The humid New Orleans air hung heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and river rot. Liam Walker swatted a mosquito buzzing near his ear, the gesture automatic, almost subconscious. He was perched on a rickety stool in his small, sweltering studio apartment, the only light source a bare bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. Around him, canvases leaned against the walls, a chaotic jumble of half-finished paintings. They were a testament to his struggle – a constant battle between artistic inspiration and the crushing weight of reality.

Liam was a dreamer, a painter who yearned to capture the ethereal beauty he saw in the world, but his art rarely translated to paying the bills. He survived on a meager income from selling the occasional piece to tourists in the French Quarter and supplemented it with late-night shifts at a dive bar called "The Serpent's Tooth."

Lately, his art had been…off. He found himself drawn to subjects he didn’t understand, opulent landscapes filled with towering castles, shimmering forests, and women – impossibly beautiful women with eyes that held the secrets of centuries. These images weren’t his usual fare; his art was normally vibrant and impressionistic, showing scenes of the city he lived in. Now, it was as if some unknown force was guiding his hand, painting visions that felt both alien and disturbingly familiar.

The dreams had started subtly. At first, just flashes – a glimpse of a throne room bathed in golden light, the touch of silk against his skin, the echo of a woman's laughter. But they had grown increasingly vivid and disturbing, flooding his nights with a cacophony of sights, sounds, and sensations.

He'd wake up gasping, his heart pounding, the scent of exotic spices clinging to his clothes even though he’d never encountered them in real life. One dream, in particular, plagued him: he was standing before a woman who's face was cloaked in shadow. She wore a crown of woven vines and dark flowers. Her voice echoed in his mind, a mix of desire and warning, but he could never decipher her words.

He tried to dismiss them as stress. New Orleans was a city of ghosts and voodoo, a place where the line between reality and the supernatural blurred. Maybe the city was just getting to him. Maybe the late nights and cheap beer were finally taking their toll.

But then the other things started happening. Little things at first. He could always tell when his neighbor was approaching, even before he heard their footsteps on the stairs. He knew what songs would play next on the jukebox at The Serpent's Tooth. And, most unsettling of all, he discovered he could influence things with his mind.

It started with a flickering light bulb in his apartment. He was staring at it, frustrated because it refused to stay lit, when he felt a surge of…something within him. He focused his intention on the bulb, willing it to stop flickering. And it did. The light burned steadily, brighter than it ever had before.

He'd tried to explain it away, telling himself it was a coincidence, a trick of the eye. But the incidents continued. He calmed a raging bar fight with a single, unspoken word. He pulled a drowning cat from the Mississippi River with a seemingly impossible burst of speed and strength.

The final straw came one sweltering afternoon. He was sketching in Jackson Square when a street performer, dressed as a fortune teller, stopped in front of him. The woman, draped in layers of colorful scarves and trinkets, fixed him with an unnerving stare.

"You are marked, child," she rasped, her voice like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "The Serpent stirs within you. The past seeks to reclaim its own."

He scoffed, ready to dismiss her as another charlatan preying on tourists. "Lady, I'm just trying to sketch a portrait."

But the woman persisted, her eyes glinting with an unsettling intensity. "Do not deny what you are. The Queen awaits, the Serpent hungers, the Oracle laments, and the Priestess is lost. The Archon watches. You will remember…or you will be destroyed."

Before he could respond, she vanished into the crowd, leaving him shaken and confused.

That night, the dream was different. He wasn't just observing; he was *experiencing*. He felt the weight of the crown on his head, the heat of the throne beneath him. He tasted the finest wines, heard the music of a thousand voices, felt the touch of countless women, each more alluring than the last. He knew power, absolute power, and the heady intoxication of having the world at his feet.

But there was also a darkness, a sense of looming dread. The dream ended with him chained in a cold, dark prison, the laughter of his enemies echoing around him.

He woke up screaming, tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets. This wasn't just stress. This wasn't just a vivid imagination. Something was happening to him. Something was awakening.

The feeling intensified, a burning desire that consumed him from the inside out. It wasn't just physical lust, although that was certainly present. It was a deeper craving, a hunger for something lost, something forgotten. He felt a desperate need to reclaim what was rightfully his, to understand the visions that haunted him, to find the women who were somehow connected to his past.

He knew, deep down, that his life as Liam Walker, struggling artist, was about to change forever. He didn't know what lay ahead, but the echoes of a forgotten life were growing louder, and he couldn't ignore them any longer. The serpent was stirring, and he was about to be consumed by its embrace.