Chương 98: Chapter 96. Kyren

Djinn. They go by many names—genie, ifrit, marid, jinn—but whatever you call them, they're more spirit than physical being. Descendants of the Umbra, those ancient shadow dwellers who slipped between realms when the world was young. During the Second Age, when humanity and magic were still figuring out their complicated relationship, djinns developed quite the reputation for mischief. Some played harmless tricks—moving furniture, whispering in dreams.

Others were considerably more troublesome—causing droughts, spreading plagues, possessing the weak-minded. The worst ones? They engineered wars between kingdoms just to watch the carnage. Eventually, powerful mages and priests decided enough was enough. They devised a way to trap these entities inside ordinary objects—lamps, rings, bottles, even mundane items like combs or bowls. The containers weren't special until after a djinn was bound within. Any object could serve as a prison with the right enchantments.

The tradition became something of an art form. Trap a djinn in a vessel, seal it with runes of binding, then leave it for some future fool to discover. Or, if you were feeling particularly vengeful, you might set the bound djinn as a trap for your enemies. And so it was that countless djinns found themselves imprisoned, subject to a powerful curse: serve whoever freed them, grant them three requests, and perhaps earn redemption and freedom. Now, here's where the stories get it wrong.

Contrary to popular belief, djinns can't grant any wish. They can't conjure gold from thin air or make someone fall in love or bring back the dead—not really. There's a rule of magic no one escapes: nothing comes from nothing. Djinns aren't gods. They're not miracle workers. They're more like extremely capable supernatural servants with a knack for finding loopholes. You want gold? A djinn won't materialize a mountain of treasure in your bedroom.

Instead, it might go dig up a forgotten hoard, or "borrow" from a wealthy merchant's coffers, or lead you to a vein of ore that's been right under your feet all along. You want knowledge? It won't suddenly make you the smartest person alive. But it might steal books from every library in the world, kidnap scholars to teach you personally, or whisper forgotten secrets it's gathered over its millennia of existence. You want to live forever? Well, that's where things get particularly messy.

The Umbra used to specialize in that sort of request. They'd extend your life, sure—by binding your soul to theirs, feeding off your essence for centuries until you were nothing but a shell, technically alive but wishing you weren't. This is all to say: when making deals with supernatural entities trapped in household objects, one should choose one's words very, very carefully. Biggins giggled, hands clasped together like a child watching a favorite puppet show.

"This is so fun! I haven't let him out in decades!" Adom's eyes darted between the towering djinn and the delighted old shopkeeper.

"What exactly should I ask him?" he whispered urgently.

"Ask about the Fae Realm, of course!" Biggins nudged Adom's side.

"But be precise with your wording, my boy. Very precise. These beings are tricksters, especially this one." He pointed a finger at the djinn.

"Caught him myself back when he was terrorizing the Westmarches." The djinn's smoky features contorted in outrage.

"What do you mean, you? I was captured by a mighty dragon prince who—" His rumbling voice faltered as Biggins looked up, eyes suddenly changing. The round, almost comical eyes of the old shopkeeper narrowed, pupils contracting into vertical slits that glowed with inner fire. The transformation was subtle but profound—no longer the eyes of a harmless eccentric, but those of an ancient predator. Adom watched with fascination.

He'd asked Biggins countless times to show him his true dragon form, but the old shopkeeper always refused, muttering something about "not being the right time yet" or "demolishing half the street." This glimpse of the real creature beneath the hunched exterior was rare.

"You were saying?" Biggins asked pleasantly, voice unchanged despite the draconic eyes. The djinn's massive form seemed to shrink several feet.

"Merely... reminiscing about old times, O Magnificent One." Biggins turned back to Adom, eyes already returning to normal.

"See? He remembers me." He patted Adom's shoulder.

"Now, your wording needs to be extremely specific. Ask him how you can safely enter and exit the Fae Realm without being trapped there or losing your identity."

"That's oddly specific," Adom remarked.

"Not odd at all," Biggins countered.

