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Chapter Text

Night had fallen over Arabia, and so the thieves called it a day. The sun had worn them down, and they were satisfied. “This day has been very rewarding…” Ahmed remarked, examining the stolen goods. Gold coins spilled between his fingers, glinting in the moonlight like droplets of fire. “We’ve never stolen so much.”

“Yes, indeed!” Kahlid confirmed with a sly grin. He adjusted the jeweled dagger at his waist and let his gaze linger on the growing pile of treasures. “We’ve amassed considerable wealth, but not thanks to our leader…” His words cut through the cool desert air, hanging like a curse. Shadows from the flames danced across their faces, making their eyes gleam with suspicion. From the far side of the circle, a figure stirred.

Both their gazes shifted to Abis Mal, the self-proclaimed leader of the gang. He held one of the jewels, turning it over in his stubby fingers as though he were a sultan inspecting tribute. Then—crack! The delicate, expensive item broke in his grasp. The gang gasped. A hush fell.

Grinning foolishly, Abis Mal turned to his companions, unable to hide his shame. “Well, it just looked expensive…!” he muttered, trying to laugh off the blunder. With an abrupt wave of his hand, he changed the subject, his small, piggy eyes glittering with greed.

“Was this a fantastic heist or what?! Look, you stinking desert rats, well done…” With theatrical flair, he plucked a jeweled flower from the pile and pinned it carelessly to his breast pocket. Then, holding up a stolen mirror, he admired himself with a smug smirk.

“Grrr…” Kahlid grunted, his knuckles tightening into fists. “How come you get to keep this priceless flower, Abis Mal?” Ahmed demanded, his voice edged with irritation.

Unconcerned — and a little surprised by the question — Abis Mal waved lazily, as though dismissing a fly. “Well… This is my bonus, for being your benevolent and beloved leader, of course.” He puffed out his chest and began pointing randomly at other treasures. “This… and that… and that too… are the bonuses I get for being your beloved leader.”

The men groaned, muttering darkly amongst themselves. “And what is our reward?” Ahmed pressed, eyes narrowing.

Abis Mal blinked, as if the idea of sharing had never once crossed his mind. He opened his mouth to speak — but before he could invent another excuse, a sudden gust of desert wind swept through their hideout, scattering sand across the jewels. The fire flickered violently.

“And why would you not reward us? When we plot and steal, it is we who take the risks. You sit in the shadows, waiting to claim the lion’s share. What kind of leader hides while others bleed?” The men murmured in agreement, the fire crackling louder as if echoing their discontent.

“You think I hide?” Abis Mal said, his tone low “No. I plan. I watch. While your hands are busy clutching trinkets, mine are busy ensuring no soldier’s blade finds your back.” Ahmed and several others looked away, chastened.

But Kahlid stepped closer, defiance burning in his gaze. “Then prove it,” he challenged. “Prove to us all that you are the leader we need. Or perhaps…” His hand drifted toward his dagger. “…perhaps it’s time for a new one.”

The desert wind picked up, carrying with it the tension of betrayal. The fire sputtered, throwing sparks into the night, as the thieves watched in silence—knowing that before the dawn, their brotherhood might be broken.

Ignoring Kahlid’s frustration, Abis Mal scooped a trinket from the pile — a bent bracelet with half its gems missing — and tossed it over his shoulder without looking. “Here you go, boys… well done today!” he declared proudly, as though bestowing treasure upon kings.

The bracelet clattered to the ground at Ahmed’s feet. Kahlid’s nostrils flared. “Grrr…” he growled, his hand flexing dangerously near the hilt of his dagger.

But Abis Mal either paid no attention — or was far too self-absorbed to notice. His piggy body waddled toward the old stone well at the edge of their camp, muttering to himself. “That damned Aladdin… First chance I get… his head’s coming off… I’ll split him in two… Hah! We’ll see who the fool is then…”

From the shadows of the firelight, Kahlid leaned closer to Ahmed, his voice low and venomous. “First chance we get… we’ll split him in two…”

Abis Mal, oblivious, bent over the well. “Hey!” he barked over his shoulder. “Come here and wash yourselves! It’s bad enough I have to look at your ugly heads without having to smell you too…”

Ahmed’s eyes narrowed, his face half-hidden in shadow. His voice was a whisper that slithered between the flames and the night. “Come on… let’s do it now. No witnesses. No more humiliation.”

