Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the docks, they say the blonde in the singed dress burned alive before the merciless flames swallowed her—hair charred, skin blistering, gasps torn from lungs choking on smoke. She fought the fire like a drowning woman, but the bayou’s heat claimed her by nightfall. Whispers warn the Silent Serpent’s ritual faltered, spilling chaos into the salt and cypress. ░▒
▒░ But the real talk? Over at Bastille’s cracked walls, the lean man with tired eyes shuffled through familiar shadows, tracing a weary hand over his husband’s back — a brief, stolen warmth amid the grit. Even here, the fog presses in thicker, swallowing softness and bleeding tension into the veins of the village. ░▒
░▒░ Father Delacroix at the old church casts a long, quiet glance toward the ruined docks, lips pressed tight. No prayers break the stillness — only the bayou’s watchful silence. ░▒
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