The world of the Jinn did not operate on the laws of physics; it operated on the laws of desire.
Here, the sky was a swirling, living canvas of bruised purple and liquid gold. Massive mountains, carved from translucent crystal, floated weightlessly in the air, humming with a low, melodic vibration. The air smelled of ozone, crushed starlight, and the terrifying sweetness of absolute power.
In the Grand Assembly of the Highborn, Zoya and Laila stood with their heads bowed.
They were powerful beings in the mortal realm, capable of twisting reality with a thought. But here, in the presence of the Royal House, they were merely messengers.
"He called you... children?"
The voice was soft, melodic, yet it carried the weight of a collapsing star.
Princess Sumayra sat on a throne woven from living vines of silver. She was a vision that could burn a mortal's eyes. Her hair was a cascade of white fire, her skin possessed the flawless sheen of polished moonlight, and her eyes were the color of a storm at sea—grey, turbulent, and fiercely intelligent.
She was not just a princess; she was a scholar, a warrior, and the most cynical mind in the Jinn Empire.
"Yes, Your Highness," Zoya whispered, the memory of Ayon's dead eyes still making her shiver. "He looked at us... and he saw nothing. He refused the gold. He faced the Warden's cruelty without lifting a finger. He is... unnatural."
Sumayra leaned back, a look of bored disappointment crossing her exquisite features. She twisted a ring of solidified smoke around her finger.
"Unnatural?" she scoffed. "Or simply a very good actor?"
She stood up, and the assembly fell silent. She paced down the steps of her dais, her movement fluid as water.
"Humans are simple creatures," Sumayra lectured, her tone that of a professor explaining anatomy to toddlers. "They are driven by three things: Greed, Fear, and Lust. If this 'Clay Doll' refused your gold, it is because he wants something more. If he did not fear you, it is because he is too stupid to understand what you are."
"But Princess," Laila ventured, "his eyes... they were old. Older than the city."
Sumayra stopped. She looked at Laila with a cold, scientific curiosity.
"You are romanticizing a beggar," she said flatly. "You have spent too much time among mortals; their dust has clouded your judgment. There is no mystery here. Only a man who has learned that pity pays better than labor."
She turned to the shimmering portal that separated their worlds.
"I will go," Sumayra announced.
A ripple of shock went through the assembly. "You, Highness?"
"Yes," Sumayra said, her eyes narrowing. "I will descend. I will observe this 'Clay Doll.' I will offer him the world, and I will watch him crumble. I will terrify him, and I will watch him scream."
She smiled, but it was not a cruel smile. It was the cold, detached smile of a scientist preparing to dissect a frog.
"I will prove to you," she declared, "that even the strongest clay cracks when you apply the right pressure. And when I am done, you will see that he is just a man. Weak. Greedy. And temporary."
Dawn on Earth was a grey, miserable affair.
Ayon woke up on his torn mat. His body ached. The memory of the stone hitting his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He sat up in the gloom of his hut. The silence was heavy. There was no food in the pot. There was no cart to push. The previous night's destruction had left him with nothing but the clothes on his back and seven copper coins.
He should have been weeping. He should have been raging against the unfairness of the universe.
Instead, he simply breathed. In. Out.
I am here, he thought. I am still here.
Outside, in the branches of a dead tree overlooking the hut, a shimmer of air distorted the light. Sumayra sat perched on a branch, invisible to the human eye. She watched him through the cracks in the mud wall.
Look at him, she thought, her lip curling in distaste. He sits in filth. He has lost everything. Now begins the despair. Now begins the cursing of the gods.
She waited for the breakdown. She waited for the show.
But then, something small happened.
A flutter of wings. A soft thud.
A small brown sparrow flew in through the open window. It was flying erratically, panicking. It slammed into the wall and fell to the dusty floor, chirping a high, frantic note of pain. Its left wing was bent at an unnatural angle.
Ayon moved.
The man who had sat motionless while a butcher destroyed his life moved with a sudden, fluid grace. He was by the bird's side in an instant.
He knelt down. His large, rough hands—hands that had moved mountains of brick the day before—hovered over the tiny, trembling creature.
"Shhh," Ayon whispered. The sound was a caress. "It is alright, little one. The sky was too hard today, wasn't it?"
From her perch, Sumayra frowned. He is talking to a bird? Is he mad?
Ayon gently scooped the bird into his palm. He examined the wing with the focus of a master surgeon.
"Just a bruise," he murmured. "A little twist."