Abis Mal heaved a bucket of water from the well, grunting under its weight. With a loud splash, he doused himself head to toe, soaking his turban, robes, and all. Water streamed down his stubby form, plastering his clothes to his skin as he shook like a dog, sputtering. “Ahhh! Refreshing!” he cried, utterly unaware of the murderous glances behind him.

The fire hissed as droplets splattered into the embers. Simultaneously, something hit Abis Mal's head. “Ouch!! What is this? Inshallah, I’m suing the owner of this well…!” he yelped, clutching his scalp with both pudgy hands. Muttering, he bent down to take a closer look at the offending object.

Lying half-buried in the sand was a small, battered lamp, its surface dulled by dust and age. Abis Mal’s brows furrowed, then lifted in greedy delight. “What’s this? A lamp… hmm. Well, it might be worth a few shillings if I clean it…” His pain was already forgotten, replaced by the glimmer of avarice in his piggish eyes.

But as he admired his find, a new shadow crept over him — not of cloud or dune, but the blade of a knife. It hovered inches from his turban. “The lamp will be of little use to you, Abis Mal,” a voice growled, low and menacing, “except to light your way… on the way to the Valley of the Dead.” Abis Mal froze. His jowls trembled. Slowly, he turned his eyes upward, catching sight of Ahmed’s dagger gleaming in the firelight, and Kahlid’s furious stare just behind him. His body shook uncontrollably.

“H-hey, boys, look—look what I found!” he stammered. His sweaty fingers rubbed nervously against the lamp’s surface, and in doing so, unknowingly unlocked what had been sealed for centuries. With a roar like a sandstorm, a red cloud burst forth, expanding violently, spreading across the camp like a living storm.

“Whaaaaaa!” Ahmed screamed in terror, dropping his dagger as he turned and fled. “It’s bewitched!” Kahlid cried, staggering back as the fire sputtered and hissed in the choking smoke. From within the swirling crimson haze came laughter—deep, rolling, and terrible.

Ha… Ha… Ha… Ha. Ha. Ha. Hahahaha… Hahaha… HAHAHAHAHAAAAA… HAHAAAAAAAAA… MUAHAHAHA…

The sound shook the very dunes, echoing across the desert like thunder from the underworld. And then—words. A voice, booming and triumphant, reverberated in every chest, every bone: “I’m free!” The red cloud coalesced into a towering, monstrous form, eyes burning like molten coals. “FINALLY… I’M FREE!!”

The thieves fell to their knees in terror. Abis Mal, trembling with a mixture of awe and greed, clutched the lamp tighter, his little piggy eyes now glittering brighter than ever. The creature materialized before the eyes of a stunned Abis Mal—who, in his terror, had already soaked his trousers. His knees knocked together as he stared up at the monstrous being.

It was red. It was vast. As big as five houses stacked one on top of another, its smoky tail trailing down into the lamp that anchored it to the mortal world. Its voice rolled like thunder across the desert night. “YEEES… I am free…!” it bellowed, its laughter shaking the dunes. “Now I can take revenge on whoever dared to trap me in here…”

But then, the joy faded. Two glowing shackles, burning gold, shimmered in the night sky above its massive wrists. The creature’s grin twisted into a scowl. “It is the curse of the lamp…” the being growled, voice low and venomous. “All the powers of the universe… and yet I am bound by the rules of the genie. Which means…” His eyes narrowed, smoldering like embers. “…I cannot kill that street rat — the one snatched from my hands and hidden away.”

The monster’s gaze shifted at last, falling on Abis Mal, who was mumbling incoherently, stuttering like a frightened child. “…But apparently,” the genie rumbled, its lips curling into a terrible smile, “I have someone who can arrange that for me. Take me to Agrabah this instant!” the creature commanded. Abis Mal blurted,  incoherently, his words slurring together in a mixture of greed and cowardice.

The massive form lowered, its face descending until it hovered eye-level with the trembling thief. Abis Mal’s heart pounded so hard he wondered if it might burst. He also wondered—dimly, in the recesses of his empty skull—whether he was about to embarrass himself further. The genie sighed, as though disappointed. “I suppose I’m a bit much for your… limited mind.”