"Just the minimum requirements for not ending up as someone's eternal court jester or breakfast." The djinn loomed over them, smoke swirling impatiently around his massive arms.

"I await your first wish, mortal."

"Uh..." Adom looked from the djinn to Biggins and back again.

"I wish to know how I can safely enter and exit the Fae Realm without being trapped there or losing my identity." The djinn's eyes narrowed. Then, surprisingly, he smiled.

"Clever mortal. Very well..." The djinn's wispy gaze flickered toward Biggins, who watched the proceedings with a calm demeanor. Adom noticed the exchange—was Biggins somehow pressuring the spirit? The old shopkeeper hadn't moved or spoken, yet the djinn's smoky form seemed to keep compressing slightly, as if trying to make itself smaller. The moment stretched, uncomfortably silent. The djinn straightened up, shoulders broadening as it attempted to reclaim its intimidating stature.

It cleared its throat with a rumble like distant thunder. Adom found himself wondering why a spirit would need to clear its throat at all. Did smoke get dry? Could a being made of essence even have a throat to clear? Seemed like an oddly human affectation for something so otherworldly.

"To enter the Fae Realm as a non-fae," the djinn finally pronounced, "you require an invitation from a fae native to that realm."

"That's it?" Adom asked.

"No," the djinn continued.

"You will also need a Wayfinder's Token for your return."

"And what's that?" The djinn's eyes narrowed.

"The invitation of a fae is merely a blessing that permits entry. It remains effective for seven days and seven nights. After this time, the mortal mind begins to... unravel. You forget—first small things, then larger ones. Your purpose, your home, your very self. This process takes another seven days, after which nothing of your former identity remains."

"That's... disturbing," Adom said.

"The Wayfinder's Token prevents this. It serves as an anchor to your realm and will guide you to the nearest exit point when activated." Adom turned to Biggins.

"What exactly is this token thing?" Biggins scratched his chin.

"Usually a small object imbued with essence from our realm—a stone, a coin, sometimes a bit of jewelry. The important part is that it contains enough of our world's magic to resist the Fae Realm's tendency to... rewrite things." Adom nodded, then looked back at the djinn.

"You're being surprisingly straightforward. I expected more riddles and tricks."

"Indeed," Biggins said, eyebrows raised.

"I see you're less tricky these days. Is that because I'm here?" The djinn's form wavered.

"I-I have learned my lesson, O Magnificent One. I would not dare play games in the presence of one so... illustrious." Biggins laughed—a full-bodied sound that started as a chuckle and built into something almost too big for his current form. The shop's glass bottles vibrated in sympathy. Adom studied the old dragon thoughtfully. Biggins never talked about his past in any detail. The rare times he did mention something from centuries ago, it only left Adom hungrier for more information.

But watching him now, accepting praise with such obvious pleasure, reminded Adom of something he'd learned in history class—how dragons had once been worshipped as deities. Was Biggins one of those? It seemed likely, given how much he clearly enjoyed being called "Magnificent One." The ancient being who spent his days selling magical trinkets and jumping out at customers might once have had temples dedicated to him.

"Your flattery is noted," Biggins told the djinn, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye.

"But unnecessary. Just answer the boy's questions honestly."

"What about the second wish?" Adom asked.

"Ah." The djinn's eyes gleamed.

"That is entirely up to you." Adom considered his options.

"For my second wish, I want you to get me one of those Wayfinder's Tokens." The djinn paused, smoky brow furrowing.

"I will need to... acquire one. May I have permission to be absent for a time? I shall return shortly."

"Sure," Adom shrugged. With a sound like air being sucked through a keyhole, the djinn vanished. The shop suddenly felt much larger.

"Well," Biggins said, settling onto his stool, "he's probably off to Grimmhold to steal one. Only place I can think of with a reliable supply."

"Isn't that halfway across the continent?"

"For a djinn? Might as well be next door." Biggins adjusted his spectacles.

"They don't experience distance like we do." Adom leaned against the counter.

"Have you been to the Fae Realm?"

"Many times," Biggins nodded.

