Long before the vessel, before the chains of magic bound him to eternity, Zahran al-Ruh had been a prince of fire.
He remembered the desert as endless and golden, the wind carrying whispers of songs sung by spirits older than stone. He had been born of flame and storm, a creature of freedom. The dunes bowed to him, and the stars seemed brighter when he danced beneath them.
In those early centuries, power had been his plaything. Mortals trembled when he appeared in their camps, a figure of smoke and fire with eyes like molten gold. They begged for blessings, for fortune, for vengeance against their enemies.
And Zahran, mischievous even then, would grant their wishes—but never as they expected.
A man once asked for wealth beyond measure. Zahran gave him a chest of gold that turned to sand the moment greed poisoned his heart. Another begged for eternal life; Zahran blessed him with it, but as a stone statue rooted in the desert forever. To Zahran, it was not cruelty. It was justice. Mortals were foolish, reckless creatures who never thought beyond their desires. He only gave them what they truly deserved.
But eternity has a way of shifting even the proudest spirit.
Zahran had once loved.
Her name was Layla, a mortal woman with eyes the color of dawn and a laugh that unsettled the quiet places in his heart. Unlike the others, she never asked him for gold or power. She asked only for stories.
Night after night, she would sit in the sand, listening as he spoke of the birth of stars, of battles between forgotten gods, of the secrets hidden beneath the shifting desert. And for the first time in his long, untamed life, Zahran felt something heavier than mischief, something gentler than fire.
He had thought—naively—that perhaps she could love him in return.
But love, like wishes, was never simple.
When other mortals discovered their meetings, jealousy and fear spread like wildfire. A woman favored by a Djinn? She must be cursed, or worse—a witch. They dragged her from her home one night, her cries tearing through the desert winds.
Zahran came too late.
He found her lifeless body buried in the dunes, her fingers still clutching the pendant he had given her. For the first time in centuries, the fire in him raged out of control. He swept across the village in fury, his storm consuming everything in its path. When the sand settled, there was nothing left but silence.
And in that silence, he realized the truth: no mortal could love him. Not really. His nature, his curse, his eternal flame—it would always devour what he cherished most.
The higher Djinn judged him for this crime of passion. They were not merciful.
"You are too wild, Zahran al-Ruh," they said, their voices echoing like thunder across the desert skies. "Your heart is too dangerous, your power too reckless. If you love mortals, let them bind you. If you crave their affection, let it be your prison."
They sealed him into a vessel—an ancient relic of bronze etched with runes of command.
"Grant three wishes to those who summon you," they decreed. "But never grant them happiness. Let them learn as you have learned—that desire is a curse."
The vessel burned against his skin, then pulled him into its endless darkness.
And so began his curse.
Centuries passed.
Zahran grew into the role they forced upon him. He became the trickster spirit whispered of in legends, the Djinn whose gifts always twisted into punishment. He wore cruelty like armor, mischief like a second skin. If he could not have love, then at least he could revel in chaos.
Mortals feared his name. They called him deceiver, shadow, demon. He let them.
But deep inside, the ember of longing still glowed.
He remembered Layla's laugh. He remembered the way her eyes softened when she listened to him. That memory clung to him, defying time, defying bitterness.
And so, in secret, Zahran searched. Every summoner, every wish-seeker, every desperate fool who rubbed the vessel—he studied them. Tested them. Watched for something more than greed or fear.
Yet none ever passed.
Some wanted wealth, others vengeance. Some begged for immortality, others power. But always, always, their desires revealed the same truth: selfishness, corruption, despair.
And so, he tricked them. He punished them. He turned their greed to ash, their arrogance to ruin.
He told himself it was justice. But in the hollow silence of the vessel, when no one could see him, he wondered if it was only loneliness gnawing at him.
Then came Asher.
A mortal unlike the others.
When Zahran first emerged from the vessel in that dimly lit room, he expected the usual—a gasp, a plea, the frantic demand for miracles. But Asher's eyes, dark and haunted, had not filled with greed. They had filled with… weariness.
"No," the young man had said, his voice trembling but firm. "I don't want this."
Zahran had laughed, of course. He always laughed. But the sound had felt strange, uncertain.
This mortal had not begged for power or riches. He had not cursed enemies or pleaded for salvation. He had simply refused.
For the first time in centuries, curiosity stirred in Zahran's chest. Curiosity—and something more dangerous.
Because in Asher's loneliness, he saw a reflection of his own.
Now, as he sat in the hidden recesses of his vessel, watching Asher's every move through the veil of magic, Zahran wondered what fate was playing at.
Why bring him to this boy? This mortal who built his life around silence, who flinched at the very thought of wanting.
Perhaps it was another cruel trick of destiny. Or perhaps—just perhaps—it was the answer to a question he had asked for centuries.
Could there be someone who wanted him, not for wishes, not for power, but simply for who he was?
The thought was laughable. Dangerous. Foolish.
And yet… for the first time since Layla, the fire inside him burned with something other than mischief.
It burned with hope.