The sunrise was being a drama queen again, pulling a curtain of amber and rose across Sheikh Zayd's modest dār like it owed the world an apology for being late. I woke with the notebook that had become my second skin still open on my chest, the ink of yesterday's frantic scribbles—"possession, pact, parasite?"—smudged by a single drop of my own blood that had fallen during the binding ritual. It looked like a tiny red comet had crashed into my field notes.
I sat up, joints cracking louder than the old wooden door when the wind decides to be nosy. My back ached from the rug's rough weave, and the faint smell of murr and oud still clung to the air, mixing with the metallic tang of the iron sigils we'd drawn last night. A cup of lukewarm tea—more like tea-flavored water after the night's ordeal—sat beside me, untouched.
Abdul lay on his side, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that now carried an extra beat—violet, faint, like the afterglow of a dying ember. The thin thread of fire that linked us pulsed gently, a reminder that Al-Malik's power was no longer a distant myth but a living, breathing and sometimes complaining presence inside my brother.
Just as I was about to flip the page to write "Morning after possession: coffee, chaos, or calm?" a sudden whoosh rattled the window shutters. It wasn't the wind. It was something else—an energy emanating from Abdul, a pressure building behind his ribs, like a soda bottle that's been shaken a little too hard.
I felt it through the thread—a warm tingling that spread through my own veins, static-like, the kind of sensation that makes you check if your hair's standing on end. My heart did a quick drum roll.
Abdul's eyes snapped open. For a split second I saw two sets of eyes: his familiar, terrified brown and behind it, the cold, calculating stare of Al-Malik, swirling with violet smoke. The jinn's voice, low and resonant, vibrated inside my skull, half-like a whisper, half-like distant thunder.
Al-Malik in that half-present, half-absent tone "You think binding me will keep me docile? I am Al-Malik, ruler of the unseen. This—this body—will be my throne."
Abdul's hand twitched, fingers curling into a fist. Then—nothing. No fire, no roar, just a soft sigh of wind that seemed to come from nowhere. I turned my head toward the courtyard and saw a massive acacia tree, its trunk split and leaning like an old man who'd had one too many nights at the tavern. It had fallen sometime during the night, probably nudged by a stray gust or a mischievous goat.
And then—whoosh—the fallen trunk began to rise. Not by magic, not by a crane, but by a gust of wind that swirled around it, lifting it as if it were a feather. Leaves rustled, dust swirled, and the tree hovered a foot above ground, trembling like a nervous cat.
I blinked. My notebook slipped from my lap, landing with a soft thud that sounded like a sigh.
"Did… did that just happen?" I muttered to myself, half-expecting the universe to reply with a sarcastic chuckle.
Abdul's face contorted—half pride, half terror. A thin ribbon of violet fire flickered at the edge of his palm, then vanished as quickly as a flash of lightning on a summer night. The gust intensified, the tree rising higher, then gently settling back onto the ground with a thump that made the whole courtyard shake.
Sheikh Zayd, who had been half-asleep on his prayer rug, bolted upright, his beard quivering like an over-excited cat's whiskers.
Sheikh Zayd: "Bilal, what in the name of the seven heavens—?"
I tried to keep my voice steady, but it came out sounding like I was ordering a kebab at 2 a.m. after a night shift.
"Okay, okay. Abdul, did you just… lift a tree with wind? And—"
I glanced at his hand, where a faint violet glow still danced like a mischievous firefly.
"Brother… I… I didn't mean to. It just… answered me." Abdul voice trembling, half-his, half-Al-Malik's echo.
Al-Malik's chuckle reverberated in my head, smug and irritatingly amused.
"A little wind, a little fire. Consider it a house-warming gift." Al-Malik dry, almost witty.
I felt the thread between us pulse stronger, a warm current that made my own fingers tingle. It was as if someone had slipped a live wire into my pocket and was now playing a low-key drum solo on my nerves.
Sheikh Zayd knelt beside Abdul, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. The old scholar's eyes were wide, but his voice stayed calm—like a seasoned sailor who'd seen a rogue wave but still trusted his compass.
"Bilal, remember the verses. If he loses control, the fire will burn both of you. Recite—"
I didn't need the cue. The words of Ayat al-Kursi rose from the back of my mind like an old song you can't help but hum.
"Allahu la ilaha illa Huwa al-Hayyu al-Qayyum…"
Each syllable hit Al-Malik like a lash of fire. He snarled, the violet flame flaring brighter, then dimmed, retreating like a wounded beast.
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The courtyard fell silent except for the crackling of the fading flame and the distant call to prayer. Abdul's breathing steadied, the violet glow retreating into the shadows of his palm.
I looked at him—my brother, my burden, my hope. The power inside him was no longer a myth or a curse; it was real, raw, and terrifying.
"Abdul," I said softly, "this is just the beginning. You're not alone in this."
He nodded, eyes still flickering with that strange light. "I don't know if I can control it."
