I have spent centuries in these smoke-wreathed halls, my corded forearms and the scar circling my wrist the only proof that connection was never meant for a djinn like me. Victoria arrives as the virgin the ritual requires. Her habit of tracing sigils on her palm stirs a hunger I command yet cannot name.

When I tell her to step closer, she obeys without question. The yielding heat in her answers my voice before her mind catches up. I draw her against the vault wall, and the ritual waits on one word from me. If she surrenders fully, I may lose the power I have guarded for centuries. Or I may end up bound by the innocence I set out to claim. The word is already on my tongue.