Over the following week and a half, Ariadna and Prince Cyrus, heir to the great dynasty, traveled to the opulent residence of the beautiful Natalie, located on the outskirts of her enormous city. What had once been an extraordinary journey had now become quite ordinary.

  The arrival of young Cyrus, wearing his Persian-cut tunic embroidered with threads of gold and purple (the color reserved exclusively for royalty), along with his kandys —the prestigious long-sleeved mantle that only high-ranking nobles were permitted to wear over the shoulders as a symbol of power— was a sight that remained rare elsewhere, but here had become commonplace. Natalie saw it as a golden opportunity: the prince’s presence in her home would strengthen her trade agreements with the courts of Pasargadae and Susa, and open doors to caravans bringing frankincense, myrrh, and lapis lazuli from southern Arabia. In her practical mind, the childish curiosity of “noble children” toward the legendary giant hunchback was nothing more than a passing whim… or so she believed. In reality, it was far more genuine —several lesser and even greater nobles had tried to join, but they couldn’t hide their deep resistance and barely concealed terror.

  Without sparing any expense, Natalie prepared everything with the lavishness characteristic of great Persian houses and the residences of wealthy Arab merchants. She commissioned a monumental bed made of cedar imported from Lebanon, reinforced with wrought-iron beams, capable of supporting the colossal weight of the hunchback. She provided him with wide tunics of fine linen dyed in shades of indigo and crimson, similar to those worn by Median nobles, though adapted to his enormous size. She even had intricate Persian knotted carpets brought in, featuring stylized motifs of rukh and lotuses, to cover the mosaic floors depicting hunting scenes and banquets —floors that had been replaced to honor the majestic bird. She didn’t understand the hunchback’s fascination with what he called “Jar.”

  Natalie behaved like a second mother to the giant, blending warm Arab hospitality —the famous Bedouin tradition that demands welcoming a guest as a brother— with the refined Persian understanding that generosity is also an investment. She felt neither hesitation nor shame: more than once she shared the bath with him in the grand marble pool, lit by oil lamps scented with sandalwood. Warm water, perfumed with Persian rose and Arabian jasmine essences, cascaded from fountains carved in the shape of griffins.

  The hunchback —that immense being whose hump resembled a mountain wrapped in skin weathered by unknown winds— watched her with an almost childlike yet profoundly deep curiosity. Her naked slave girls and servants bathed her, and they felt a certain terror when the hunchback gazed at them with clear, intense curiosity, studying their bare bodies —not with cruelty or malice, but with genuine interest.

  For a rukh, an ancient spirit incarnated in the flesh of a hunchback, had never before observed humans with such sustained attention. In the centuries of his existence, he had seen Persian armies march beneath golden standards, Arab caravans cross dunes beneath stars like diamonds, fire temples and Bedouin tents lashed by sandstorms. But he had never been so close to human fragility and beauty at the same time.

  The bodies of Persian and Arab women he had glimpsed from afar had always been covered in thin fabrics… but until now he had been far more interested in warriors and fearsome combatants. Women had always seemed simple to him. Until now. He had never seen beauty in femininity, in the curves and those forms. He wondered if he could reshape his own body. He had tried, but his own magic sealed his abilities. He was powerful, yet he lacked the mastery possessed by his older kin, beings hundreds of thousands of years old.

  The rukh tilted his head, fascinated. How could such small creatures be so complex? In his enormous eyes was reflected pure surprise at the softness of mortal flesh, the delicate curve of a hip, the vulnerability of an exposed neck. It wasn’t carnal desire —rukh did not know that hunger, except on rare occasions that usually ended with a couple of legendary heroes on the ground— but a pure, almost divine wonder. It was as if, for the first time, he understood why the gods had decided to create humans: not for power, but for ephemeral beauty.

  The hunchback sat in his usual place, a little apart from the center of the long table, but close enough to the prince to speak to him in a low voice. Before him was a plate overflowing with figs, black grapes, and split pomegranates. He bit into them with childish enthusiasm, letting half the fruit slip between his crooked teeth and fall onto the table or his lap. No one dared correct him. Two servants had already been swiftly replaced by the beautiful Natalie, who cared for the hunchback like a son.

  To his right, the prince smiled with that unique mixture of patience and genuine affection he alone could offer the most improbable being in the entire palace. To the prince’s left, Ariadna ate with her usual tomboyish roughness, though her eyes occasionally drifted toward the hunchback with a mix of caution and restrained curiosity.

  The hunchback sometimes glanced at her sideways —not with lust or contempt, but with the same strange wonder a child might show upon discovering that the object of his attention was, in turn, interested in something. In his clumsy, honest way, he had noticed that Ariadna was a woman.

  Everything was calm. Too calm. The dinner proceeded in complete tranquility.

  Then the air changed.

  It wasn’t a violent shift, like the arrival of storms or armies. It was something deeper: the air grew thick, sweet, almost drinkable, as though someone had opened a door to an orchard that had never existed in this world. Every candle on the table flickered in unison, though there was no draft.

  The hunchback stopped chewing abruptly. A piece of pomegranate still hung from his lower lip. His small, sunken eyes widened dramatically.

  He turned his head toward the windows before anyone else did.

  Natalie, seated closer to the fire and speaking quietly with a lady-in-waiting, noticed the sudden movement and frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her cup still halfway to her lips.