Before Abis Mal’s watering eyes, the towering red figure twisted, shrank, and transformed—until standing before him was a man. Still tall, still imposing, dressed in dark finery, but undeniably human. “I trust you find me slightly less overwhelming now?” the genie-turned-man asked smoothly, his voice carrying the faintest trace of mockery.

“Yes,” Abis Mal squeaked, his throat dry, his body quivering like a rabbit cornered by a wolf. “You’re… a Genie.” The man smirked, bowing his head ever so slightly. “You’re astonishingly perceptive, little man.” Ignoring the disdain dripping from the Genie’s words, Abis Mal pressed on, his voice squeaking like a rusty hinge.

“But… um… if you’re a Genie… um… don’t I get any wishes?” The man-shaped being gave a long, slow smile, his teeth glinting unnaturally white in the firelight. “Yes. Three wishes,” he said, each word heavy with contempt. “But that is a small formality. You’re already taking me and my lamp. First, you will take me to Agrabah.”

Abis Mal’s piggy eyes darted nervously, then gleamed with the same greedy shine that had gotten him into countless scrapes. “But, uh… then you’ll need me, won’t you?” The Genie’s eyelids lowered halfway, his gaze turning cold, his patience unraveling. A tremor of rage simmered beneath his skin. Abis Mal's voice, when it came, was sharper “I will take you to Agrabah, but I want my wishes first.”

Now that the creature no longer towered as a monstrous giant, but instead stood before him in his ugly, haughty human guise, the immediate threat seemed less… terrifying to Abis Mal. The simple thief’s mind, so easily swayed, began to drift back toward greed. His fear shrank, replaced by visions of gold, power, and palaces. He grinned, his little yellowed teeth peeking out. “Yes… yes! Wishes! All for me!”

That was the final spark. The Genie exploded with fury, his voice booming like thunder. “You… little… clumsy cockroach… You—” His whole form trembled with anger, and for a heartbeat Abis Mal thought the desert itself would split open beneath him. Then, as swiftly as a sandstorm fading into calm, the Genie’s tone shifted. His eyes softened, and his voice melted into something almost silken. “…Will get your wishes.”

Abis Mal blinked, stunned by the sudden change, and his greedy heart skipped a beat. He straightened his crooked turban, chest swelling as though the universe itself had finally recognized his importance. “Yes,” he said, puffing out his chest. “That’s… better. Of course I will.” The Genie smiled thinly, though his eyes burned with quiet malice.

Abis Mal, once again trapped on the emotional rollercoaster between fear and greed, reacted with a nervous laugh, his tone see-sawing wildly. “Will I? I mean… Haha… HAHA… Of course I will! I want wealth! I want treasures! Let me think, I wish for—” “Little insignificant Abis Mal,” the Genie cut in sharply. The interruption made him blink in surprise, though he was too dull-minded to notice that he had never once introduced himself.

The Genie leaned closer, his voice shifting to a low, dangerous rumble. “Wishes don’t just come by chance. You were ridiculously lucky that someone like you stumbled across me at all. But do not mistake fortune for skill. Wishes are treacherous. Their essence lies in the specificity. Choose your words wisely and leave nothing to chance. Great leaders bring their brightest scholars to the table — men who deliberate for years before daring to utter the syllables of their desires.”

He bared his teeth in a smile that was more threat than kindness. “Choose carefully, little man, and with sufficient forethought… or you will wish you had never been born.” Abis Mal’s beady eyes widened. He swallowed so hard it sounded like a stone dropping down a well. The warning rattled his nerves, yet only deepened his hunger for more. He clutched the lamp tightly against his chest, knuckles whitening as he drew in a shaky breath.

Then, with all the drama his small lungs could muster, he blurted:

“I wish…”

Chapter Text

“Damn you, do not disregard my warning. I have a proposition for you —” the creature began irritably, his voice sharp as a knife. But Abis Mal was no longer listening. His piggy eyes gleamed with greedy delight, his ears deaf to reason. “I wish for the legendary sunken treasure ship of Gordumare!” he declared proudly, puffing out his soaked chest like a rooster.

