The next week flew by in a flash. For the most part, they stayed in the manner, receiving a crash course from Annatta and a few trusted servants on virtually everything - culture, politics, religion, history, manners. Annatta was a harsh teacher, though generally fair. Privately, Jasper suspected that she still nursed a bit of a grudge about the death of her party members. He wanted to blame her, but he understood to an extent; even though he didn’t feel that their deaths were truly his fault, emotions were rarely rational and one couldn’t simply logic oneself out of a feeling. But he still was unprepared for how much he was expected to change.

At the end of the week, he could barely recognize himself when he looked in the mirror. His shaggy brunette hair had been trimmed and pulled back in a style similar to a manbun. His scruffy facial hair had been shaved off and potions forced down his throat that grew a fresh, almost silky beard, which left him looking, at least in his opinion, like a parody of a hipster, but Annatta and the servants had assured him that this was the style in court.

She’d been equally ruthless with his clothes and armor. When Annatta had first insisted he remove his clothes, almost as soon as they’d entered the mansion, Jasper had assumed she was joking. He’d assumed wrong. His old, battered guild uniforms were burned while the armor he’d purchased back in Hargish was thrown away. A tailor had been summoned and a host of new clothes provided. Jasper had to admit, though, that they were an improvement.

The tunics he was provided shared much in common with Annatta’s dress, a richly brocaded fabric whose armored scales were reinforced by inscriptions quilted into the back, providing a level of protection far superior to what he had before. The majority were made in red and black, although for the time being Annatta only allowed him to wear the same blue she herself wore - “blue,” she explained, “is for members of the household, red for members of the house.”

It is an improvement, he had to admit, as he examined himself in the mirror. The scruffy adventurer had been transformed into a handsome devil, but the change didn’t sit easily within him. How much could you change before losing yourself?

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On the far side of the palace, another Djinn was also examining himself in the mirror. His jet-black hair was tinged with a touch of salt and pepper along the edges, but his face showed few signs of the passage of time. Suffocating a sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair, tying his long locks up in a respectable bun behind his horns before donning the black robes that signified his office.

It was supposed to be a fairly routine meeting with the king, just one of many bastards being acknowledged after appropriate service, but S̆arrābī couldn’t still the frantic beating of his heart. To see her face again was.…he really didn’t know how he felt. Excited? Sad? Afraid? They weren’t emotions fitting of his status, but he couldn’t entirely smother the embers of anger that burned inside him. If the king had lied…

He sighed again, dismissing the foolish impulse. If the king had lied, so what? What was he going to do? The answer didn’t even need to be verbalized. His liege was as cold as the frozen mountains and just as powerful. More importantly, the old man was generally a wise leader. If he had hidden the truth about Da'iqta, there must have been a good reason. No, S̆arrābī would do nothing unseemly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t nurse his anger.

His attendants were already waiting outside the door and fell in place around him like a well-oiled machine. With four in front and four in back, his guard kept a wary eye out for any sign of danger although, in truth, they were more for show than anything else; S̆arrābī’s position was important enough to command respect but not so important to attract the kind of envy that often turned fatal. Still, he believed in the importance of being prepared.

As usual, his concern was unnecessary. He reached the throne room unhindered and, after a moment of waiting, the massive doors rumbled open before him. Three stories tall, the ebony doors were emblazoned with the flaming tree of their family, hundreds of crystal fire opals gleaming in the light of the braziers.

The hall waited beyond, its ceiling soaring so far above the floor that there was ample room for the sacred trees within. A remnant from their forgotten homeland, the trees’ green leaves were tinged around the edge with red, as if they were set aflame.

But all eyes were naturally drawn to the throne. Built on a massive scale, forty-four steps led to the top, one for each of the sons of Shamsha, while two giant statues watched over the hall. Great relics of their people, the statues were said to be gifts from the Divine Warrior himself, guardians that would come to life to protect the king in times of danger.

It was all very impressive - S̆arrābī knew that the pomp and ceremony of the As̆rukkat played a crucial role in keeping the rambunctious tribes in place - but after seeing it a few thousand times, it had long lost its charm. He took his place at the foot of the throne quietly and waited impatiently for the ceremony to begin.

Their young recruit entered with all the confidence of a newborn fawn. He could tell his young protege was trying. Jasper steadfastly ignored the many wondrous sights that filled the hall, resisting the urge to gawk that so many visitors fell prey to, but at the end of the day, he was still young and callow, unable to hide the wonder that charged his every move. That will change, though.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But the moment of truth came when the young Djinn finally drew close enough for S̆arrābī to clearly see his face. For weeks he had been trying to convince himself that his memory was flawed, that he had not seen what he thought he saw. But one glimpse was all he needed to expose those words for the lies they were. The resemblance to his sister was simply too great to be ignored, especially knowing what he now knew. He didn’t have the slightest idea how it had happened, but he no longer doubted that it had.

A little fount of anger bubbled in his heart, but he suppressed it quickly, knowing the king would see through him as easily as he saw through the lad. He was still a loyal servant, but this time he would have answers. He’d just have to “misunderstand” the king’s orders a bit.

