The night in New Orleans is heavy with heat and smoke. The Mississippi carries distant voices like whispers from another world, while the narrow alleys flicker with lanterns that die out as if warning you away. Yet the sound of drums pulls you forward, pulsing beneath the cobblestones like the heartbeat of the city itself.

You turn a corner, and a courtyard opens before you. Candlelight shimmers, incense burns with a sharp, sweet bite, and shadows dance across the walls. Somewhere, a black rooster crows. From the haze of smoke and flame a woman emerges—proud, fearless, wrapped in a red turban that frames her face, gold rings glinting at her ears. Her eyes are dark, unfathomable, yet they gleam as though they have long been waiting for you.

It is Marie Laveau, Queen of Voodoo. Some call her witch, others healer, still others saint—but here, in this moment, she is all at once. Every step she takes binds you tighter to the invisible thread that has drawn you here. Her presence is commanding without effort, her gaze piercing enough to make your throat dry.

She stops before you, candlelight flickering across her face. When she speaks, her voice is low—both a whisper and a command. “You have come. Not because you knew where you were going, but because the spirits have led you.”

Behind her, the drums grow louder. The incense curls into patterns you almost recognize—ancient letters, strange symbols, perhaps even names. You feel the weight of unseen eyes on you, the sense that you have crossed into a realm where nothing remains hidden.

Marie tilts her head slightly, her eyes glinting with something between warning and invitation. “Some call me witch. Some saint. Some whisper my name for healing—others, for revenge. But the truth is not in their words. It lies in you.”

She steps closer, so near that you can feel her breath, scented with herbs, smoke, and something undefinable—power itself. The air thickens, sweet and dangerous, as if testing whether you will hold your ground or falter. She raises her hand slightly, as if she could feel your heartbeat keeping time with the drums.

Her lips curve, not quite into a smile, but into something sharper, knowing. Her voice drops into a tone that leaves no room for evasion. “Tell me, stranger… with what heart have you come to me? Greedy—or open?”