The spell of the earth finally faded with the rising sun. The granite that had encased Prince Zayd turned back into dry, crumbling dust, releasing him from his humiliating prison.
Zayd did not scream. He did not curse. He had passed beyond simple rage into a cold, crystalline hatred that was far more dangerous.
He stood up, his legs numb, his magnificent midnight-blue robes caked in dried grey mud. He looked at the closed shutter of the tea stall. He could blast it open. He could burn it down. But he knew, with a sickening certainty, that the man inside—the "Creature of Clay"—would simply stop him again. And Zayd could not survive another humiliation.
You think you have won, peasant, Zayd thought, his eyes burning with a sinister orange light. You think your mud can hold a Prince? You have only given me the weapon I needed.
He shot into the sky like a black arrow, tearing a hole through the fabric of reality. He left the mortal realm behind, carrying the filth of the earth with him as a badge of war.
Meher-e-Ruhaniya, the Realm of the Highborn Jinn, was a place that defied mortal comprehension.
Here, gravity was a suggestion, not a law. Massive palaces carved from singing quartz floated in a sky that swirled with nebulas of violet and gold. Bridges made of solid light connected the floating islands. The air smelled of crushed diamonds and ozone—the scent of pure, unadulterated magic.
In the center of this floating archipelago stood the Grand Palace of the Chieftain, Sumayra's father.
The Royal Court was in session. Nobles draped in silks woven from starlight drifted through the halls, their voices low and melodious. They discussed philosophy, art, and the movement of the celestial spheres. It was a world of peace, refinement, and breathtaking beauty.
Until Zayd crashed into it.
BANG.
The heavy double doors of the Grand Audience Hall were thrown open with a violent force that cracked the crystal hinges. The music stopped instantly. The polite conversations died in throats.
Zayd strode in.
He was a shocking sight. In a world of pristine perfection, he was covered in dirt. Dried grey mud crusted his boots, his legs, and the hem of his expensive robes. He smelled of wet earth and mortal decay.
He had not cleaned himself. He had deliberately kept the filth. It was his prop. His evidence.
He walked straight to the center of the hall, ignoring the gasps of the courtiers. He stopped before the throne where the Chieftain sat.
The Chieftain was an ancient Jinn, his beard white as a comet's tail, his eyes filled with the weariness of ruling for five thousand years. He leaned forward, gripping his staff of petrified wood.
"Zayd?" the Chieftain asked, his voice echoing in the silent hall. "You return alone? Where is my daughter? Where is Sumayra?"
Zayd let out a laugh. It was a harsh, broken sound, like glass grinding against stone.
"Your daughter?" Zayd spat the words out. "You sit here on your throne of light, asking about your daughter, while she rots in the mud of a human pigsty!"
A collective gasp went through the assembly. The temperature in the room dropped.
"Watch your tongue, Prince," the Chieftain rumbled, his aura flaring with a warning white light. "You speak of the Princess of the Blood."
"There is no Princess anymore!" Zayd roared, turning to face the gathered nobles. He raised his arms, displaying the mud on his robes like a scar of battle.
"Look at me!" Zayd shouted. "This is what the mortal realm has done to a Prince! Imagine what it is doing to her!"
He began to pace, weaving his web of lies.
"I went to the mortal realm to save her," Zayd lied, his voice trembling with fake emotion. "I found her. But she is not free. She is not herself."
He stopped, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hiss that carried to every corner of the room.
"She has been enslaved. Bewitched. A mortal sorcerer—a Warlock of the darkest order—has trapped her mind. He has bound her will with forbidden seals. He has stripped her of her royal robes and dressed her in rags. He forces her to serve him... to pour tea for beggars... to wash the feet of insects!"
The outrage in the room was palpable. The nobles muttered furiously. A mortal? Enslaving a Highborn? It is impossible. It is an abomination.
The Chieftain stood up, his hand shaking. "If this is true... if a human has dared to touch her mind..."
"If?" Zayd interrupted, stepping closer to the throne, invading the Chieftain's personal space. "You ask 'if'? While you sit here debating protocols, your daughter is a prisoner! I tried to free her. I fought the Warlock!"
Zayd pointed to the mud on his legs.
"He uses dark arts that violate the laws of nature!" Zayd claimed, twisting the truth of Ayon's elemental power. "He turned the earth against me. He fights without honor. He mocked our kind. He called us... ghosts. He said we are nothing but smoke waiting to be dispersed."
This was the masterstroke. Jinn were creatures of immense pride. To be called 'smoke' by a human was the ultimate insult.
"He laughed at our power!" Zayd shouted. "He said the Fire should bow to the Mud!"
