The sun had vanished, leaving behind a sky the color of bruised plums.
Ayon walked away from the town, his footsteps silent on the cooling sand. His basket was empty, his pockets light with the seven copper coins he had saved from the dogs. Most men would be hurrying home to the safety of their locked doors and warm fires.
Ayon turned off the main road and stepped onto the path that led to the Skeleton Ruins.
The locals avoided this place. They whispered that the wind here sounded like the weeping of dead women. They said that shadows moved on their own, and that travelers who entered after dark often came out... wrong.
Ayon loved it here.
To him, the ruins were not haunted; they were honest. The broken arches and crumbling walls did not lie. They did not cheat him on the price of fish. They simply existed, embracing their own decay with a dignity that humans lacked.
As he walked through the shattered gateway of what was once a great palace, the temperature dropped. The air grew thick, tasting of ozone and crushed jasmine—the scent of magic.
He stopped.
He wasn't alone.
Deep in the heart of the ruins, beneath the skeletal branches of a dead acacia tree, stood two figures.
They were women, yet they were not.
They were too still. Too perfect. Their skin glowed with a faint, inner luminescence, like pearls held under moonlight. Their hair floated slightly around their shoulders, ignoring the direction of the wind.
Zoya and Laila. Two daughters of the Smokeless Fire, bored with their own dimension, looking for a toy in the mortal realm.
Ayon recognized them instantly. Not their names, but their nature. He had known their kind for millennia. He knew the arrogance that dripped from their pores like expensive perfume.
Jinn, he thought, a weary sigh echoing in his mind. Tourists.
He adjusted his basket and kept walking, eyes fixed on the ground, playing the part of the oblivious peasant.
"Traveler!"
The voice was Zoya's. It was sweet, like honey mixed with broken glass.
Ayon stopped. He didn't look up. He hunched his shoulders, shrinking into his rags. "Yes, my ladies?"
Laila stepped forward. She moved with a fluid, boneless grace that no human could mimic. She circled him, the scent of ozone growing stronger.
"You walk in the Skeleton Ruins at night," she said, her voice teasing, dangerous. "Are you brave, little man? Or just stupid?"
Ayon kept his gaze on his worn sandals. "Neither, lady. The dead do not charge rent. The living are far more expensive."
The sisters exchanged a glance. A clever peasant? This might be amusing.
"Look at us," Zoya commanded.
Ayon hesitated. He knew the rules. To look a Jinn in the eye was to invite them into your mind. But to refuse a direct command was to invite their wrath.
Slowly, he lifted his head.
He looked at them. And for a second, the mask of the Clay Doll slipped, just a fraction.
He saw their breathtaking beauty—eyes large and dark, lined with kohl, lips red as fresh blood, jewelry that defied gravity.
But he didn't see them.
In their ethereal glow, he saw a ghost. A memory of another face, equally beautiful, but filled with a warmth these creatures lacked. Ilma.
The pain hit him like a physical blow. It wasn't desire he felt; it was a crushing wave of grief. These women were beautiful, yes. But they were hollow. They were fire without warmth.
"Well?" Laila asked, preening. She stepped closer, invading his personal space, her golden eyes glowing. "Tell us, human. We have a wager."
She gestured to her sister.
"Which one of us," Laila whispered, her voice a silken trap, "is more beautiful?"
It was the oldest game in the book. A trap for mortals. Choose one, and the other kills you in a fit of jealous rage. Choose neither, and they both kill you for the insult.
The air in the ruins grew heavy. The wind stopped. The crickets fell silent.
Ayon looked at Zoya. Then at Laila.
He saw their vanity. He saw their boredom. They expected him to stammer, to sweat, to fall to his knees in worship.
Instead, Ayon smiled. It was a sad, gentle smile.
"Forgive me, ladies," he said softly. "I cannot answer that."
"Why?" Zoya narrowed her eyes, the air around her heating up. "Are you blind?"
"No," Ayon replied, his voice steady, carrying the cadence of an ancient poet. "But I am a man who has lived in the dark for a very long time."
He gestured to the sky, where the moon was hidden behind heavy clouds.
"Standing before you," Ayon continued, "is like standing on the shore of a dark lake, looking at two reflections of the moon."
He paused, letting the words hang in the silence.
