Magik stepped from the wound in the world, feeling the seam close behind her. New Orleans—this city of restless dead and hungry song—rejected her presence as surely as Limbo had once rejected her rule. The humid air pressed at her, thick with river ghosts and the scent of crushed magnolia. Her boots left shallow prints in the midnight mud, each step a trespass.
She took a moment to steady herself. The Soul Sword, invisible but always near, throbbed with anticipation. In Limbo, it was a beacon, marking her as both queen and executioner. Here, it was a secret—a promise of violence she kept hidden beneath her skin. She flexed her fingers, feeling the prickle of magic beneath her nails, then let her hand drop to her side.
The city's magic was unlike anything she'd known. Limbo's sorcery was the scream of the damned, a cacophony of pain and ambition. New Orleans hummed with a sly, layered melody—a thousand spells woven together, some as light as laughter, others heavy as grief. Every building seemed to lean in, every shadow to lengthen as she passed. Even the wind carried warnings: Not yours. Not yours.
She walked, letting her senses unfurl. Somewhere ahead, B'dash's trail twisted through the city like a knife wound. Demonic residue clung to broken fences and alleyways stinking of old blood. She could almost taste his fear, sharp and metallic, threaded with a desperate hunger for power. He would not risk open confrontation, not yet. He was hunting for the relic, and he was not alone.
Magik paused at the edge of a wrought-iron fence, peering through slats at a garden overgrown with night-blooming jasmine. The flowers glowed faintly in the moonlight, each petal trembling with magic. She reached out, brushing a leaf with her fingers, and felt a jolt of memory—children laughing, jazz spilling from a window, a woman's voice singing a lullaby in French. The magic of the living, layered over generations. Not the raw agony of Limbo, but something stronger for its subtlety.
A shadow moved at the garden's edge. For an instant, Illyana saw herself—a girl with pale hair and haunted eyes, horns twisting from her brow. She blinked, shaking the image away. The city was playing tricks, or perhaps it was her own guilt, surfacing in a place too alive for her darkness.
She continued through the Quarter, past shuttered shops and bars where music curled thick as incense. Every so often, she caught a whisper in French or Creole—a prayer, a curse, a name spoken with reverence and fear. Her own name, sometimes, echoing from mouths that should not know it.
"The demon walks the streets tonight," crooned a woman sweeping her stoop, eyes gone white with spirit sight. "The Queen of Limbo come hunting."
Illyana ignored her, but the words clung to her skin. In Limbo, fear was power. In New Orleans, fear was warning—an invitation to caution, not conquest.
A streetcar rattled past, casting golden rectangles of light across the pavement. Illyana caught her reflection in a rain-slicked window: a warrior's stance, face sharp with exhaustion, eyes rimmed with silver flame. She looked less like a queen than a ghost, haunting her own legend.
She ducked into a narrow side street, seeking silence. But New Orleans had no quiet corners. Even here, the bricks pulsed with memory. A stray note from a trumpet drifted on the air, sweet and defiant. It cut through her tension, and for a heartbeat, she remembered being young—before Limbo, before sorcery, before the burden of the Soul Sword.
She pressed on, drawn by a tug in her chest. B'dash's magic was close now, oily and wrong against the city's pulse. She followed it through a maze of alleys, past doors painted with veve symbols and windows strung with bone charms. Every step was watched. Cats slithered from beneath cars, eyes gleaming gold. Shadows shifted against the walls, not quite human. The city's guardians, subtle and unafraid.
Illyana felt the first true resistance outside a boarded-up voodoo shop. A line of salt and brick dust barred the door, humming with old power. She stepped closer, and the air thickened, pressing back against her will. She could have forced her way through—one swing of the Soul Sword would unravel centuries of warding—but she hesitated. This was not Limbo. Here, power was permission, not right.
A voice spoke from behind the door, low and amused. "You seek what does not belong to you, Queen of Swords."
Illyana did not flinch. "I seek only the one who fled here. B'dash."
Laughter, rich and bitter. "The demon is not welcome. Nor are you, not if you bring Limbo's troubles."
She considered her answer. In Limbo, she would have demanded, threatened, torn the wards apart. But she was a guest here, a trespasser. She bowed her head, just enough to acknowledge the city's rules.
