The French Quarter pulsed with music and neon haze as Jasper Duval slipped through the crowd, his camera slung across his shoulder, his boots echoing against the old cobbled alleys. He was a photojournalist by trade, a documenter of chaos and culture. But tonight, something felt…off.
He wasn't the spiritual type. Raised in a crumbling townhouse by a stern Creole grandmother who burned sage for "bad spirits" and whispered in her sleep, Jasper had long filed his heritage under "charming superstition." He'd left all that behind the moment he moved into his own space near Bourbon Street—small, loud, and very modern.
But lately, shadows clung a bit too long to corners. Candles flared for no reason. And three nights ago, he found a symbol carved into his front door. A perfect spiral within a triangle, surrounded by seven dots.
He'd dismissed it as a prank—until this morning, when a stranger appeared.
She stood waiting by the gates of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, dressed like a storm: dark coat, hood drawn, eyes pale as glass.
"You're being followed," she said as he passed.
Jasper paused, half-smiling. "Are you a ghost? Or just another French Quarter tourist with flair?"
"I'm neither. You're Jasper Duval. You have his blood."
"Okay…you've done some weird Google search—"
She stepped closer. "You're the sixth-generation descendant of Caleb Duval, a wizard who nearly died sealing the gate that your blood still protects. You're part of the Vel'aryn."
That name hit him like thunder. "Vel what?"
"The Vel'aryn. The Circle of Seven. You are one of them."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Lady, I don't know who paid you to mess with me, but—"
A gust of wind surged from behind, slamming the cemetery gates shut with a metallic roar. The lamps flickered violently.
"You've felt it," she said softly. "The lights. The fire. The tremors in your bones."
He stared at her, suddenly uneasy.
"Your blood remembers," she continued. "Whether you accept it or not, your body is reacting. The seal weakens. We're gathering the seven."
Jasper exhaled, trying to stay grounded. "Even if this is real—what do you want from me?"
"To learn. To prepare. To survive." She handed him a tattered page from a journal, yellowed with age. The same symbol was drawn there—the spiral triangle with seven dots. Around it, a Latin phrase:
"Ut regnum daemonum claudatur, vita septem sacranda est."
He stared. "What's that mean?"
"To seal the demon realm, the life of seven must be sacrificed."
He looked up. "Sacrificed? That wasn't the plan."
"No," she nodded. "Once, they tried binding it with bloodline magic—passing it on through generations. But the spell was fractured by reluctance. Caleb… your ancestor… couldn't bear to leave his son alone. So they chose the weaker spell. A delay."
Jasper's voice dropped. "So I'm supposed to die?"
"Not if we can find another way. That's why we're gathering. The gate is stirring. Dark forces sense it. And they'll hunt us to unravel it."
Just then, a flicker of movement beyond the iron gates made Jasper whirl. Something crouched among the tombs—low, humanoid, with eyes that burned like coal. A deep growl emerged, followed by the wet scrape of claws against stone.
"Run!" the woman shouted, grabbing his wrist.
They tore through the Quarter, breathless. Jasper could feel something behind them—moving impossibly fast, keeping just out of view. When they reached his apartment, he turned to lock the door, only to see the creature perched on the fire escape above, dripping shadows from its limbs.
The woman raised her hand, chanting:
"Exspirate, creatura noctis. Vinculis sanguinis claudaris!"
(Begone, creature of night. Be bound by blood's chains.)
A sudden flash of violet energy erupted from her palm, wrapping around the beast like bands of molten light. It screeched, then vanished in a spiral of smoke.
Jasper stared at her, breath heaving. "What the hell was that?"
"One of the Desicrants. Worshippers of the gate. They're coming for us."
He slumped against the wall. "So this is real. The blood. The seal. The demons."
"Yes," she nodded, eyes gentler now. "And we need you, Jasper Duval. Your power is dormant, but it's there. And we don't have time."
He looked down at the symbol again, now somehow etched faintly into the skin of his left wrist.
A part of him screamed to run. But another—older, deeper—whispered to stay.