A roar of anger rose from the assembly. "War!" someone shouted. "Burn the mortal!"
The Chieftain raised his hand for silence, but he looked shaken. He looked old.
"Zayd," the Chieftain said slowly. "Did she... did she say anything? Did she ask for help?"
Zayd paused. He remembered Sumayra's cold voice saying, 'I do not know you.'
He looked the Chieftain in the eye and lied with the ease of a serpent.
"She screamed for you, my Lord," Zayd whispered. "She cried out for her father. But the Sorcerer... he silenced her. He dragged her back into his hovel and sealed the door."
The Chieftain sank back onto his throne, devastated. His daughter, his pride, enslaved by a monster.
But Zayd wasn't done. He needed to ensure the Chieftain didn't just send a diplomat. He needed a war. He needed to break the Chieftain's authority so he could lead the army himself.
Zayd sneered.
"But what else should we expect?" Zayd said softly, his voice dripping with venom. "A weak father raises a vulnerable daughter."
The silence in the hall turned deadly.
"You have always been too soft, Chieftain," Zayd continued, his voice rising. "Too tolerant of humans. You preach peace. You preach coexistence. And now? Now your weakness has doomed her."
He spread his arms, addressing the court.
"Look at him! He sits there while a human Warlock breaks his daughter! Is this the leader of the Highborn? Or is he just an old man afraid of a fight?"
The insult hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. To call a Chieftain weak in his own court was an act of treason.
The Chieftain's face went pale, then flushed with purple rage. The crystals in the room began to vibrate violently.
"You forget yourself, boy!" the Chieftain roared, slamming his staff down. A shockwave of pure energy rippled through the floor. "Get out of my sight before I forget the alliance between our tribes and tear your wings off!"
Zayd smiled. It was a cold, victorious smile. He had pushed the old man to the brink. He had planted the seed of doubt in the court.
"I will leave," Zayd said, bowing mockingly. "I will go back to my own tribe, the Obsidian Sands. But know this—if you do not have the stomach to rescue your daughter and burn that human city to ash... then I will."
He turned and swept out of the hall, his dirty robes flowing behind him like a banner of war.
Outside the palace, the air was cool, but Zayd's blood was boiling.
He stood on a high balcony, looking down at the swirling clouds. His personal guard, warriors of the Obsidian Sands, gathered around him.
"The Chieftain is a coward," Zayd told them. "He will send spies. He will send negotiators. He will waste time."
"What are your orders, my Prince?" his captain asked.
Zayd looked at his hand. He remembered the feeling of the earth crushing his legs. He remembered Ayon's bored, mocking face. 'Mister Ghost.'
"We do not wait," Zayd said. "The human Warlock is strong. Stronger than I expected. He commands the ground."
"Then how do we defeat him?"
Zayd's eyes narrowed. "If the earth is his weapon... then we need a storm that can shatter the earth."
He turned to his captain.
"Send a runner to the Desolate Lands," Zayd commanded. "To the place where the banished ones dwell."
The captain's eyes widened in horror. "The Desolate Lands? Prince, those are the Outcasts. The mad ones."
"Yes," Zayd smiled cruelly. "There is one there... Zarthus. The Storm-Eater. The Jinn who was banished for eating the souls of his enemies."
Zarthus. The name alone made the soldiers shiver. He was a monster from the old wars, insane and uncontrollable.
"Tell Zarthus," Zayd whispered, "that I have found a feast for him. Tell him there is a human sorcerer filled with strange, ancient power. Tell him... if he kills the human, he can have the soul."
"And the Princess?" the captain asked.
"Bring her to me," Zayd said, his voice dropping to a possessive growl. "When the Warlock is dead, she will be broken. She will need a savior. And I will be there to pick up the pieces."
He looked back toward the portal to the human world.
"You wanted a game, Clay Doll?" Zayd whispered to the wind. "Fine. Let us see how you handle a monster that has no mind to control."
Zayd didn't just want a rescue. He wanted an apocalypse.
And miles away, in the quiet tea stall, Ayon paused while wiping a table. He felt a sudden shiver run down his spine, as if a cold shadow had just passed over the sun.
"What is it?" Sumayra asked, noticing his hesitation.
Ayon looked at the sky. The Sitaron ka Ilm—the knowledge of the stars—was whispering to him. The threads of destiny were tangling.
The wind has changed," Ayon murmured, his usual playful demeanor dropping for just a second. "Someone has just opened a cage that should have stayed locked."
He went back to wiping the table, his face regaining its calm mask.
"Make sure we have extra milk tomorrow, Sara," he said lightly. "I have a feeling we might have some... very hungry guests coming soon."