"Though I'm not a fae, mind you. Even for a dragon like me, the magic there is... influential. Had my scales turn silver for a decade after one particularly long visit. Quite embarrassing." Adom frowned.

"Wait, if you've been there, then you already knew how to enter and exit, right? So the first wish was just wasted? I could have saved it."

"Not wasted at all." Biggins tapped his fingers on the counter rhythmically.

"I was testing our smoky friend. Making sure the information he provided was accurate."

"Testing him?"

"Precisely. Djinns are notorious for half-truths and omissions. I needed to see if this one had learned his lesson since our last encounter." Biggins smiled.

"Seems he has, mostly."

"Where did you even get him, anyway?" Biggins's eyes took on a distant look.

"This was... oh, about eight hundred years ago. There was a kingdom—doesn't exist anymore, mind you—where children kept disappearing. Not many, just one every few months. Enough that parents were terrified but not enough for the king to take serious action."

"And it was the djinn?"

"Indeed. He was collecting them for some ritual or other. I happened to be flying by and noticed the pattern. Watched for a while, caught him in the act." Biggins's voice had lost its usual whimsy.

"We had a... discussion. By the end of it, he was in that bowl, and I was bringing the children home." This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Adom stared at the dragon with new eyes. A loud pop interrupted his thoughts as the djinn rematerialized, filling the shop once more with his massive form.

"Your Wayfinder's Token," the djinn announced, holding out what appeared to be a compass. Adom took it carefully. Unlike ordinary compasses, this one had no cardinal directions marked on its face. Instead, the needle hovered aimlessly, occasionally twitching slightly as if responding to some unseen magnetic field.

"It will activate once you enter the Fae Realm," the djinn explained.

"When you wish to return, simply hold it and think of home. The needle will point to the nearest exit." Adom turned the compass over in his hand.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Where did you get this?" The djinn and Biggins exchanged a look.

"Better not to ask," Biggins said quietly. The djinn nodded in agreement, then straightened up.

"Your third wish?"

"Wait." Adom turned to Biggins.

"If I make the third wish, doesn't that release him? What if he goes back to... you know, whatever he was doing before?"

"Fair question." Biggins looked at the djinn.

"Are you still evil?" The djinn's massive form shifted uncomfortably.

"I've... changed."

"Uh-huh." Biggins raised an eyebrow.

"I've had centuries to reflect on my past misdeeds," the djinn said, placing a hand over where its heart might be.

"I have seen the error of my ways. I now understand the sanctity of mortal life. The beauty of—""Yeah, that's enough," Biggins cut him off.

"He's going to the Outer Veil for three hundred years after this. It's part of the binding."

"The Outer Veil?" Adom had read about it—a buffer dimension between realms where not much happened.

"Very boring place," Biggins confirmed.

"Perfect for reflecting on one's past choices." The djinn's smoky shoulders slumped slightly.

"And after that?" Adom asked.

"After that," Biggins said, picking a piece of lint off his sleeve, "I'll still be around. Dragons live a very long time. And I've marked him." He smiled pleasantly at the djinn.

"Haven't I?" The djinn touched a spot on its neck where, if you looked closely, you could see a faint symbol glowing through the smoke.

"Yes," it said flatly.

"So I can find him anywhere in any realm at any time," Biggins continued, examining his claws with casual interest.

"He knows this." The djinn nodded stiffly.

"One wish left," it said.

"Choose wisely." Adom hesitated. His mind raced. So many possibilities. He turned to Biggins.

"Could I wish for... infinite wishes?" The djinn's expression didn't change, but the air around them shifted—tense, charged. Biggins let out a long sigh.

"Ah, the old trap," the dragon murmured.

"You could try. He might even grant it. But trust me, you don't want that."

"Why not?"

"Because the more wishes you make, the deeper his hooks get. It starts with helpful suggestions. Then bargains. Then dependencies. And one day you'll wake up and realize the wishes aren't coming from you anymore—they're coming from him. Shaping your thoughts. Nudging your desires. Making you dance to a tune you didn't notice was playing." The djinn didn't deny it.