"I mean no harm to your home," she said quietly. "But B'dash will, if he finds what he seeks."
Silence, then a rustle of movement. "The river keeps its secrets. If you listen, you will hear what you need. But beware, Magik—New Orleans remembers. Every trespass. Every debt."
The door remained closed, but the pressure eased. Illyana stepped back, heart hammering. She could feel the city's gaze, measuring her worth. This was a place where bargains mattered, where every act left a mark.
She turned away, letting instinct guide her. The river called, low and insistent. She followed the sound of water, past crumbling shotgun houses and half-sunken levees, until the Mississippi stretched before her—dark and endless, reflecting a tangle of city lights.
She stood at the water's edge, letting her mind drift. In Limbo, rivers were blood and fire, always consuming, never giving back. Here, the river sang—a song of endings and beginnings, of memory and forgiveness. She felt B'dash's magic, sharp and discordant, gnawing at the city's roots. But beneath it, something older waited. The Drowned Relic, humming with promise and threat.
Illyana knelt, pressing her palm to the wet earth. She whispered a spell—not a demand, but a question, an offering. The ground trembled, and for a moment the river's song grew louder, swelling with voices: old prayers, jazz riffs, the laughter of children. The relic's presence flickered at the edge of her senses, hidden deep beneath the city's bones.
She stood, brushing mud from her hands. The Soul Sword ached to be drawn, but she kept it leashed. This was not a challenge to be met with brute force. B'dash would come for the relic, and others would try to stop him. She would have to move carefully—earn the city's trust, or at least its tolerance.
A figure watched her from the shadows beneath a cypress tree. A man—she did not know him from anywhere but his presence filled the clearing. His trumpet gleamed in the moonlight, a ward and a weapon. He met her gaze, unafraid.
"You hunt the demon," he said, voice low and even.
Illyana nodded. "He's dangerous. He'll tear your city apart if he finds what he wants."
Étienne tilted his head, studying her. "So will you, if you're not careful. New Orleans is not Limbo, Demon Queen. Here, the living and dead guard each other."
She felt the weight of his words. In Limbo, power was its own justification. Here, it was a debt, measured and remembered.
"I don't want your city," she said, surprising herself with the truth. "I just want to stop B'dash."
Étienne considered her, then nodded. "Then listen. The river tells its secrets only to those who respect its song. If you want to find the relic, you'll need more than a sword."
With that, he melted back into the shadows, trumpet cradled like a talisman. Illyana stood alone, the city silent around her.
She wandered the riverbank, letting the city's magic seep into her bones. The night deepened. Spirits flickered at the edge of sight—lost sailors, jazzmen, girls in white dresses with eyes like storm clouds. None spoke, but their presence was a warning.
She found herself drawn to a crumbling mausoleum, its stone slick with moss and grief. The door hung open, inviting. She stepped inside, the Soul Sword whispering at her hip. The air was thick with incense and candle smoke. Music notes were carved into the walls, swirling around glyphs of power.
She traced the carvings with her fingers, feeling the relic's pulse. It was close—so close she could almost taste its magic. But the city's wards pressed in, dense as fog. She could force her way through, but something in her rebelled. This was not her place. The relic was not hers to claim.
She retreated, letting the door swing shut behind her. The city's magic settled around her, wary but not hostile. She was being tested, measured against the debts and memories that shaped this place.
As dawn crept over the river, Illyana found herself standing at the edge of a crowded square. Musicians gathered, instruments gleaming in the weak sunlight. The city was waking, shaking off dreams of blood and magic. She watched as Étienne joined the band, trumpet raised in greeting.
Their music rose, a shield and a promise. The city would fight for itself, with song and memory and the stubborn will of the living. Illyana felt her own power dim, humbled by the quiet strength around her.
She would have to earn her place here, or risk becoming another story the city told—a warning, not a queen.
As the first rays of sun split the mist, Magik closed her eyes and listened. The river sang, the city breathed, and somewhere beneath it all, the relic waited—patient, powerful, and unwilling to be claimed by force alone.
She would wait, too. She would learn the city's song, or she would fail.
Either way, the battle was coming.
And this time, it would not be fought on Limbo's terms.