After three weeks of an exhausting and anguish-filled journey, the Great Mother finally halted in the capital of the empire. With a voice that brooked no argument, she ordered her Djinn to scour every corner, every alley, every shadow in search of her lost son.

  The problem was grave: her son was far too powerful. He had woven an impenetrable veil around his essence, blocking any direct magical tracking. No matter how thoroughly the Djinn searched with their divine senses, they found only emptiness. They had no choice but to rely on their mortal eyes and the keen sight of their allied beasts.

  Even the majestic griffins—half celestial eagles, half earthly lions—joined the search. Their wings sliced through the wind with a roar that made the brave tremble, yet not even they could compare to the pure luminous grandeur of the Rukh, the spirits of destiny that danced invisible to nearly all.

  “We have detected no sign of the young master,” reported one of the leading Djinn as he presented himself to her during her soaring flight. “Without doubt, his magic has completely concealed his trail.”

  The Great Mother dipped her head slightly, her ancient eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and worry.

  “He is my son,” she murmured, her voice soft yet firm. “It is only natural that his power surpasses even your arts. I only hope… that he is safe.”

  “So it shall be, my lady,” the Djinn replied with deep reverence. “He is Your Majesty’s son. No one can break him.”

  With a final bow, the leader departed to coordinate the others—lesser Djinn, griffins, and minor spirits that swept through every region of the empire like a silent swarm.

  The mother, however, was not content to wait. Her eyes were the most powerful of her lineage, capable of piercing any illusion. From the heights where she floated, her gaze descended like a silent thunderbolt: she observed the ragged beggar, the merchant haggling, the child playing with a stone, the mouse scurrying through the shadows, the insect buzzing beside a torch. Nothing escaped her. The Rukh could take a thousand and one forms, so she scanned even the farthest dune in the desert, the dusty roads filled with caravans, the rooftops crowded with pigeons.

  And then… she saw him.

  In a forgotten alley of the Persian capital, amid garbage and cruel stares, there was a deformed being—hunchbacked, draped in filthy rags and rusted chains. Her beautiful son. He wept silently, his face buried between his shoulders, trembling with humiliation and pain.

  Rage erupted within her like a volcano. Bile burned her throat. She felt her power gathering, a dark and scorching tide that would make the sun pale. In her mind, she already envisioned the catastrophe: the entire city reduced to ash and molten glass, just as it had happened long ago in old Europe, when one of the ancient gods erased Pompeii from the map in a single heartbeat of divine fury. Nothing would remain. Absolutely nothing.

  She was on the verge of unleashing the cataclysm when her eyes caught a new movement.

  A woman with long silver hair approached the chained monster. Not with fear or disgust, but with tenderness. She knelt beside him, ignoring the jeers and shouts of the crowd that had gathered to watch. With gentle hands, she brushed the dirty strands from the young man’s face, wiped his tears with the edge of her cloak, and offered him a piece of bread softened in milk. When someone in the crowd tried to approach with a stone in hand, the woman raised her gaze, and the very air seemed to freeze: her eyes were daggers of ice and fire at once. No one dared take another step.

  The Great Mother, still trembling with fury, invoked her vision of the past.

  She saw the days of humiliation, the tortures, the cruel laughter, her son’s body displayed like a grotesque trophy. But amid all that darkness, a single light: this woman. Day after day, the stranger had brought food, secretly tended his wounds, spoken to him in a low voice when no one else would, and defended his dignity even at the cost of insults and threats.

  A single person in the entire city had shown compassion.

  The Great Mother closed her eyes. The power she had gathered began to dissipate slowly, like black clouds retreating before the dawn. Her anger did not vanish entirely… but she chose to restrain it.

  For now, she would forgive the city.

  Only for her sake.

  Only for that silver-haired woman who had cared for her son when the entire world had despised him.

  .

  In a matter of seconds, the air itself tore open with a low, earth-shaking boom, and an imposing figure materialized beside her. It was her husband: the Great Father, Sovereign of the Rukh, Lord of the Winds of Fate. His mere presence was so overwhelming that the clouds themselves parted in reverence, forming a corridor of clear sky for him alone.

  Together, husband and wife descended like twin comets of fire and light toward the Persian capital, breaking the sound barrier with a roar that rattled the distant towers and sent flocks of birds scattering in panic.

  They had chosen not to appear in their true forms. Had they done so, the sheer weight of their divine essence would have crushed the entire metropolis into dust and ash in an instant. Instead, as they neared the city, both restrained their power and took the shape of gigantic eagles—still radiant, still terrifying—cloaked in silver and golden light, their wings trailing shimmering auroras across the heavens.

