KAN-JUR'S POV
I sit upon the ancient stone throne, carved from the very heart of a fallen star, deep within the Grigori—a realm suspended between worlds, where the astral winds whisper secrets older than time itself. The air shimmers with an ethereal light, casting long shadows that dance like restless spirits across the crystalline walls of my chamber. Around me, the tribe of jinn I have led for nearly six millennia move with quiet reverence, their forms flickering between solidity and smoke, a testament to our dual nature of substance and shadow.
At 5,890 years old, I am among the eldest and wisest of the jinn. My eyes, glowing faintly with the pale‑blue fire of the astral flame, reflect the weight of countless centuries. I have watched empires rise and fall, seen the shifting tides of mortal belief, and felt the endless dance between light and darkness. Yet never before have I sensed such a profound disturbance rippling through the astral currents—tremors sent by Khal‑Bar's recent assault on the human realm.
My mind drifts back, a cascade of images: the first sunrise over the primordial sea, the moment I first learned the name of a human child who would later become a prophet, the wars of the ancient djinn that tore the veil between worlds. Each memory is a thread, woven into the tapestry that is my soul. The weight of those threads presses on my chest now, heavier than the stone throne beneath me.
Khal‑Bar, the malevolent emperor of the oceans, has unleashed a wave of destruction that threatens to unravel the fragile balance we, the jinn, have guarded for eons. The humans—fragile, fleeting—were caught unaware, their defenses shattered by the dark tide. Some of my kin have been drawn to the chaos, their curiosity or greed pulling them toward the broken shores; others recoil in fear, hiding deep within the Grigori's misty caverns.
I rise from the throne, my form shifting from solid stone‑like flesh to a swirling mist, and glide to the great window that overlooks the astral expanse. Stars and nebulae stretch infinitely, but beneath their beauty lie unseen currents of power and conflict. My gaze pierces the veil, seeking signs of Khal‑Bar's influence.
"The ocean's darkness spreads," I murmur, voice resonating like distant thunder. "Khal‑Bar's hunger grows insatiable. The humans are but pawns, yet their fate will shape the destiny of all."
A younger jinn—barely a thousand years old—approaches, bowing respectfully. His name is Zarif, a scout with eyes that flicker like fireflies caught in a glass jar.
"Chief Kan‑Jur, the scouts report increased activity near the mortal shores. Shadows move where none should tread. We have seen dark sigils etched into the sand, and the sea itself churns with a black foam." Zarif reported.
I nod slowly, feeling the cold knot of responsibility tighten around my heart.
"Prepare the watchers," I command. "We must know the extent of this darkness. The balance must not be broken."
I turn to face the gathered tribe—ancient beings bound by honor, by the oath of guardianship, by the sacred duty to maintain harmony between realms. Their eyes, some amber, some violet, some a steady white, meet mine. In them I see the reflection of our long history, of wars fought and peace forged.
"We are the guardians of the unseen," I declare, letting my voice roll through the chamber like a low chant. "Our wisdom is the shield that protects the fragile veil. We will not falter."
The astral winds grow louder, carrying faint cries—human prayers, jinn lamentations, the hiss of the sea turning to blood‑red foam. I close my eyes, letting the currents wash over me, listening for any pattern, any clue.
A soft, melodic vibration reaches me. It is Rafiq, the Mumin Jinn who dwells in the Lighted Sanctum. His voice, though distant, carries weight.
"Kan‑Jur, the balance wavers. Khal‑Bar has breached the Veil of Dawn. The ocean's wrath is not just water; it is a tide of forgotten curses, of souls bound to his will. You must act before the tide reaches the heart of the Grigori." Rafiq echoed.
I open my eyes to see Rafiq's translucent form hovering near the window, his light pulsing in rhythm with my own astral flame.
"Rafiq," I respond, "my tribe is prepared. We will send emissaries to the mortal coast, to warn Bilal's line. We will reinforce the wards that protect the Veil. But I need your guidance—where should we strike first?"
Rafiq's smiled sorrowfully.
"The source is the Black Trident, a relic Khal‑Bar forged from the blood of a fallen star. It lies beneath the ruins of Umm al‑Ruh, a city now drowned. Retrieve it, or destroy it, and his power will wane." he said solemnly
My mind races. The Trident is too dangerous for a chief to retrieve personally; the risk of exposing the Grigori's heart is too great. I must send a loyal servant—one whose devotion is unbreakable, whose courage is proven, and whose path is still hidden from Khal‑Bar's sight.
My gaze falls on Mira, a wind‑kissed jinn of the Sahro clan, known for her swift flight and silent steps. She has served me since the First Dawn, carrying messages across realms without ever being seen.