"How can a mortal man look at the water and say which reflection is the true moon? Both are made of the same light. Both are… distant. Both are beautiful. But both are merely reflections."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Zoya and Laila stood frozen. They had expected flattery. They had expected lust. They had expected fear.
They had not expected poetry.
And they certainly had not expected to be called reflections. It was a compliment wrapped in a philosophical riddle. He had called them beautiful, yet unattainable. He had elevated them to the sky, yet kept them at a distance.
Laila blinked, her golden eyes wide. "You… you are a poet?"
"I am a vegetable seller," Ayon said, bowing his head again. "And a tired one."
Zoya laughed. It was a sound of genuine delight, a rare thing for a Jinn. "Marvelous! You are the most interesting thing we have found in this dust-heap of a town."
She reached into the folds of her silk sash and pulled out a heavy pouch. It clinked with the seductive sound of gold.
"Here," Zoya said, tossing the pouch towards him. "For the answer. And for amusing us."
Ayon didn't move to catch it. The pouch hit his chest and fell to the dirt with a heavy thud. Gold coins spilled out, glittering in the unnatural light of the Jinn.
It was a fortune. Enough to buy a new cart. Enough to buy a house. Enough to never work for Salim again.
Ayon looked at the gold.
In his mind, the ancient knowledge stirred. Jinn gold is never a gift. It is a contract. A tether. To take their gold is to invite their chaos into your life. It carries the weight of their whims.
He bent down.
The sisters smiled, expecting him to scramble for the coins like a dog.
Instead, Ayon picked up the coins, put them back in the pouch, and tied it shut.
He stood up and held the pouch out to Zoya.
"No," he said.
The smile vanished from Zoya's face. The temperature in the ruins dropped ten degrees. "Excuse me?"
"I cannot take this," Ayon said simply.
"You refuse a gift from the Highborn?" Laila hissed, her eyes flaring with dangerous red light. "Do you know what we could do to you?"
"I know," Ayon said. "You could turn me into ash. You could trap me in a mirror. You could make me dance until my heart bursts."
He looked them in the eye, his gaze suddenly heavy, burdened with a truth they couldn't comprehend.
"But gold is heavy, ladies. And my basket is already broken. I travel light."
He placed the pouch gently on a fallen stone pillar.
"Wealth brings worry," he murmured. "I have enough worries keeping my carrots straight. I do not need the worry of guarding Jinn gold."
He bowed low. "Peace be upon you."
And then, he walked away.
He turned his back on two of the most powerful beings in the dimension. He turned his back on a fortune. He walked into the darkness of the ruins, his footsteps steady, his back straight.
He didn't run. He didn't look back.
Zoya and Laila stood alone in the ruins, the rejected bag of gold sitting between them like an insult.
"Did… did a beggar just pity us?" Laila whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.
Zoya stared at the darkness where Ayan had vanished. Her amusement was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettled curiosity.
"He is not just a beggar, sister," Zoya murmured, her eyes narrowing. "A human who refuses gold? A human who walks through the Skeleton Ruins without fear? A human who speaks in riddles that sound like ancient laws?"
She looked at the gold, then back at the darkness.
"We need to tell the Princess," Zoya said. "Sumayra needs to see this."
Ayon walked until he was sure he was out of their sight.
He let out a long breath. His hand trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the effort of holding back.
He leaned against a crumbling wall. He closed his eyes.
The image of the sisters burned in his mind. Their beauty was a cruel reminder.
They look like you, Ilma, he thought, a fresh wave of grief washing over him. They have your light. But they do not have your heart.
He touched his chest, where his own heart beat a slow, lonely rhythm.
He had refused the gold not just because of the magic. He refused it because he knew that the moment he accepted a reward for his words, his words would become cheap.
And the memory of Ilma… the poetry he carried for her… was the only wealth he had left. He would not sell it for Jinn coin.
He pushed himself off the wall.
"Go home, Ayon," he whispered to himself. "Tomorrow, you have to fix a wheel. Tomorrow, you have to eat."
He walked into the night, a king in rags, carrying nothing but his integrity and a ghost.
But he didn't know that in the shadows of the ruins, something had shifted. His refusal had not just confused the sisters; it had sent a ripple through the unseen world.
He had caught the attention of the Jinn.
And soon, the Queen herself would descend to see the man who valued silence more than gold.