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The ceremony was, if anything, a bit underwhelming. Jasper’s fears had run wild, conjuring up nightmares of a hall filled with vicious nobles, judging every aspect of his dress and behavior, and plotting how to stab him in the back at the first sign of weakness. The reality fell a bit short of that.

The throne room was truly impressive, but that was to be expected, given the magnificence of the palace complex. But the room was disappointingly free of onlookers. Aside from the guards stationed at regular intervals around the hall, only the king and S̆arrābī awaited him.

He followed Annatta’s instructions to a t, bowing each time he passed one of the exotic-looking trees. Something about the trees called to him, the essence stirring in his veins whenever he passed away with an almost giddy feeling of excitement, but he kept his composure. And then he reached the base of the throne.

S̆arrābī awaited him, and Jasper didn’t miss the brief flash of anger that surged through his eyes when he looked at him. Damn it. What did I do wrong? But, placing his hands behind his back, he bowed his head respectfully, repeating the words Annatta had taught him.

“I have come, my lord, to serve beneath the sacred boughs.”

S̆arrābī walked over to the nearest tree and plucked one of the leaves. Jasper held out his hands as the Djinn placed it gently in his palms, folding Jasper’s fingers over the leaf.

A surge of ecstasy, of manic energy flooded through his veins as the world dissolved before his eyes.

Jasper wasn’t sure how long it took for him to reclaim his mind, but a strange new world met his sight. He was still standing in the hall, of that he was sure, but nothing about the statement was entirely accurate. The blue walls of the hall had been replaced by giant obelisks of black, cracked obsidian, whose open-top let him see the starry sky above. But the stars looked nothing like those he knew - neither from the earth nor from Corsythia.

The trees were still there, but the illusion of fire had been replaced by the real thing. A steady flame flickered along the green leaves, always burning but never consuming. But the greatest change was in himself.

The burning leaf he had held floated in the air in front of him, his hands no longer wrapped around its stem. Instinctively, Jasper tried to grab it. But no hands came at his mental command. Frustrated he gazed down, and his mind almost failed again as it took in the reality of his situation: he had no body. Currents of fire swirled and rotated around a single burning ember that he somehow recognized as himself.

The Djinn are the embers of creation, the very fire of the Progenitor himself.

The words were coming from within him, Jasper realized, spoken into his mind, but he wasn’t the one speaking.

All things end. All things burn. And from the fire, the world is reborn.

The burning leaf quivered, shaking violently in front of him as if being throttled by some unseen hand. Then it plunged deep into the heart of his fire.

The reaction was immediate. Blinding pain resonated through every part of his consciousness. He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth; he wanted to close his eyes, to will himself away from the fires that surrounded him, but he had no eyes to close. The pain suffused his soul as the world around him changed yet again.

A small sapling sprouted from the ground at his feet. It grew rapidly at first, its roots popping out of the ground like the knobby knots of cypress trees until it wrapped a tendril around the small burning ember that was his core. The flames spread rapidly down the small tree, its leaves bursting into flames that did not consume. The pain intensified, and he passed out.

His knees ached from the cold stone floor as Jasper returned to his senses. Feeling flooded back through his body, the glorious sensation of having arms and legs again. With a yelp of joy, he leapt to his feet, patting his body down.

“Ahem.”

He froze as the gruff voice echoed in the ancient hall, suddenly remembering where he was. Hastily composing himself, he bowed to S̆arrābī. “Forgive, my lord, I forgot myself. I had no body, and the pain-”

The Djinn scowled down at him severely, and Jasper had a sinking feeling that he had just blown it. But after a moment, a smile breached the lord’s defenses. “You are hardly the first to lose your composure after holding a gis̆ātu leaf. Your mother had a much worse reaction as I recall. Although,” he frowned, suddenly looking concerned, “you should not have been in pain.”

Ezbā ennungallūya.

A voice thundered from the throne, its power swelling to fill every corner of the mighty hall. As one, the guards stationed around the room left their posts, exiting through the monumental gates in perfect formation.

Confused, Jasper turned to leave as well, but S̆arrābī grabbed his arm and shook his head. “Not us,” he whispered, “only the ennungallū.”

When all the guards had left, the king of the Djinn descended from his throne. Most of the Djinn Jasper had met looked roughly like humans, with a few cosmetic changes - horns and various shades of red skin chief among them. The more powerful they got, the less human they looked, and if appearance was a good judge, then the king was truly on another level.

He flew, not walked, down the stairs of the throne. Four black wings sprouted from his back and another two down fluttered near his feet. The wings were covered in sharp feathers with a dull, metallic gleam, and beat far too slowly for any aerodynamics to keep him suspended in the air. His skin was dark, the red so deep that it could almost be mistaken for black, and a double pair of horns sprouted from his head.

The king stopped before Jasper, scrutinizing him silently for a moment, dismissing him. Instead, the king turned to S̆arrābī, with a bit of a frown on his face.

“So you know?”