"So," Biggins continued, "unless you want to become the world's richest, most powerful puppet—I'd recommend asking something... finite." Adom nodded slowly. The words "I wish for infinite wishes" withered in his throat. His thoughts drifted to the inside of his inventory, where he kept two specific items: sphinx blood and the sphynx claws, taken the last time he was in the labyrinth. He still didn't understand what they were meant for.

"I have a question instead," Adom said.

"Not a wish."

"Ask it anyway," Biggins said.

"Better than making another mistake." Adom looked at the djinn.

"What can sphinx blood and claws be used for?" The djinn tilted its head, looking like a bored retail worker asked about an obscure product.

"The blood," it said, "is one of the three essential components for creating a philosopher's stone."

"Philosopher's stone," Adom repeated, the words feeling strange on his lips. Anyone with even a passing interest in magical history knew what that meant. The philosopher's stone was the pinnacle of alchemy—more myth than reality, more concept than object. It was supposedly capable of transmuting base metals into gold, granting immortality, and bending the fundamental laws of reality. It was also complete rubbish. Generations of mages had wasted their lives pursuing it.

Elves, who routinely lived for centuries, had dedicated entire lifespans to the search. Dwarven master alchemists, with their unparalleled understanding of minerals and elements, had filled libraries with failed formulas. Not a single credible account existed of anyone actually creating one.

"You're lying," Biggins said, suddenly alert. He'd been leaning against the counter, but now stood straight, eyes locked on the djinn.

"Don't play tricks." The djinn flinched, smoke pulling inward as if trying to make itself smaller.

"I speak only truth, Great One." Its voice had none of the earlier grandeur, just flat, nervous compliance.

"Continue," Biggins said, examining his hands with deliberate casualness.

"The blood of a sphinx is one of three components," the djinn said, keeping its eyes fixed on Biggins' hands.

"This knowledge was passed to me by my ancestor, the Umbra Noctumbral, during the Primordial Age." Adom glanced at Biggins. The old dragon looked genuinely surprised. It wasn't shocking that Biggins wouldn't know about this. Despite being around fifteen thousand years old—ancient by almost any standard—he'd emerged from his egg long after the Primordial Age had ended. That mythical era when dragons, phoenixes, umbra, and demons had roamed freely, worshipped as living gods, predated even him.

Knowledge from that time was fragmentary at best, preserved mainly in temple carvings and oral traditions that had degraded into legends over millennia. The earliest concepts of the philosopher's stone originated from that period, inscribed on tablets that modern scholars barely understood.

"What are the other components?" Adom asked. Skeptical. The djinn looked at Biggins, clearly seeking permission to speak. Biggins sighed.

"Answer him. And no nonsense."

"The second..." the djinn's voice took on a strange, lilting quality, as if reciting something memorized long ago.

"That which can be seen but never touched, that dies each day yet never lives, that spans horizons yet fits in a puddle." Biggins reached for a paperweight on the counter. The djinn tracked the movement with nervous eyes.

"And the third?" Adom pressed.

"The moment between two heartbeats, captured in crystal. Found only where time does not pass but is born anew with each breath."

"Riddles," Biggins said flatly.

"How helpful." The djinn kept its gaze fixed on the paperweight in Biggins' hand, clearly anticipating it might be thrown at any moment.

"I am only repeating what was told to me, O Great One." it said, voice completely stripped of personality.

"I cannot elaborate beyond the words I was given." Adom stared at the djinn, trying to decipher if there was truth behind its words or if this was an elaborate trick. The riddles seemed deliberately obscure, yet specific enough that they might have actual answers. Biggins tossed the paperweight from one hand to the other. The djinn's smoky form trembled slightly with each arc through the air.

"Don't listen to him, Adom. Chasing philosopher's stones is the fastest way to waste your life—or end it. If such a thing were possible, someone would have done it by now." The djinn's smoke shifted slightly, almost like a shrug, but it quickly stiffened when Biggins narrowed his eyes.

"Still need that third wish?" Adom cleared his throat.