For a moment there was silence. Then, the Genie smiled broadly, almost flattering, and gave a mocking little bow. “Your wish is my command, Master.” The world twisted in a blink.

One heartbeat they stood beneath the desert stars, the next they were plunged into the black depths of the sea. Cold pressure crushed Abis Mal’s chest as he flailed in the endless water. Before him, faintly illuminated by eerie shafts of moonlight filtering from above, lay the sunken ship—its rotting hull bursting with treasure that glittered faintly in the gloom.

But the treasure was miles beneath the surface.

Abis Mal’s eyes bulged with horror. He opened his mouth to scream—only for bubbles to spill upward, carrying the last of his air. Panic seized him. He thrashed wildly, gasping for oxygen that would not come.

Then the creatures came.

Leeches slithered from the wreck, fastening their slimy mouths to his skin, biting deep until he squirmed in agony. From within the ship’s shattered hull, an enormous octopus slid forth, its long tentacles curling hungrily around the thief’s body. Its strength was monstrous, and Abis Mal’s struggling only tangled him deeper in its grasp.

The Genie — still in his human guise — floated nearby, untouched, serene. He crossed his arms and watched with a smile that carried no warmth. “Poor, sweet baby…” he crooned mockingly, his voice distorted by the water yet clear as thought. “Are we not enjoying our wish?”

Abis Mal thrashed violently, his eyes wide with terror. He shook his head with all the desperation of a drowning man, bubbles flying from his mouth. He had no idea the spirit could not actually kill him… nor did he realize that, by all rights, he should have perished long ago at such depths.

The Genie leaned close, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Perhaps… you wish that I take you back to the desert?” “Y-Yes!” Abis Mal managed to utter, his words bubbling into the sea—one last, pathetic plea squeezed from his lungs. The Genie’s grin widened. He snapped his fingers. In an instant, the crushing sea vanished.

They stood once more in the open desert, beneath the cold stars. The sand was dry, the fire still smoldering in the thieves’ camp. But Abis Mal stood drenched to the bone, water dripping from his turban, jewels of the deep clattering uselessly from his sleeves. He coughed and wheezed, eyes wide, looking very much like a drowned rat that had somehow been spat back onto land. The Genie, perfectly dry, regarded him with amused disdain.

“Very well,” the Genie sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “I appreciate the pace you choose, you simple cockroach. That was two wishes. Take your time with the third… or you might wish you’d never been born.” Abis Mal swallowed audibly, his throat bobbing like a trapped bird. The threat lingered in the air like smoke.

“Y-you had a…” Abis Mal stammered, wringing his wet robes in nervous fists. “…proposal for me?” The Genie’s dark eyes narrowed. His voice was ice. “Only if you stop interrupting me.” Abis Mal shook his head quickly, lips pressed tight.

“I am willing to give you your treasure,” the Genie began, haughty and deliberate. With a wave of his fingers, a shimmer of crimson magic coiled in the air. In a thunderous crash, the massive ship of Gordumare appeared, transplanted whole upon the desert sands, gold and jewels spilling from its broken hull. “…Here on dry land,” the Genie finished smoothly. “If you use your third wish… to wish me free.”

Abis Mal’s eyes bulged, his greedy little heart pounding so hard he thought it might split his ribs. “Hmm…” he crooned, lips curling into a sly grin. “Does that mean I… can have more?” The Genie’s eyes flared like molten coals. Rage seethed from him, the desert air thickening with heat. “Ungrateful, gluttonous rat…”

Before Abis Mal could scamper back, the Genie exploded in fury, raising his hands. Fiery bolts of red lightning burst forth, striking the thief’s body with vicious cracks. “Dammit!!” Abis Mal squealed, stumbling as the energy seared through him. He darted across the sand in panicked circles, flailing and shrieking like a roasted chicken, but the lightning pursued him mercilessly, licking his heels and striking his back no matter where he ran.

At last, the Genie’s rage subsided. The air stilled. Smoke curled from Abis Mal’s singed turban as he collapsed into the sand, panting. The Genie loomed over him, voice sharp as glass. “No, greedy rat. It means you keep this ship — if you wish me free. Use your last wish for your own selfish desires, and I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your pathetic life. Choose.”

