For twelve years, the blood-drenched memories gripped Ja’far al-Barmaki.

In his first month alone, he endured considerable grief while finding the means to survive in a crime-filled city. He no longer had a home to return to. Armand saw to that.

Armand was not a man to vouchsafe amnesty to even an innocent child. The very next day, Armand chained the front door to his house, locking him out. The greedy landlord was already making plans to pick through his family's belongings.

Ja'far had to put his grief aside just for one night. Long enough to retrieve whatever he could carry of his family heirlooms. He had to move quickly. If Armand or his croonies spotted him, they'd take from him everything that he was trying to retrieve.

He traveled by moonlight through the streets amidst blackguards and thieves. After waiting for a couple men to pass, he slipped in through the window and retrieved only what he could carry. He wrapped several valuable trinkets in fine silk and shoved them into a clay pot. He went to his parents's bed and snatched a small sachet of gold coins, which he tied to his belt. He untucked his shirt to keep the sachet hidden. Then he returned to his new home.

Nights were always the hardest. He had swiped enough in that first week to make his new home look less derelict. But nothing was the same. There was no cheerful laughter or oil lamps burning. There are no flickering flames to cast cozy ambient lights and dancing shadows. No smell of tea or incense. Just empty, cold, darkness, and the sounds of rats gnawing at something in the corner.

The wooden beams had collapsed, creating a gaping hole in the ceiling from which he could see the second floor ceiling. A second beam snapped in front of the back windows so that he could not pull back the curtain. There were six windows total, three more than his home, and the room itself was nearly four times as large as what he was used to, sectioned off with tattered draping canvas. The area in the corner was where he prepared his simple stew meals. At the other end was a thick, padded mat made of woven reeds and a dozen silk pillows with colorful designs. The area between them was a sitting room. Pillows were arranged on the ornate Persian rug with a small table in the center where

Ja’far had drank his tea and enjoyed his father’s hookah.

Two more years passed. Ja’far’s gold had long run out. He sold nearly all the family trinkets he had left.

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On his fourteenth birthday, the book vendor, simply known as Altin, gave him a scholarly textbook bound in sturdy crocodile hide. Altin was a quiet old man who slept in a wagon barely large enough to hold a bedroll and chamberpot. Altin took a liking to him as the years passed, slipping him an extra piece of fruit when he was hungry and letting him borrow books when he couldn't afford to buy them. It was on his birthday when Altin gave him that special crocodile hide textbook and gave him the news.

Ja'far couldn't believe with this man was saying.

Altin, this bookkeeper whom he'd shared hardly a spoken word with, had enrolled him in one of Agrabah's finest educational programs.

Ja'far was astonished. He thought his dreams of becoming someone influential had died along with his parents. Nothing would bring his parents back, or regain the years he'd lost without them, but at least their deaths wouldn't be in vain.

The academy allowed him to study earth and sky sciences, mysticism, history, geography, and much more.

He remembered how excited he'd been to attend. How the other students dressed in expensive shirts with billowing sleeves that shimmered with vibrant colors, waistbands and exotic boots. They claimed to be descendants of wealthy families. Even royalty in their own kingdoms. He also remembered how they looked at him, dressed in rags.

They hated him even more when he was summoned by the Mystic of Agrabah.

The mystic was mysterious older man with dark dreadlocks. He was known for his intuition and connections throughout the kingdom and recruited students to work in the palace as advisers, or in another field depending on their skills.

Ja’far had learned that being enrolled in the academic programs was a lot like being a prisoner. He had no freedom, no choice in occupation, and was under constant supervision.

“The magic is in you.” the Mystic had said the day he was sent to live in the palace. “It was always in you, but you didn’t need it to accomplish great things. You started with nothing, and through your pursuit of wisdom and honesty, you have become a great man. A man worthy of guiding the Kingdom of Agrabah to a better future.”

“I am just a man,” Ja’far replied. “I am not a sultan.”

"There's a great evil coming to Agrabah, and not a sultan can stop it." the Mystic warned. "It's a darkness that will devour us all. Agrabah will burn like fire and the streets will bleed red."

"If the sultan can't stop then what am I to do?" Ja'far asked.

"Only a man with a heart as troubled and honest as yours can stop it," the Mystic said. "On a dark, dark night, when you become the royal vizier, take your men and ride into the desert. This is the culmination of your training, the fulfillment of your destiny. You possess a great power and everything that comes with it.”

“But how will I know where to go?” Ja’far asked.

“Seek the Seer of the Sands,” the Mystic said.

Without a chance to respond, the palace guards swiftly escorted Ja'far into the palace, where his fate was sealed to live out the remainder of his days.