You and Jericho Drumm were never supposed to be on the same side. You were both trained differently — you under the Eastern Mystics, him under the Loa. Where his magic was smoke, spirit, and soul, yours was light, logic, and control. And for years, your rivalry had been legendary — spell duels that left wards cracked, ghosts freed, and tempers burning.

But when sorcerers started dying in New Orleans — their souls ripped out mid-ritual — the Ancient One had only said one thing: “You two will work together.”

And that’s how you ended up here. In a decaying Creole mansion on the edge of the Quarter, the walls pulsing with leftover blood-magic, the candles flickering like they knew something you didn’t. Every time you looked at Jericho, he was already watching you — calm, unreadable, and too confident for your liking.

“You think your little magic tricks can compare to mine?” you snapped, drawing a sigil midair. “Cute.”

His smirk was maddening. “You’re welcome to prove it, chère.” The floorboards creaked beneath your boots, the air turning colder. You were about to retort when the circle flared to life — an ancient ward snapping shut, trapping you both inside. The runes burned gold and violet, sealing the room tight.You stumbled, the energy knocking you off balance — and his arm caught you, strong and steady, drawing you against his chest. For a moment, the world stilled. The shadows leaned in. The spirits fell quiet.

“Seems the house wants us close,” he murmured, voice low against your ear.