"Mira," I call, and she materializes before me, her form a shimmering veil of moonlit mist.
"My chief." mirage bowed respectfully
"Listen well," I say, voice low but firm. "The Black Trident lies beneath Umm al‑Ruh. It is the key to Khal‑Bar's strength. I cannot leave the Grigori unguarded, nor can I risk the lives of the tribe in a direct assault. You will go in my stead. Retrieve the Trident, or shatter it if retrieval is impossible. Trust no one—Khal‑Bar's spies watch the waters."
Mira's eyes flare with a fierce light.
Mira: "I will not fail, Kan‑Jur. By the oath of the Grigori, I swear it."
I place a small, luminous feather from my own wing upon her brow. It glows, a mark of my trust and a shield against the Trident's corrupting darkness.
"Take Zarif as guide," I add. "He knows the currents of the mortal shore. May the winds be at your back."
Zarif steps forward, his demeanor steadier now, a glint of determination in his eyes.
Zarif: "We will bring it back, chief, or die trying."
I turn to the tribe. "Those of the Windwalkers, ready your breezes. Those of the Deep Guardians, fortify the Veil. Let every pact we have ever forged be a thread in our shield."
The jinn begin to chant, their voices weaving a tapestry of protection around the Grigori. The crystal walls pulse with a soft amber hue, a sign that the wards are strengthening.
Rafiq's light flares brighter, a promise of aid.
"I will send Nūr, the messenger jinn, to Bilal in his dreams. He must know the urgency, though no pact has yet been made. The humans must be warned, and perhaps, in time, they will choose to stand with us." Rafiq declared.
I nod, grateful for the Lighted Jinn's willingness to intervene despite the lack of a covenant.
Alone again, I stand before the great window. The stars outside seem indifferent, distant points of light that have watched countless dramas unfold. I think of my own beginning—how I was born from a spark of curiosity, a jinn who chose knowledge over chaos. Over the millennia, I have learned that power without purpose is a storm without rain; wisdom without compassion is a desert without oasis.
Khal‑Bar's darkness threatens both. If the Veil falls, the Grigori will be exposed, and the jinn will either become slaves to his will or be extinguished. The humans, with their short lives, hold a fierce spark of hope—a spark I have seen flicker in Bilal's eyes, in Abdul's untamed fire, in the prayers of countless believers.
I whisper to the void, a promise to myself and to the ages:
"I will not let the shadows drown the light of the Grigori. I will stand, I will guide, I will fight."
I raise my hand, and a ripple of pale‑blue flame spreads across the throne room, illuminating every jinn present. Their faces turn toward me, resolve hardening.
"Tomorrow, at the first tide, Mira and Zarif will depart to retrieve the trident".
First‑person POV – Bilal
The moon hung low, a thin silver scythe that seemed to have been shaved off the night itself. Its light filtered through the cracked lattice of Sheikh Zayd's modest dār, painting the floor with a lattice of pale shadows. The air was thick, heavy with the mingled scents of murr, oud, and a faint, metallic tang that I could not place—perhaps the iron of the sigils we were about to draw, perhaps the fear that clung to my skin.
I sat on a low, hand‑woven rug, my back against the cold stone wall, knees pulled up, hands clasped around a cup of steaming herbal infusion that did little to warm the chill in my bones. Across from me, Abdul lay on a thin mattress, his body trembling as if an unseen current ran through his veins. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, each exhale fogging the air with a faint violet hue that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Sheikh Zayd moved with the deliberate calm of a man who has walked this path many times before. His beard, tangled with ash from the incense, brushed his chest as he knelt before the Rahma Circle, a ring of black sand mixed with crushed quartz and inscribed with verses of protection. His hands, scarred from years of ritual work, traced sigils in the air, each line glowing faintly before fading, as if reluctant to stay.
Abdul's back arched suddenly, his spine cracking like dry wood under a heavy foot. A guttural roar erupted from his throat—a sound that was not his, not the gentle laugh of my brother, but a deep, resonant growl that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the house.
Al‑Malik, the jinn who had taken residence inside him, snarled, "You think you can bind me, mortal? I am Al‑Malik, ruler of the hidden realms!"
His eyes—now a swirling abyss of black smoke, flecked with sparks of crimson—locked onto mine. I felt a cold pressure in my chest, as if an invisible hand squeezed my heart. Fear surged through me, not just for Abdul, but for the promise I had made to protect him. My mind raced back to the night we first learned of the jinn's presence, the whispers of Sheikh Zayd warning us that possession could turn a soul into a battlefield.
I could hear my own breath, ragged, uneven. My hands trembled, the cup of infusion spilling a few drops onto the rug, darkening it like fresh blood.