Abis Mal whimpered, clutching his stomach. His body ached, his pride stung, his greed warred with his fear. Finally, he cleared his throat, forcing his voice to sound brave. “I wish that… uhm…” He faltered, seeing the Genie’s eyebrow arch with impatience. “Who… who are you?”

The being straightened, his form shimmering with pride and venom. His voice rolled with grandeur. “I am Jafar. Former Grand Vizier to the Sultan. Rightful ruler of this land. And soon… the entire world.” Abis Mal blinked. “Oh. Hi.” He coughed nervously, then blurted, “Ahem… I wish… I wish… I wish for Jafar to be free!”

The desert fell silent. The stars seemed to flicker. The words were spoken, and the universe obeyed. Immediately, the desert sky shifted. A deep, blood-red hue spread across the horizon. Stars burst from Jafar’s body like molten sparks, scattering across the heavens, blazing trails of light in every direction. The lamp floated several meters above the sand, trembling and flickering as if it had a heartbeat of its own.

Jafar’s smoky, trailing tail detached from the lamp with a hiss. The golden shackles that had bound his wrists shattered, clanging against the desert floor before dissolving into nothingness. He flexed his hands experimentally, rubbing his wrists with audible pleasure. The chains of fire that bound Jafar’s wrists shattered with a deafening CRACK. The golden shackles dissolved into nothing, leaving the Genie—no longer a slave to the lamp—free at last.

“This feels…” Jafar’s voice rang out, loud and triumphant, echoing across the dunes. “… Ridiculously good… Yes… Yes… All the powers in the universe are finally mine…”

Without a moment’s hesitation, leaving the treasure ship and its glittering hoard untouched for Abis Mal, Jafar picked up the lamp. A swirl of crimson magic enveloped him, and in an instant, he vanished from the desert, teleporting toward Agrabah. Revenge — long planned inside the lamp, long awaited — burned in his eyes. Revenge on the one who had trapped him in that cursed lamp.

Abis Mal collapsed into the sand, drenched, singed, and trembling. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he looked at the treasure before him. Gold, jewels, the legendary sunken ship now resting on dry land—all his. And yet, more than the glittering riches, a single thought coursed through his mind: he was still alive. For now, that was enough.

The desert wind whispered around him, carrying a faint echo of laughter that promised power, fury, and a storm yet to come.

Chapter Text

That same Arabian night, the palace of Agrabah lay wrapped in a serene hush. Moonlight spilled through the ornate latticed windows, casting delicate patterns of gold and silver across the cool marble floors. In the heart of the palace, Princess Jasmine slept in her chambers, a picture of quiet grace.

Her dark hair fanned across the silken pillows like a river of midnight, and her long lashes rested gently against her cheeks. The soft glow of lanterns reflected off the jewels in her hair and the delicate embroidery of her gown, giving her an almost ethereal radiance. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the soft curve of her hands resting on the bedspread, and the faint sighs of dreams drifting from her lips made her seem untouched by the worries of the world.

Outside, the desert wind whispered against the palace walls, but inside her chamber, peace reigned. Even in slumber, Jasmine’s spirit seemed to fill the room—strong yet calm, beautiful yet unassuming, a princess of both heart and courage. The world outside may have been filled with chaos, danger, and intrigue, but here, in this tranquil moment, she was simply herself: graceful, serene, and utterly captivating.

Jafar materialized silently on the palace wall, taking his former human form once more. It felt familiar, almost comforting, and, more importantly, less conspicuous than the towering, smoke-wreathed Genie he had been moments ago. From this vantage, his piercing eyes fell upon the gardens below—carefully tended, fragrant, and designed to please one sole occupant of the palace.

The garden was a symphony of jasmine: Jasminum, Alternifolia, Primulina, Trifoliolata, and Unifoliolata, their blossoms ranging from pure white to deep black, fiery red to delicate tricolor. The scent hung heavy in the night air, intoxicating, almost magical, carrying an allure that was impossible to ignore. Jafar inhaled deeply, his lips curling into a thin, calculating smile.

