Date: October 24, 1951

  Collecting his file, Whiskey followed Felix past the bustling kitchen to a door marked PRIVATE.

  The big man opened it and stepped aside, letting Whiskey enter first.

  Pale blue light filtered through high-set security windows, casting the room in a surreal haze. Dust motes floated lazily through the air.

  The office was small and utilitarian, a catchall for the Baptistes’ ventures. Filing cabinets and a desk adorned with family photos lined one side, while neatly labeled boxes of tools and religious foci filled the shelves on the other.

  A mural dominated one wall, depicting a pride of lions surveying a vast wilderness. Two males stood side by side, their eyes fixed on a storm creeping across the horizon.

  Whiskey took his usual seat across from Felix’s desk, watching as his friend touched a photo depicting a young man wearing a military uniform before settling into his chair.

  In the dim light, the creases in Felix’s face seemed deeper, the weight of his years pressing heavier on him.

  “So… Hallie.”

  A pang of guilt struck Whiskey like a spear.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls sooner,” he said. “I might’ve been able to…”

  Felix raised a hand, cutting him off.

  “Oh stop, Kin. I should’ve come to you like last time. Truth is, I didn’t even know about it myself until the other day. She stopped picking up shifts at the diner, and with everything goin’ on, I…” He shook his head, regret thick in his voice. “That girl’s been in trouble since she was old enough to find it.”

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of Whiskey’s lips.

  “At least we have experience with this sort of thing.”

  Felix snorted.

  “I still have a scar from where that yaun-ti cut me. Jasmine gives me grief every time I take my shirt off.” His tone softened. “But you saved those girls, not to mention my dumb ass. I’d’ve been snake food if you hadn’t gotten there when you did. Ain’t nothin’ we can do to make that up.”

  Whiskey shrugged.

  “A wise man once told me friends don’t keep score.”

  Felix chuckled, wagging a finger at him.

  “Lecturin’ a man with his own words is a dirty trick, Kin.” Then his expression sobered. “But you’re right. Thanks, cuz.”

  Whiskey nodded and met Felix’s eyes.

  “I’ll find her.”

  In the back of his mind, Passenger scoffed.

  “Oh, good. Making promises you do not know if you can keep. Real smart. Why not declare you’ll end poverty or gain equal rights for all Mythics while you’re at it…”

  Felix hesitated, gathering his thoughts.

  “I should’ve been payin’ more attention. When I did find out, I tried talkin’ to George, offered to help, you understand? But the stubborn mule told me to butt out.”

  “Do you think Hallie’s abduction has anything to do with her connection to George and the Saints?”

  Felix’s face darkened.

  “I have little doubt.”

  “How so?”

  Felix leaned back, glancing at the mural behind Whiskey. The subtle shift caught the light, highlighting the scars cutting across his face.

  After a moment, he sighed and leaned forward again.

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  “I’m not certain, but I’ve been told George’s been havin’ trouble with the Saints.”

  Whiskey raised an eyebrow.

  Felix’s twin brother led the Saints of Samedi—a group dedicated to protecting their neighborhood by any means necessary, even if those means fell outside the law.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Felix’s scars deepened as his face creased with worry.

  “From what I reckon, the Saints have split. What was one is now two.”

  Whiskey’s eyebrows lifted.

  “What happened?”

  Felix scratched his beard.

  “I only know rumors.”

  “I’ll take your secondhand rumors over most people’s facts.”

  Felix exhaled heavily.

  “What do you know about Bliss?”

  Whiskey stiffened at the name. “Enough,” he said with a grimace.

  Bliss was a magically enhanced psychedelic, notorious for being addictive and dangerous. Magic and non-magic users alike sought it for what some swore was a glimpse into the divine.

  But it came at a deadly cost. Overindulgence often left users in irreversible comas, yet despite being illegal in most countries, its availability had only grown, baffling law enforcement at every turn.

  Whiskey’s own dealings with Gilgamesh had failed to shed any actual light on Bliss’s supply chain.

  “What does it have to do with the Saints’ split?” he asked.

  Felix shrugged.

  “From what I heard, everything. George’s methods might be blacker than the juju he works, but he knows that stuff has a way of followin’ you home. He’s always kept the Saints out of the drug trade—even outside their territory.”

  Whiskey nodded, already guessing the rest.

  “And some of the Saints disagreed?”

  Felix’s gaze sharpened.

  “Not just any Saint. Isaiah Scott.”

  Whiskey blinked.

  “George’s son-in-law? Isn’t he…?”

  “Hallie’s daddy,” Felix finished. “And the man George was grooming as his successor.”

  Whiskey ran a hand through his hair.

  “I didn’t realize Isaiah had that kind of influence.”

  Felix’s simmering anger flared.

  “He’s got plenty of sway with the young-bloods. Started recruitin’ jacket clubs to sell for them.”

  Whiskey’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Using kids to sell drugs?”

  A flash of pride mixed with Felix’s anger.

