer for the forgotten.

The sun rises higher, casting a warm, golden light over the cemetery. The shadows recede, and the mist dissipates, but Zavianna remains, lost in her thoughts and her work.

When she finishes, she stands and gazes at the now-cleared grave, a sense of accomplishment mingled with melancholy. She brushes her hands off and turns to leave, her steps slow and deliberate. The cemetery, once again, is silent, its quiet broken only by the distant sounds of the city.

As she approaches the gate, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder. The raven is still perched on the branch, its dark eyes following her movements. Zavianna feels a strange connection, as though the bird is a symbol of her own inner struggle, a reminder of the duality of her existence.

"Until next time," She says softly to the raven.

The bird caws once more, then takes flight, disappearing into the morning sky. Zavianna watches it go, feeling a mix of relief and unease. She turns and walks through the gate, her heart heavy but her spirit renewed.

The week drags on, and Zavianna finds herself increasingly drained. Each night, she slips into a restless sleep only to wake up feeling as though she has fought a thousand battles. The dreams of others—often confusing, sometimes disturbing—leave her weary and hollow. She yearns for a moment of solitude, a chance to recharge and reconnect with her own spirit.

On this particular night, the moon hangs high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the city of New Orleans. The streets are quiet, the usual bustle of nightlife subdued by the late hour. Zavianna slips out of her small, dimly lit room at the back of the voodoo shop, unable to shake the feeling that she needs to escape the confines of the city. She walks briskly, her mind heavy with fatigue, her body yearning for relief.

The path she takes leads her out of the city and into the surrounding wilderness. The dense foliage and underbrush create a cocoon of darkness around her, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot breaking the oppressive silence. She continues until she reaches a secluded clearing, hidden away from the prying eyes of the city. Here, the night is alive with the sounds of nocturnal creatures and the whisper of the wind through the trees.

Zavianna collapses onto the ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She needs to release the tension, to pour her soul out through her voice. She looks up at the sky, the stars a distant, comforting presence. With a deep breath, she begins to sing.

The melody is haunting, a mixture of sorrow and longing that speaks to the deepest corners of her heart. Her voice, both mournful and beautiful, carries through the night air. It is a song of heartbreak, a lament for all she has lost and all she has yet to find. The notes float on the breeze, their echoes weaving through the trees and disappearing into the night.

Unbeknownst to Zavianna, the song does not go unnoticed. Erik Lehnsherr, known to the world as Magneto, is drawn to the sound. He is on a mission of his own, the enchanting notes cut through the stillness of the night, pulling him in with an irresistible force. Intrigued, he follows the sound, his senses finely tuned to the source of this haunting music.

Erik moves through the trees with practiced ease, his presence almost imperceptible. He finally emerges into the clearing, his eyes locking onto Zavianna, who remains oblivious to his approach. Her back is to him, her form silhouetted against the moonlight. He watches her for a moment, captivated by the raw emotion in her voice and the beauty of her song.

When he finally speaks, his voice is calm and smooth, carrying a hint of curiosity and flirtation, "I didn't realize the night had such a beautiful voice."

Zavianna's eyes snap open, her song faltering as she jumps in surprise. She turns abruptly, her heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes widen as she takes in the figure standing a few feet away. Erik's appearance is both imposing and magnetic, his dark clothes blending with the night, his eyes gleaming with an intense, almost predatory light.

"What are you doing here?" Zavianna demands, her voice sharp with alarm.

Erik raises an eyebrow, his demeanor calm and collected, "I was simply drawn by your voice. It's not every day one hears such a compelling melody in the middle of nowhere."

Zavianna's eyes narrow, her instinct to protect her solitude clashing with the inexplicable sense of danger that surrounds him. She stands up, her posture defensive, her mind racing to understand who this intruder is and what his intentions might be.

"Who are you?" She asks, her tone edged with suspicion.

Erik takes a step forward, his gaze never leaving hers. There is a slight, enigmatic smile on his lips, one that seems to suggest he knows more than he is letting on.

"My name is Erik," He says smoothly.

Zavianna's expression remains guarded, "I don't know what you want, but you should leave. Now."

Erik's smile widens slightly, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and interest, "I have a knack for understanding things others might miss if you'd kindly accept."

Zavianna's eyes search his face, trying to discern the truth behind his words. There is something magnetic about him, an aura of power and confidence that both attracts and repels. She senses that he is not simply an ordinary man, but the idea of him being more than human unsettles her.

"I don't need your help," She replies firmly, "I just want to be alone."

Erik regards her thoughtfully, his expression shifting to one of genuine curiosity, "You have a gift, don't you? The way you sing... it's as if you're channeling something beyond yourself. It's not just a song; it's a piece of your soul."

Zavianna bristles at his observation, "You don't know anything about me. You're intruding."

"I mean no intrusion," Erik says, his voice soothing yet insistent, "I merely wanted to understand the source of such profound beauty. You see, I am someone who also has... certain gifts."

Zavianna's heart skips a beat at his words. She has never met another mutant, and the idea of someone else possessing powers like hers is both intriguing and alarming. She instinctively steps back, her body tensing.

"I don't care what you are," She says, her voice trembling slightly, "Just leave me alone."

Erik raises his hands in a gesture of peace, his eyes softening with understanding," Until next time."

She feels her entire body tense at the familiarity of his words.

Zavianna's gaze remains fixed on him, a mixture of wariness and curiosity in her eyes. She feels the weight of his presence, a reminder of the vast world of mutants she has only begun to glimpse. Despite her fear, a part of her is drawn to the idea of someone who might understand her struggles.

Without another word, Zavianna turns and walks back toward the city, her mind swirling with the encounter. Erik watches her go, his expression thoughtful, a hint of intrigue lingering in his eyes. He remains in the clearing for a moment longer, the echoes of her song still resonating in the night.

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