"Actually, I have another question—" The djinn's smoky form darkened, tendrils of shadow pulling inward as it raised a translucent hand.

"I must stop you there, young mortal." Its tone was measured but firm.

"I see what you're attempting. Clever, indeed." Its gaze flicked nervously toward Biggins, then back to Adom.

"Masking wishes as questions while explicitly stating they are 'not wishes' is... an interesting tactic." Biggins chuckled softly.

"I permitted this once," the djinn continued, "out of respect and consideration for the Great One." Another quick glance at Biggins.

"But I must clarify: should you pose another 'question,' I will take it as your third wish. Not as a mere inquiry." Adom looked at Biggins, who considered the situation for a moment before giving a subtle nod. Decision made, Adom reached into his inventory and pulled out the book he'd received from Law. He held it up for the djinn to see.

"My third wish, then, is to know what you can tell me about this book. Can you decipher it?" The djinn studied the book, massive smoky head tilting slightly. Adom watched intently, heart quickening. Maybe he wouldn't need to venture to the Giant's Lands after all. If the djinn could solve this mystery now, it would save him a dangerous journey and who knew how many complications.

"The book appears to be blank," the djinn observed, narrowing its eyes.

"Exactly," Adom said.

"I don't understand it. There's nothing in the pages. All blank." The djinn extended a wispy hand, hovering it over the book without touching it. The smoke of its fingers seemed to curl and respond to something invisible.

"This is a book of Primordial Runes," the djinn said finally. Adom sighed, shoulders slumping.

"I know that already. Mr. Biggins told me as much." The djinn withdrew its hand.

"Then I'm afraid I cannot help you further."

"What do you mean?" Adom's voice rose slightly.

"You're an ancient being with knowledge from the Primordial Age itself!"

"Knowledge, yes. Ability, no." The djinn's voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

"I could search for information about this specific text. Travel to ancient libraries, consult certain... entities who might recognize its origin." Adom looked at Biggins again. The old dragon scratched his chin thoughtfully before nodding once more.

"How long would that take?" Adom asked.

"I cannot say with certainty." The djinn's form wavered slightly, smoke curling in what might have been the spirit equivalent of a shrug.

"Days. Months. Perhaps longer."

"And what good would that do me? You'd be gone, and I'd be left waiting."

"Not necessarily." The djinn gestured to the bowl on the counter.

"Keep my vessel with you. I will be able to return at any time with whatever information I discover. Each visit would not count as a new summoning—merely a continuation of this one." Adom frowned.

"That sounds suspiciously helpful."

"It is in my interest to fulfill your wish completely," the djinn replied.

"The sooner I do, the sooner my service ends." Biggins picked up the bowl, turning it over in his hands.

"This arrangement has precedent," he admitted.

"Though it's not without risk."

"What kind of risk?" Adom asked.

"The connection works both ways," Biggins explained.

"He'll always know where you are while he's tethered to you." The djinn looked almost offended.

"I will not abuse this knowledge, Great One. Your mark ensures my compliance."

"It better," Biggins muttered, tapping his finger against the bowl's rim. Adom weighed his options. The journey to the Giant's Lands would be perilous, and there was no guarantee he'd find answers there. Having the djinn search for information in parallel seemed logical.

"Alright," he said finally.

"We have a deal. Search the world for information about this book. Return whenever you find something useful." The djinn bowed, a gesture that seemed both mocking and sincere.

"Your wish is my burden," it said, the traditional response.

"Don't take too long," Adom added. The djinn's mouth curved into what might have been a smile.

"Time passes differently for beings like me. What seems an eternity to you is but a moment to me."

"That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be." The djinn's form began to thin, becoming more transparent.

"Until we meet again, Adom the Curious." With a pop, the djinn disappeared. The shop suddenly felt empty, ordinary. Biggins handed the bowl to Adom.

"Keep this close. Not too close, mind you. Just... accessible."

"You think this was a good idea?" Adom asked, putting the bowl into his inventory.

"Probably not," Biggins said cheerfully.