But it wasn’t the flowers alone that drew his attention—it was the knowledge that he was now inside Princess Jasmine’s private quarters. No man, no stranger, and certainly no sorcerer had ever been allowed here, not without first being stripped of all physical or magical weapons. Yet here he was, unseen, unstoppable, and bound by no rules but his own will.

The moonlight spilled through the latticework, casting intricate patterns over the bed where Jasmine slept peacefully. Her hair shimmered in the silver glow, her hands rested delicately atop the silken sheets, and her breath came soft and even. Jafar’s gaze lingered, not out of idle curiosity, but as a predator assessing the calm before the storm.

Tonight, the palace and its precious jewel were within his grasp—and nothing would stand in his way.

Jafar was no eunuch — far from it. In his former life, he had been a man of influence, of desire, and of dangerous charm, too beloved in certain circles for anyone to question his masculinity. Now, freed from centuries of imprisonment, he felt the weight of time pressing down on him, the years in the lamp twisting and sharpening his long-suppressed urges.

The balcony before Jasmine’s chamber stretched wide, a regal expanse of marble overlooking the moonlit gardens below. He could see, with perfect clarity, that she was resting. The sky was pitch black, the deep stillness of the desert night confirming the hour of her sleep. His pulse quickened — not from the power he now wielded, but from something unfamiliar, something strange and disarming: the sight of her, peaceful and unguarded.

Innocence. The thought startled him. He hadn’t felt this sensation in centuries. Could he, Jafar, long trapped in a cursed lamp, truly… miss the spoiled brat who had once argued with the Grand Vizier at court? He shook his head, a thin, incredulous smile curling at the corner of his lips. And yet, the feeling lingered, threading through his thoughts like an unexpected melody he couldn’t dismiss.

Careful not to disturb the quiet of the night, he teleported onto the balcony. Immediately, his form shimmered and dissolved into the dense red mist of his Genieform, blending seamlessly with the shadows. No guard, no enchanted trap, no mortal eyes could detect him. 

Jafar paused at the edge of the balcony, his dark eyes tracing the delicate patterns of moonlight dancing across the walls and floors of Jasmine’s chamber. Every detail was exquisite: the silk-draped canopy of her bed, the carved ivory screens, the tiny lanterns that cast soft golden pools of light on the polished marble. The room was a treasure in itself—but it was not the treasure he sought.

He stepped forward, silent as a shadow, his polished shoes making no sound on the cool stone. The scent of jasmine filled the air, weaving around him, almost mocking in its serenity. Jasmine lay asleep, the gentle rise and fall of her chest a rhythm that would have been soothing—if he were anyone but Jafar. He slipped past the curtains like a whisper, the folds of silk parting as if to welcome him.

With careful precision, he moved closer, letting his eyes take in every detail of her surroundings. The jewels on her dressing table glittered faintly in the moonlight, but he ignored them. His attention was fixed on the girl herself.

And there she was.

No sword, no spell, no servant could stop him now. He had been freed, his powers restored, and the palace defenses—like all of Agrabah—were no match for his cunning. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine the chaos he could unleash: the Sultan powerless, the city at his feet.

But first, the Princess.

He did not yet know whether she would be a pawn, a threat, or a key to the future he planned. All he knew was that she lay before him, unaware of the danger that had just entered her chamber. Jafar stepped onto the edge of her bed, the silk rustling faintly beneath his movement. The shadows of the room seemed to bend toward him as he leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jasmine lay half-turned on her silken sheets, her hair spread like a dark river across the pillow. The soft rise and fall of her chest, the faintest twitch of her eyelashes in some dream, captivated him. Every detail—the curve of her jaw, the gentle tension in her hands—was a reminder of life he had long been denied.

Jafar’s eyes, glowing faintly through the red mist, lingered on her. He had returned to Agrabah seeking power, revenge, and dominion—but now, in this quiet moment, another desire flickered, subtle and disorienting. He had not come to see beauty, he told himself. He had come for control. Yet the sight of her, so vulnerable and untouched by the world, slowed the racing of his mind.

“Princess Jasmine…” he whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered, stirring from a half-formed dream, but she did not wake. Jafar’s lips curved into a thin, calculating smile. The night had only just begun — and Agrabah might never be the same. He stepped closer, careful, calculating, and yet… aware, in a way he had not been for centuries, of the fragility of what lay before him.

