Morning bled through the blinds like smoke.

Cassian hadn’t slept. He stood by the cracked window of a safe-house in Treme, watching sunlight crawl across the French-Quarter roofs. The city looked deceptively clean in daylight—church bells, laughter, vendors shouting—but beneath it, the same rot whispered.

Luca slept on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes, shirtless, skin inked with sigils and scars that looked like stories nobody dared tell. Cassian’s Sight twitched around him; flashes of things that might happen—Luca laughing, Luca bleeding, Luca’s hand on his throat. He shut it down fast.

The knock came soft and deliberate.

Cassian opened the door to find Rosa Duvall, head of the Crescent Saints—the syndicate that kept half the Quarter under its jeweled thumb. She wore black silk and smelled of tobacco and danger.

“You burned a dockyard,” she said calmly, stepping inside. “I told you to watch, not torch the river.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t me.”

Rosa’s gaze flicked to the sleeping figure. “And you brought him?”

“Circumstances changed.”

Luca groaned awake. “Morning, Mother Duvall.” He sat up, grin sharp. “You still terrifying before coffee?”

“Still breathing, I see,” she replied. “Pity.”

Cassian cut in. “The crates were cursed. Someone’s smuggling soul-bound weapons into the city. We stopped the first shipment.”

Rosa studied them both, fingers drumming on the hilt of her cane. “So the Prophet and the Butcher are suddenly partners. The bayou must be freezing over.”

Luca stretched, unbothered. “Don’t get sentimental, boss. It’s temporary.”

“Temporary or not,” Rosa said, “you’re both on my leash now. Whoever’s feeding these weapons wants to ignite a war between the Saints and the Marcellis. You’ll find them before I have to bury another dozen men.”

Cassian nodded once. Luca raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. The unspoken rule of New Orleans’ underworld: when Rosa Duvall gave an order, you didn’t stall.

As she turned to leave, Rosa paused at the door. “Oh—and Cassian?”

He met her eyes.

“Your visions are gifts, not excuses. Learn the difference.”

When she was gone, silence settled again.

Luca whistled. “She likes you.”

Cassian ignored him, grabbing his jacket. “We’ve got work.”

“Sure,” Luca said, rising to follow. “But maybe after breakfast? You look like death on a diet.”

Cassian shot him a glare that only made Luca’s grin widen.

They hit the streets as the Quarter came alive—brass horns, frying oil, vendors calling out saints’ names for luck. Luca walked a step behind, scanning alleys and rooftops.

“You ever notice,” Luca said, “how this city always smells like sin and sugar?”

Cassian didn’t answer. He was watching a church across the street—its doors blackened from an old fire. His Sight whispered faintly again: flashes of candles, Latin prayers twisted into something darker.

“We’re going in there,” he said.

“Of course we are,” Luca muttered. “Because nothing bad ever happens in burned churches.”

Inside, the air was heavy with wax and mildew.

Pews lay overturned; the altar was cracked, soaked with something that wasn’t water. Symbols carved into the marble glowed faintly when Cassian approached. He reached out, fingertips hovering—

—and the world tilted.

He saw the docks again. A hooded figure chanting in Creole. A serpent’s tongue of fire curling around Luca’s throat. Then blackness.

He gasped, stumbling back. Luca caught him again, steady hands on his shoulders.

“Easy,” Luca said. “What did you see?”

Cassian looked up, eyes storm-dark. “Not what. Who.”

From the shadows near the altar, a slow clap echoed. A tall man stepped forward—sharp suit, white hair, eyes like polished obsidian.

“Boys,” he said, voice smooth as bourbon. “You’ve been making a mess in my city.”

Luca’s smile vanished. “Vernetti.”

Cassian’s pulse spiked. The Marcelli underboss.

“I thought you were dead,” Luca said.

Vernetti smiled wider. “Rumors, my dear Butcher. Always exaggerated.”

Luca’s knuckles whitened on his guns. “Vernetti died in a warehouse fire three years ago.”

Vernetti’s smile didn’t falter. “You should know better than to believe in fire, Moreau. In this city, nothing ever stays buried.”

Cassian’s Sight trembled at the edges of his vision—thin blue light creeping into the corners of the world. The air tasted metallic, charged. He forced it down; he needed to stay here, present.

“Why the soul-bound weapons?” Cassian asked.

Vernetti stepped closer, each word like a knife dipped in honey. “Because Rosa Duvall’s empire has grown soft. The Saints preach old laws while I build a new order. And you, Prophet, are going to help me do it.”