  The Great Mother turned her face toward her husband, expecting to meet the same protective warmth and barely-contained fury that burned in her own heart. Instead, she found eyes as cold and unyielding as the eternal ice of the highest peaks.

  “What is wrong with you?” she asked, alarm rising in her voice. “Do you not feel what I feel?”

  He did not answer at once. When he finally spoke, his voice was a freezing murmur that sliced through the wind:

  “I warned him. I warned him about his own incompetence, told him he needed to train harder. He brought this upon himself.”

  The Great Mother halted mid-flight, her luminous wings trembling with disbelief.

  “What did you say?” she thundered, her words echoing like distant thunder. “How can you speak like that? He is our son! They chained him, humiliated him, tortured him! They treated him like a monster!”

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  The Great Father did not even glance at her. His gaze remained fixed on the city below, utterly devoid of compassion.

  “He is a Rukh,” he replied, voice flat and merciless. “A spirit of destiny made flesh. At the very least, he should possess skill, dignity, and strength.” His tone dropped to a lethal whisper. “And let this remind the world… no one humiliates a Rukh and walks away unpunished.”

  Before she could protest, he surged forward with impossible speed, leaving her behind in a blinding trail of light that streaked across the sky like a falling star. His form stabilized once more: tall, majestic, wings woven from living constellations, golden feathers rippling like flames, and eyes burning with absolute, ice-cold wrath.

  He did not descend to the alley to punish the humans for mistreating his son. No. He descended to punish them for something far graver: daring to humiliate a Rukh—a being that, by divine right, was meant to be feared and revered.

  The Great Mother raced after him, heart pounding. She knew that once her husband set his will upon something, not even she could easily stop him. And as they streaked toward the city, she felt the true storm had only just begun.

  In the filthy alley, the chained youth suddenly lifted his head. Tears still streaked his deformed face, but his eyes widened as he sensed two overwhelming presences descending—one warm and protective, the other cold as the void between stars.

  The Great Father landed first, silently, yet the ground quaked beneath his feet. The humans still jeering at the boy froze where they stood. The air grew thick and heavy, as though gravity itself had tripled. No one dared breathe.

  With a single fluid, terrible motion, the sovereign extended his enormous talons—still wreathed in blinding light—and seized his son. The broken, chained youth was ripped from the dirt as if he weighed nothing. In one brutal arc, the father soared to the center of the grand plaza, where the shah of the Persian capital stood surrounded by his terrified court.

  Even now, in the midst of divine fury, the Sovereign of the Rukh adhered to the human laws he despised. There would be no secret vengeance. Everything would be public. Exemplary.

  With a sharp, contemptuous flick, he hurled his son to the stone pavement. The impact cracked like dry thunder. The hunched body tumbled across the flagstones, leaving a long smear of dark blood. A choked moan escaped the boy’s lips; blood poured from his mouth, staining the ground crimson. His lungs, pierced by shattered ribs, fought for every ragged breath.

  Hovering only meters away, the Great Mother felt ice flood her ancient veins. For one fleeting heartbeat she caught it—a flicker of regret in her husband’s eyes, a hairline fracture in his iron pride. Then it vanished.

  “Heal him. Now,” she commanded, her voice a silver whip cracking through the air.

  Her personal Djinn—beings of pure light with translucent wings—descended in a spiral of glowing dust. Their hands pressed against the boy’s ruined chest; threads of silver energy poured into the wounds, knitting torn flesh, sealing ruptured organs. Color slowly returned to the pale, twisted face, though agony still blazed in his eyes.

  Meanwhile, the Sovereign began to change.

  His usual form was glorious: a colossal figure robed in flowing starlight, wings formed from thousands of dancing Rukh, a countenance so perfect it inspired both worship and dread. But now, deliberately, he twisted himself into something else.

  His body contorted, shrank, deformed. His spine curved into a grotesque hump; skin cracked and roughened; arms lengthened unnaturally; his face sank into shadow, eyes glowing like coals beneath heavy brows. It was a cruel mockery of the shape the humans had forced upon his son for five long weeks. A living lesson.

  Then, with a voice that did not come from his throat but echoed directly inside every mind present—nobles, soldiers, children hiding behind their mothers—the Sovereign of the Rukh spoke:

  “You dared lay hands on a child of destiny. You dared chain what was never meant to be bound. Our race descends from the Primal God Himself; we are the very threads of the universe’s tapestry. We cannot be shamed, exhibited as curiosities, or treated as circus beasts.