She lay facing the window, the silver moonlight spilling across her skin, tracing the delicate planes of her face, the gentle curve of her lips, the sweep of her eyelashes like shadowed lace. Jafar — still enveloped in his swirling mist — felt his breath catch, though no mortal lungs had drawn it. How impossibly beautiful she was… the most exquisite flower in all seven deserts, a beauty so rare it seemed a sin for one life to hold her perfection.

Mist-Jafar hovered closer, his glowing eyes drinking in every detail, memorizing the subtle rise of her chest, the delicate slope of her shoulders, the faint shimmer of silk clinging to her form. She slept in a sheer purple nightgown — unbelievable, that her father would allow such freedom. The thought stirred an unfamiliar, fierce protectiveness in him. Half the kingdom — or perhaps the whole male kingdom — would leap at the chance to claim her, to desecrate what was hers alone. And she lay there, inviting only the moon and the night, entirely unshielded.

His spirit form coiled around her silently, each tendril of mist drawn inexorably to her. He whispered to himself, low and reverent, as though the desert itself could hear, “Her father should guard her… Does he not know what treasure sleeps beneath his roof? How rare… how unique… how utterly irreplaceable she is?”

The air thickened with his obsession. His every thought centered on her: not as a pawn, not as leverage, but as a singular creation, fragile and magnificent, worthy of awe and worship. He circled, enraptured, as though the world had narrowed to the space between her and him alone.

No power, no centuries of ambition, no endless schemes could compete with the gravity of his fascination. For Jafar, in that moment, nothing mattered but her—the living, breathing wonder who had so unknowingly captivated a spirit who had once commanded the forces of the universe.

Jafar calmed himself slightly, reminding his swirling spirit form that they were still on her private grounds—grounds that should normally exclude intrusion. Even so, her presence was intoxicating, not in a carnal sense, but in the awe-inspiring, almost untouchable way of a rare desert flower.

She lay on her back, the moonlight tracing the curves of her face and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Every breath she took seemed in perfect rhythm with the night itself. As he floated closer still, she turned, just to grant him a view of her shapely feminine bottom.

He felt the old, bittersweet tug of memory.

"By Allah… Beautiful desert flower…"

Jafar’s mind drifted back to that one fleeting blissful moment when she had pressed her lips to his — in feigned desire - in actual defiance. For a split second, he had allowed himself to believe that she trusted him, that she wanted him. The memory was electric. The way his hands had cupped her bottom, and in response she had thrown her arms around his neck… Pure bliss. He would have died to be stuck in that moment… 

"With you... As my Queen..."

“By Allah,” he whispered to the empty night, “how radiant… how rare…”

Little temptress…

He drifted silently above the floor, his eyes never leaving her, marveling at the energy and life that seemed to pulse from her very being. She was clever, strong, and completely unaware of the dangerous currents swirling just beyond the palace walls—currents he now controlled, thanks to the lamp. And yet, the thought of influencing her world, of bending the fates around such a singular force, filled him with a thrill far greater than mere greed.

In that moment, Jafar realized it was not power over her that enthralled him, but her very essence—an untouchable brilliance that had endured the harshest storms of Agrabah. He would guard, manipulate, and scheme, but she… she alone would remain the axis around which his obsession revolved.

However, Jafar’s reverie shattered the moment he realized she was not alone. “…What… What? …WHAT! BY ALLAH!” His red mist coiled and surged like a storm above the two figures in the bed. The street rat — Aladdin — lay there with her, bold and defiant, utterly shameless. Rage and disbelief crackled through Jafar like lightning. How could this insolent thief touch her? How could her father allow it? Jasmine, priceless, untouchable Jasmine, reduced to this audacious folly!

A blinding, white-hot jealousy gripped him, fierce and all-consuming.

His mind flared, probing, searching, demanding answers. “She belongs to me!” he seethed, his power thrumming through the air like thunder. Every corner of her thoughts, every fleeting image of her choices, came under his relentless scrutiny. Questions, accusations, and fury tangled together in his mind. He would understand. He would bend this chaos to his will.

The desert night trembled with the force of his storming spirit.

"She will be mine..."