"But neither is going to the Giant's Lands, and yet here we are, planning exactly that." Adom stared at the place where the djinn had been.

"You seemed to really scare him."

"Ah, well." Biggins waved dismissively.

"Old grudges, old wounds. Ancient history, literally."

"You never tell me anything about your past."

"Hmm. One day perhaps." Biggins began straightening items on the counter.

"Some memories are best left undisturbed. Like sleeping dragons."

"That's a terrible metaphor coming from you. Mr. Biggins."

"Hohoho! On the contrary," Biggins said, eyes momentarily flashing that reptilian gold, "it's the perfect metaphor coming from me." Adom turned the compass over in his hand, watching the needle drift aimlessly.

"So, the invitation of a fae and this compass, huh? That's all I need to visit the Fae Realm?" Biggins sorted through a drawer of odds and ends, not looking up.

"Don't you have a fae friend? That little irritable fellow?" A smile spread across Adom's face.

"I was thinking exactly that." He reached into his inventory pouch and pulled out a small whistle.

"I've hesitated to reach out to Bob lately. He has his own life and all that." Biggins closed the drawer with a snap.

"But this is important enough, I assume."

"I think so." Adom turned the whistle over in his fingers.

"I hope he agrees." He brought the whistle to his lips and blew. Just like always, no sound emerged—at least none that Adom could hear. Biggins, however, clapped his hands over his ears.

"Good grief! Must you be so loud?" Adom lowered the whistle, brow furrowed.

"You can hear that?"

"Of course I can hear it." Biggins rubbed his ears.

"It sounds like some noble's wife screaming your name across the marketplace because you allegedly sold her a 'defective' enchantment, demanding to speak with the head mage while insisting she knows the Imperial Archmage personally. Piercing and relentlessly self-important." Adom laughed.

"Oh, we have a name for that type in Kati." Biggins raised an eyebrow.

"Pray tell?"

"We call them 'Kyren,'" Adom said.

"After Lady Kyren who once demanded the local weather mage be executed because it rained on her garden party. She insisted on speaking to the duke about it. She was utterly convinced her third cousin's husband's sister once served tea to the royal family." Biggins snorted.

"Ah yes, the Kyrens of the world. Every town has at least three."

"And they always want to speak to your supervisor," Adom added.

"As if I have one," Biggins muttered. They stood in silence for a moment. Then, without warning, Biggins snapped his fingers. The sound was sharp, unexpectedly loud in the cluttered shop.

"What was that all about?" Adom asked.

"Just removing a protection spell." Biggins began rearranging bottles on a nearby shelf.

"The shop has wards that prevent certain beings from entering. Wouldn't want your friend bouncing off an invisible barrier, would we?" Before Adom could respond, the bell above the door jingled. Footsteps—light but deliberate—made their way through the shop. Adom moved to the counter, leaning forward as a figure emerged from behind a tall display of enchanted wind chimes. Standing barely four feet tall was a man dressed in a tailored green suit that had seen better days.

His red and gray beard was immaculately braided despite its wild thickness, and a worn leather cap sat at an angle that suggested both style and practicality. His shoes, polished to a mirror shine, clicked against the wooden floor with each step. Bob surveyed the shop with narrowed eyes, hands planted firmly on his hips.

"Well, well." He began.

"If it isn't my old friend hallucination, summonin' me like I'm some kind of pet dog." He nodded curtly toward Biggins.

"Dragon."

"Leprechaun," Biggins replied with equal curtness. Bob turned back to Adom, eyebrows drawn together in a scowl that seemed permanently etched on his face.

"I was in the middle of a very delicate negotiation with a river nymph." He straightened his emerald tie.

"Very. Delicate."

"Hey, Bob. Sorry about that," Adom said. Bob snorted.

"No, you're not." He strode forward, each step punctuated by a small clicking sound from his shoes.

"You never are." He looked around the shop, taking in the strange collection of magical items, the bowl that had held the djinn, and the Wayfinder's Token in Adom's hand. His expression shifted from annoyed to resigned.

"So then," Bob sighed, adjusting his cap.

"What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"