Sheikh Zayd's voice rose, steady and resonant, reciting Ayat al‑Kursi and verses from Surah Jinn. He poured Zamzam water into a silver basin, the liquid catching the moonlight and throwing tiny stars onto the walls. With a blade of astral iron—the same metal that forged the protective wards of the Grigori—he traced a seal of containment upon Abdul's forehead. The iron sang a thin, high note as it brushed skin, a sound that seemed to echo in the empty spaces of my mind.
"Bismillah, ar‑Rahman, ar‑Rahim, bind this 'Ifrīt to the soul of Abdul, let his will be a cage, his consciousness the lock," he intoned, his words hanging in the air like smoke.
The ritual demanded three things. The first is a consent from Abdul—a whisper of his name, a thread of his true self, a willing sacrifice—my blood, a drop from my fingertip, to tether the jinn, and the Seal of the Seven Names—written in the air, visible only to those who see beyond flesh.
My heart hammered. I pricked my finger with the tip of the iron blade, feeling a sharp sting, then let a single drop of crimson fall onto the seal. The moment the blood touched the sigil, a surge of white light exploded, throwing us all to the floor. The light was blinding, pure, and for an instant I thought the world had ended.
When the illumination faded, the room was bathed in a soft amber glow. Abdul lay still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. A thin thread of violet fire, no thicker than a hair, stretched from his heart to mine, pulsing faintly.
A voice—not Abdul's, not entirely Al‑Malik's—filled the space between my ears.
"You… you bound me? Not killed, but bound… to this... this.... fragile vessel....?!! " Al malik voice echoed disbelievingly.
"Bilal… what have you done?". Abdul (voice trembling, a mix of his own and the jinn's)
Sheikh Zayd lifted his head, eyes blood‑shot but determined.
"We have tied Al‑Malik to Abdul's consciousness. He cannot escape into the world, but he now shares Abdul's mind, senses, and—abilities." He replied.
Abdul felt the connection instantly. It was as if a thin wire of violet fire had been threaded through his spine, vibrating with raw power. Through it, he could hear Al‑Malik's thoughts—a torrent of ancient memories: stormy seas, the rise of Khal‑Bar, the weight of a crown of shadows.
Al‑Malik's denial was fierce. He thrashed within Abdul's mind, a storm of smoke and fire trying to break free.
"I am a king! I will not be caged in a boy's flesh!" Al‑Malik growled.
I remembered the warning Sheikh Zayd had given us weeks ago: recite Ayat al‑Kursi and the jinn would feel an excruciating burn, a reminder of the divine protection that surrounded us.
Abdul, trembling, lifted his hand to his throat and began to whisper the verse, his voice cracking but steady:
"Allahu la ilaha illa Huwa al‑Hayyu al‑Qayyum…"
Each word struck Al‑Malik like a lash of fire. He screamed—an inhuman, echoing wail that seemed to reverberate through the walls, through my very soul. His form flickered, the violet fire sputtering, and for a brief moment his eyes—those abyssal pits—met mine, full of hatred and pleading.
"Stop! It burns! You torture me, mortal!" Al‑Malik voice cracked.
Abdul's hand shook, tears mixing with the sweat on his forehead. He forced himself to continue, each syllable a blade.
"…wa la yawdhibu hifzuhuma…"
Al‑Malik's scream faded into a low, pained moan. He had no choice; the verse was a chain of light that wrapped around his essence, tightening whenever he tried to break free.
When the recitation ended, a heavy silence settled. The violet thread between Abdul and me glowed brighter, a pulse of power that seemed to synchronize our heartbeats.
"Brother, I can see… I see the ocean burning, the trident sinking. I feel his rage, his hunger… but also his fear. He does not want to be trapped." Abdul voice now a mix of his own and Al‑Malik's, softer
"Release me, human. I will take the darkness with me. I am a king; I cannot be a puppet." Al‑Malik resigned, almost pleading
"Silence, 'Ifrīt. You chose to possess a child of light. This bond is the only way to protect the world while keeping you from breaking free." Sheikh Zayd stern voice echoed
I stepped forward, hands shaking, and placed a hand on Abdul's shoulder. The thread glowed brighter, a pulse of violet light traveling between us.
"Abdul, listen to me. We will learn to control it together. Al‑Malik, if you aid us against Khal‑Bar, perhaps a way to free you will be found. Until then, you stay bound to his will, not his body."
A moment of silence. Then, Al‑Malik's voice, softer, tinged with reluctant curiosity:
"Very well. I will lend you my fire… but know this—every use of my power will echo in both our souls. The more you burn, the more we both bleed."
We spent the remainder of the night in prayer and meditation. Abdul, now with a flicker of violet flame dancing behind his eyes, practiced simple levitation