"You will," Sheikh Zayd assured us both. "But it will take time, patience, and discipline. The jinn's fire is a living thing—it feeds on fear and doubt. You must learn to be its master, not its servant."
I closed my notebook, the words possession, pact, parasite swirling in my mind. This was more than a battle for Abdul's soul—it was a fight for our very existence.
The sun finally broke free from the horizon, flooding the dār with golden light. The world outside continued unaware of the storm brewing within these walls.
But inside, a new chapter had begun. Abdul had tasted his power, and I had glimpsed the path we must walk—a path fraught with danger, sacrifice, and the hope that we might yet prevail.
I reached out and took Abdul's hand, feeling the faint warmth of the violet flame beneath his skin.
"We face this together," I promised.
And for the first time since the darkness fell, I believed we might just survive.
The morning light had barely settled into the corners of Sheikh Zayd's dār when the old scholar cleared his throat, a sound somewhere between a cough and a summons. Abdul and I were still reeling from the tree-lifting incident, and I was pretty sure my brain was still trying to reboot after the shock.
Sheikh Zayd's eyes twinkled with a mixture of sternness and something that looked suspiciously like amusement. "Abdul," he began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, "the power you wield is not a toy to be played with like a child with a new kite. Overuse will burn you out faster than a candle in a hurricane."
Abdul shifted uncomfortably, the violet glow in his palm flickering like a reluctant flame. "I—I didn't mean to. It just happened."
Sheikh Zayd nodded knowingly. "Yes, the jinn's fire is a living force, unpredictable and hungry. It feeds on your energy, your will, and if you're not careful, it will consume you."
I glanced at Abdul, who looked like he'd just been told he couldn't have dessert for a month. "So, basically, you're saying if he keeps showing off, he's going to end up as a human torch?"
Sheikh Zayd chuckled, the sound warm and dry like old parchment. "In a manner of speaking, yes. But worse. The fire can burn your soul, not just your skin."
Abdul swallowed hard, eyes darting to the window as if willing the sun to swallow him whole.
Sheikh Zayd reached into the folds of his
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The Grigori was a realm suspended between worlds, where time folded like the petals of a night flower and the air shimmered with ancient magic. The scent of murr and sandalwood hung heavy, mingling with the faint metallic tang of iron sigils etched into the stones beneath their feet. Here, the unseen currents of power flowed like rivers, and every breath carried whispers of forgotten secrets.
Mira stood at the edge of the highest cliff, the astral winds teasing her silver hair and tugging gently at the folds of her robe. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling the pulse of the air around her—a living, breathing force that had been her companion since she was born. The wind was not just an element to her; it was a partner, a guide, a steed waiting to carry her beyond the veil.
Beside her, Zarif adjusted the satchel strapped across his chest, the weight of enchanted scrolls and talismans a familiar comfort. His form was solid and grounded, a stark contrast to Mira's fluid grace. His eyes, glowing with steady amber light, scanned the horizon where the astral mists curled like restless spirits.
"Are you ready?" Mira's voice was soft but carried the certainty of the skies.
Zarif nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "As ready as I'll ever be. The winds may carry you, but my words will carry the truth. We must be swift and sure."
Mira opened her eyes, the silver light within them flickering like stars. "The Grigori holds its breath. Even the ancient stones seem to sense what's coming."
Zarif's gaze softened. "And so do we. This mission… it's more than a task. It's a turning point."
The air thickened as the astral winds gathered, swirling around them in a chorus of unseen voices. Mira lifted her arms, fingers splayed like the wings of a bird about to take flight. The currents responded instantly, lifting her hair and robes in a dance of light and shadow.
Zarif watched her, feeling the familiar surge of awe and respect. "You ride the wind like no other."
Mira smiled, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "And you carry the weight of worlds on your shoulders. Together, we're unstoppable."
With a final glance at the Grigori—their home, their sanctuary—they stepped forward. Mira's form dissolved into a stream of silver light, riding the invisible waves with effortless grace. Zarif followed, a streak of shadow and ember, his movements precise and purposeful.
The astral mists closed behind them, swallowing the cliff and the ancient sigils etched into its stones. Ahead lay the mortal coast of Ummul Ruh, the drowned city where the black trident awaited—a beacon of dark power that could tip the balance of the unseen war.
As they soared through the shifting realms, Mira's thoughts drifted to the dangers ahead. The trident was guarded by ancient curses and restless spirits, and Khal-Bar's shadow loomed ever larger. But she trusted the wind, and she trusted Zarif.
Zarif, feeling the pulse of the mission in his veins, broke the silence. "Do you think Bilal and Abdul are ready for what's coming?"
Mira's silver eyes flickered with concern. "They must be. The thread between them is strong, but the fire inside Abdul is unpredictable. We need to buy them time."
Zarif nodded solemnly. "Then we must be swift. The longer the trident remains in Khal-Bar's grasp, the darker the world becomes."
The winds carried them onward, a silent promise between two messenger jinn bound by duty, courage, and the hope that their journey would change the fate of all realms