Cassian’s voice was ice. “Not a chance.”

“Pity.” Vernetti flicked two fingers.

The floor behind him rippled—shadows rising like smoke, shaping into three figures with hollow eyes and mouths stitched shut. Corpses again, but stronger, strung with something dark and divine.

Luca didn’t hesitate. “I hate your city, Prophet,” he muttered, and opened fire.

Bullets tore through the first creature; it stumbled but didn’t fall. Cassian snapped his wrist and pulled a blade of silver etched with sigils. When he slashed, the weapon sang—a note that burned the air. The corpse shrieked and disintegrated.

Vernetti laughed. “Still the Saint’s obedient hound.”

Cassian lunged, blade flashing, but Vernetti moved too fast—unnaturally fast. His hand caught Cassian’s wrist mid-swing; power surged, sending Cassian flying across the cracked pews.

“Cass!” Luca’s shout was half rage, half something deeper. He kicked a burning pew into the nearest corpse, shot it through the spine, then dove across the aisle, catching Cassian before he hit the stone floor.

Cassian’s eyes blazed silver for an instant—visions slamming into him. A rosary breaking, Luca bleeding, the church collapsing.

He gasped. “The roof—”

Before he could finish, Vernetti’s power pulsed again. The stained-glass windows exploded inward. Shards rained down like jeweled knives.

Luca threw himself over Cassian, shielding him. A dozen cuts blossomed across his back, but he didn’t move until the sound died.

When he finally lifted his head, his voice was rough. “Still alive, Prophet?”

Cassian stared at him—blood streaked, breathing hard, muscles trembling with adrenaline—and something in his chest twisted painfully. “You’re insane,” he said softly.

“Probably,” Luca answered, grinning through the blood. “Now move.”

They rolled apart just as Vernetti hurled a bolt of dark flame. It scorched the altar where they’d been seconds earlier.

Cassian raised his blade again, whispering an old word. The runes flared white; light lanced outward, slamming into Vernetti’s chest. The underboss staggered, smoke rising from his suit.

Luca was on him in an instant, gun pressed to Vernetti’s temple. “End of sermon.”

Vernetti only smiled wider, teeth sharp as glass. “Kill me, and you’ll never find the one truly pulling the strings.”

Cassian’s Sight flickered again—an image: a hand with a serpent-ring turning pages of a black ledger. A woman’s voice whispering in Creole.

He froze. “He’s not lying.”

Luca frowned. “You sure?”

Cassian nodded once. “Someone else is funding this. He’s just the messenger.”

Vernetti’s smile curved smug. “See? The Prophet understands.”

“Yeah,” Luca said, pulling the trigger. The gun clicked empty. He’d unloaded it on the corpses.

Vernetti laughed—until Cassian’s blade flashed again. The light struck, searing a sigil into Vernetti’s chest. He screamed, vanished in a burst of black smoke, leaving only the echo of his laughter.

Silence crashed down. The church smoldered around them.

Luca dropped into a pew, breathing hard. “You could’ve warned me before exorcising the bastard.”

Cassian sat beside him, sweat slicking his temples. “You’d have tried to stop me.”

“You’re damn right. That blast nearly cooked us both.”

Cassian turned his head. “You’re bleeding.”

Luca glanced at his shoulder. “Occupational hazard.”

Without thinking, Cassian reached over, fingers brushing the torn fabric, the heat of skin beneath. He murmured a word—small, ancient. The wound hissed, closed slowly under his touch.

Luca’s breath caught. “That one of your tricks?”

Cassian didn’t meet his eyes. “Sometimes the Sight gives… more than visions.”

Luca stared at him for a long moment, the usual smirk gone. “You ever think maybe it’s trying to keep you alive instead of punish you?”

Cassian almost laughed, but it came out as a sigh. “You talk like you know something about punishment.”

“I do,” Luca said quietly.

The rain outside softened to a whisper. For the first time, neither reached for a weapon.

Cassian finally stood. “We need to tell Rosa what we found.”

Luca nodded, still watching him. “Yeah. But, Prophet—next time, when you see the end coming… tell me sooner.”

Cassian paused at the door, backlit by the dying fire. “If I did, you’d try to change it.”

“That’s the point,” Luca said.

They stepped out into the pale morning, smoke curling from the church behind them. Somewhere deep in the Quarter, a trumpet began to play—a slow, mournful tune that carried through the mist.

Neither man spoke, but the rhythm of their footsteps matched perfectly, like a promise neither wanted to admit.