  He paused. Absolute silence fell; even the wind held its breath.

  “You will not pay with death… not yet. But you will be judged for the humiliation inflicted upon a Rukh. My son endured five weeks of torment. From this moment forward, your entire nation will endure five years of retribution.”

  He raised one twisted, clawed hand toward the sky. Black clouds boiled and swirled into a furious vortex, swallowing the sun.

  “Not a single drop of rain will fall upon your fields. Your rivers will shrivel into cracks of dust. Your granaries will empty. Your children will cry out in hunger through the cold nights… And finally, they will learn to respect our will.”

  A single thunderclap—not from the heavens, but from the hearts of every soul in the city—sealed the decree.

  The punishment had begun.

  .

  .

  The Great Mother, with her eternal and serene gaze, had not yet fully faded into the ethereal mist when she turned to one of her loyal servants: a djinn with wings of black smoke, who waited in silence.

  “Seek out that woman,” she commanded, her voice resounding like the wind through the ancient desert caravans.

  The djinn did not delay in returning, bowing deeply before her.

  “My lady, she is a woman of great renown. One of the foremost merchants of the Persian Empire…” he began, respectfully listing a sea of titles and positions: mistress of the Silk Roads from Susa to Bactria, owner of caravanserais at the gates of Persepolis, controller of spices, incense, lapis lazuli, and fine fabrics brought from India and distant Cathay. She commanded fleets of camels that crossed the Dasht-e Kavir without fear of bandits or sandstorms, and her clay seals were honored in the markets of Babylon and Ecbatana. “She is a woman of supreme virtues and gifts: just in her dealings, generous to the needy, devout in her offerings to the solar gods. Yet the gods have denied her a child. Every day she has prayed in the fire temples, poured torrents of oil, and begged with tears for divine mercy. Still, her efforts have failed; her womb remains barren, and her lineage threatens to die out.”

  The Great Mother listened in silence, and a shadow of compassion crossed her immortal face. Then she raised her voice, firm and resonant, addressing the djinn who had been deceived by her son:

  “Hear my command: ensure that every enterprise this woman undertakes is protected by you. For the next five generations of her coming descendants, those under her seal and her name shall suffer no harm. No drought shall wither their date harvests, no raiders shall plunder their caravans, no betrayals shall occur in the ports of the Gulf, no envies shall poison their trade alliances. Let their ships reach port unharmed, their contracts be fulfilled without deceit, and their wealth flow like the Tigris in spring.”

  The djinn bowed their fiery heads, accepting their lady’s will.

  “And moreover…” the Great Mother continued, her voice now turning into a velvety whisper, warm as the breath of earth freshly fertilized by the first spring rain. “Go, run swift as the dawn wind, go before the goddess of fertility… tell her that her elder sister, the one who embraces all and sustains all, invokes her with humility and reverence. Tell her that I plead for that woman: that her womb may open like a flower at dawn, that life may spring forth in her with generous and boundless strength.”

  Nine moons later, when the ninth full moon silvered the rooftops of the city of a thousand minarets, the cry of a newborn pierced the night like a trumpet of glory.

  It was a boy.

  Already large at birth, with lungs that seemed to have rehearsed the art of command for centuries. His eyes, wide open, shone with the color of molten gold beneath the midday sun; his cry was not one of helplessness, but of proclamation. The midwives recoiled for a moment, awestruck, for in that first wail echoed something older than any known prophecy: the resonance of forgotten heroes, of kings yet to reign.

  They named him Aladdin.

  Aladdin the Magnificent, the merchants would later call him when his name began to spread along the silk and incense routes like a benevolent wildfire. Aladdin, Prince of Merchants, Lord of the Inexhaustible Caravans, he whose mere word caused coffers to open and fortunes to multiply.

  From his cradle, it was already clear he would not be a hero of sword and shield, but of cunning and abundance. Where others conquered with blood, he would do so with spices, silks, black pearls from the gulf, and white elephants brought from lands no map yet named. His power lay not in brute force, but in that rare alchemy that turns the desires of many into wealth for one… and yet, a blessing for all.

  For the Great Mother and the goddess of fertility had granted not merely a son: they had woven a destiny. A destiny of opulence, yes, but also of overflowing generosity; a destiny in which wealth would flow like the great rivers that irrigate the gardens of paradise.

  And so, while the city slept beneath the silver moon, no one knew that this prince would be among those who betrayed Persia when King Lynch arrived.