He reached down to the hem of his own shirt—his only shirt—and ripped a thin strip of cloth from the edge. He found a small, straight twig on the floor.
With infinite patience, he splinted the bird's wing. He tied the cloth with a knot so delicate it looked like magic. Then, he dipped his finger into his water pot—his last cup of water—and let a drop fall into the bird's beak.
As he worked, the mask of the Clay Doll vanished.
His face softened. The ancient, abyssal sorrow in his eyes receded, replaced by a look of such pure, unadulterated kindness that it made Sumayra's breath catch in her throat.
It wasn't the kindness of a man expecting a reward. It was the kindness of a man who knew exactly how much a broken wing hurt, because his own wings had been broken a long time ago.
Why? Sumayra thought, her scientific mind stumbling. Why waste resources on a dying thing? It is inefficient. It is illogical.
Ayon carried the bird outside. He found a safe nook in the high branches of a bush, hidden from the stray cats. He placed the bird there.
"Rest now," he whispered. "The wind will wait for you."
He stood back, watching the bird settle. A faint, sad smile touched his lips.
"At least one of us will fly again," he said to the silence.
Sumayra felt a strange prickle in her chest. She ignored it. Sentimentality, she told herself. A weakness of the mortal heart.
Ayon turned and began to walk toward the town. He had seven coins. He needed to eat.
Sumayra followed, floating silently behind him like a ghost.
He went to the baker. The smell of fresh bread was intoxicating. Ayon bought two small, dry loaves. It took all his money.
He is starving, Sumayra noted. He will eat now. The survival instinct is paramount.
But Ayon didn't eat.
He walked past the market, past the tea stall, to the ruins of the old city wall where the stray dogs gathered. They were mangy, scarred creatures, ribs showing through their fur. They saw him and wagged their tails, a chorus of hopeful whines.
Ayon sat in the dust.
"I know, I know," he said softly. "The butcher was stingy today."
He broke the bread. Both loaves.
He tossed the pieces to the dogs.
Sumayra watched, stunned. He was giving it all away. Every crumb.
"Eat," Ayon whispered, watching a limping puppy devour a piece of crust. "The world is unkind to those without masters."
A group of men passed by—laborers on their way to work. They saw Ayon sitting in the dirt, surrounded by mongrels.
"Look at the King of Fools!" one jeered. "Feeding the dogs while his own belly growls!"
"He thinks he is a saint!" another laughed, spitting in Ayon's direction.
Ayon didn't look up. He just stroked the head of the puppy.
Sumayra waited for the anger. She waited for the shame. Surely, this mockery would break him?
But Ayon just smiled. It was a private, secret smile.
They laugh, Ayon thought, because they think hunger is the worst thing that can happen to a man. They do not know that a full belly often feeds a starving soul.
When the dogs had finished, Ayon stood up. He dusted off his pants. He was hungry—his stomach cramped painfully—but his eyes were clear.
He looked up at the sky, almost as if he could see the invisible Jinn princess hovering there.
"The debt is paid," he whispered to the wind.
Sumayra floated there, her mind reeling.
She had come to find a fraud. She had come to expose a hypocrite. She had expected to find a man who was either secretly hoarding gold or secretly plotting revenge.
Instead, she found a man who starved himself to feed stray dogs. A man who used his last piece of clothing to heal a sparrow.
This did not fit her data. This defied the laws of Jinn logic. Self-preservation was the first law of nature. This man... he seemed to have forgotten it.
He is not weak, Sumayra realized with a jolt of unease. He is... empty. He has hollowed himself out so completely that there is nothing left for the world to take.
She descended, landing on a rooftop overlooking the alley. She became visible, just for a second—a shimmer of silver hair and grey eyes—before fading back into the ether.
"You are a riddle, Clay Doll," she whispered, her voice laced with a new, dangerous obsession. "And I hate riddles I cannot solve."
She had planned to crush him with fear. But now, she changed her strategy.
Fear is too simple, she decided. I will not just break him. I will unravel him.
I will offer him the one thing no starving man can refuse.
I will offer him Hope. And then... I will watch him bleed when I take it away.
Ayon walked home, unaware that the Queen of the Jinn had just upgraded him from a nuisance to a project.
But deep in his pocket, his fingers brushed against the small leather book. He felt a sudden chill, a premonition.
The stars were aligning. The fire was coming closer.
And for the first time in centuries, the Guardian felt a flicker of something he thought he had buried along with the Pearl City.
He felt… seen.