  “George didn’t stand for it. He and Isaiah fought. It was bad. George won. The only thing that saved Isaiah was Hallie steppin’ in. She begged George to spare him. So in exchange for Hallie and the kids movin’ back in with George and Martha, Isaiah was banished.”

  “Do you think Isaiah could’ve taken Hallie to spite George? The scene sounded… extreme. Could that have been Isaiah sending a message? Something like that could start a war.”

  Felix’s brow furrowed, worry etched across his face.

  “I honestly have no idea.”

  Whiskey nodded and opened the file folder, handing Felix the dispatcher’s note he’d flagged earlier.

  “There’s something else.”

  Felix scanned it, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

  “On the night of the abduction,” Whiskey narrated. “Police received an anonymous call from a witness. They almost dismissed it as a prank because of the caller’s bizarre claims: a man in a top hat, dark sunglasses, and cotton balls stuffed in his nostrils was the one who showed them to the crime scene.”

  Felix’s eyes narrowed as he read the note again.

  “I’m no expert,” Whiskey said, “but doesn’t that description sound just like…?”

  “The Baron himself tipped off a witness,” Felix finished.

  Whiskey nodded.

  “What do you suppose that means?”

  Felix’s face scrunched in concentration. Like his brother George, he was a high priest of Voodoo, but unlike George, Felix and Jasmine’s congregation prayed to the entire pantheon of Loa.

  “I… I don’t know,” he said at last. “It ain’t unheard of for the Baron to get directly involved in mortal affairs, but he’s normally not so forward.”

  He stroked his beard in thought. “I’ll have to look into it.”

  Felix made an exasperated noise and shook his head.

  “At first glance, the whole thing’s more suspicious than a politician claiming they’re honest. But the more you look at it, the wobblier it gets. Like those mirages people see when their minds get all dried up and confused. I mean, sure, I can believe the drug stuff. Man’s worse than those flies in that story who died for just a taste of honey. He probably saw how much money Bliss brings in and didn’t want to miss out. But start a war? Isaiah’s never been that way. Before a few weeks ago, I’d’ve sworn he’d die before seeing them fight each other. The Saints are all he’s got.”

  He shook his head.

  “But since Hallie disappeared, he and his people have just been quiet. Holed up in his new place.”

  Whiskey frowned.

  “He doesn’t strike me as the type to hide.”

  Felix’s eyes widened, and he made a “just so” gesture.

  Whiskey leaned back in his seat.

  A civil war within the Saints would be catastrophic. Each member was a seasoned magic user, many hardened by years of service in the war. A conflict between them and Isaiah’s splinter group could devastate the community.

  If so, it definitely fell upon The Way.

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Duo entered, carrying a tray laden with eggs over easy, a large slice of ham, a side of hash, a bowl of shrimp and grits, toasted sourdough, and a glass of chilled orange juice.

  Whiskey’s mouth watered, but he hesitated.

  Felix rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, come on, man. Eat, ya fool, eat!”

  Whiskey took a bite, savoring the rich flavors.

  “I need to speak with Isaiah,” he said. “And George—before this gets worse. Can you set up a meeting with either of them?”

  Felix made a thoughtful sound.

  “I’ll make it happen with George. But the Baptiste name don’t mean diddly to the Liberated Saints no more.”

  Whiskey nodded.

  “Where’s Isaiah now?”

  “Hunter’s Point. Close enough to be a thorn in George’s side, but far enough out of the Mo’ to stay clear.”

  “Okay. I’ll figure something out with Isaiah while you work on George. Thank you, Felix.”

  Felix waved him off.

  “If it helps Hallie, it’ll be worth the headache.”

  He stood, some of his usual energy returning.

  “You can use my office as much as you need. I’m gonna call George from the church. Maybe the good mojo there’ll help.”

  With that, Felix left, leaving Whiskey alone with his meal and the file.

  He sighed and took a sip of juice.

  At least the food was good.

  Shout Out:

  They gave him a name forged in fire: Stormbreaker. They gave him two legions and a crown of spears. They gave him the South to break.

  Alric Vaelgard did not refuse.

  For three years he bore the Empire's wrath like a yoke, silent and unyielding, bound by chains older than his birth. As the court demanded, he answered.

  Then came Khal-Drathir, the final city, the final command. And in its ruin, he made the choice that would unravel him.

  Now the ghost he denied death walks beside him to Valekyr, where the throne waits and the Seneschals have already begun circling.

  In an empire built on ash and gilded lies, one act of defiance may cost him everything.

  But carrying the weight of what he has done may cost him more.

  A dark epic of obedience, ruin, and hope.

  What to expect:

  - An epic dark fantasy with poetic prose and biblical influences

  - Atmospheric worldbuilding and supernatural dread

  - Slow-burn character dynamics built on guilt, hatred, and moral tension

  - Political intrigue and courtly scheming

  - A weekly chapter posted every Thursday at 2:00 A.M. UTC+1