  The hunchback didn’t answer. Instead, he rose so quickly that his chair crashed backward with a thunderous sound. He ran toward Natalie —not clumsily, but with an almost animal urgency— and tried to shield her with his massive body.

  And then the sky filled with wings.

  At first it was only an immense shadow that darkened the crescent moon. Then she appeared: an eagle the size of a manor house, plumage of old gold and ancient bronze, eyes like white-hot coals. She descended in slow, majestic spirals, as though the very act of flying were a ritual she performed with deliberate patience.

  And as she descended, she shrank.

  Not violently, not with crude magic. She shrank with elegance, as if size were a garment she removed calmly. With each turn in the air she grew smaller, more precise, until what had been a creature capable of eclipsing the moon became an ordinary —yet magnificent— eagle of natural size.

  Behind her came the second: smaller, faster, plumage of silver and midnight sapphire, like the moon reflected in a deep lake.

  Both passed through the open window of the hall —without even touching the glass— with a precision that seemed to mock physics itself.

  And when they touched the marble floor, they were no longer birds.

  Two human figures rose in the middle of the hall, wrapped in a light that came from nowhere and yet illuminated everything.

  The silence in the room was so dense, so absolute, that you could hear the faint crackling of the candles, the tiny sizzling of the wicks as they burned, as though even the fire felt terror.

  The first to appear was him: tall, imposing, possessing a serene and ancient beauty that seemed carved in marble by forgotten hands. His presence was dominant and threatening, as though he could unleash limitless brutality in an instant. His hair was old gold —not the garish blond of mortals, but that deep, warm tone of ancient coins that have lain buried for centuries before returning to the light. It fell in impeccable, almost unreal waves down to the middle of his back. He wore a kaftan of black silk so fine it seemed solidified smoke, and across the fabric danced constellations embroidered in pale silver and gold thread —exactly as they had appeared in the sky the night the world was born: Orion, Cassiopeia, the Lion… all glowing softly, as though breathing in time with his chest.

  His amber eyes were the most disturbing of all. They didn’t merely contain the memory of every dawn that had ever existed; they seemed to promise those yet to come. Looking into them was like holding time itself between your eyelids.

  Beside him, the second figure was almost a living contrast, yet equally impossible. More slender, with feline and dangerous grace, like a leopard that had decided to walk upright on a whim. Her hair was solar —an incandescent gold crossed by silver strands that caught the candlelight and returned it multiplied, shining even in the darkest corners of the room. Her eyes were the same burning amber as his, but more intense, more wild: looking directly into them was like peering into an abyss where the stars were not distant, but falling toward you, one after another, in slow motion.

  She wore black lace lingerie so delicate it seemed woven from shadow itself. The bra and panties bore living embroidery: constellations that slowly rearranged themselves, waves that rose and broke against the fabric, fleeting faces —a weeping woman, a laughing child, a warrior about to die— that appeared and vanished before the eye could fully retain them. It was as though the garment were telling stories no one had asked to hear.

  The hunchback still stood with arms spread wide, a human shield before Natalie. The forgotten pomegranate trembled between his shaking fingers. For the first time in who-knows-how-many years, there was no raw fear on his face. There was something far worse: pure awe, terrified reverence. He seemed tiny. Insignificant. A man who had spent his life fleeing shadows, now suddenly face to face with the light that cast them.

  Then she spoke.

  “My son…”

  The words were barely a whisper, yet they were enough to turn the air into warm honey. In the blink of an eye she was before the hunchback. Distance no longer mattered. She took him into her arms with fierce, almost animal tenderness. Kisses on his forehead, on his sunken cheeks, on the scars that crossed his skin like maps of ancient battles. She held him as though she wanted to melt him back into her own body, as though all the days of separation had been nothing more than a misunderstanding that could now be undone with caresses.

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  He —the father— let out a booming laugh that echoed off the stone walls.

  “HAHAHAHA! You’re a very clever little bastard!”

  His voice was deep, resonant, the kind that makes ribs vibrate. He approached with slow, deliberate steps, savoring every second of the scene.

  “You tricked your caretakers… not bad at all.” A crooked smile, proud and dangerous at once. “I thought you lacked the courage for plays like that. You know? I remember when I escaped the first time… I pretended to sleep, can you believe it? Very difficult when the servants never need to sleep.” He laughed again, louder this time, a laugh that seemed to shake the very stars embroidered on their clothing. “But you… you found a way. You make me proud, son.”

  The mother extended her hand.

  “The spell you used was very premature, my son, but let me fix you—”

  Before she could fully extend her hand, the hunchback spoke many things that no one in the room could understand or comprehend —except her.

  “Think clearly, my child,” she whispered, her voice soft yet brimming with authority. “Don’t give me the shape you believe you should have… give me the one you truly wish to be.”

  The hunchback’s body began to melt like wax under invisible heat. First the hump cracked, then the shoulders sank inward with a dry crunch, the arms shortened, the fingers grew slender. Every fragment of flesh and bone seemed to dissolve into silver particles of light that spiraled inward, as though a vortex of radiance were consuming the old form to make way for the new.

  Seconds passed. Then minutes.

  The light grew so intense that several of those present had to shield their eyes. Only the mother remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the glowing core, reading every fluctuation, every unspoken desire.

  Suddenly the light contracted violently… and burst outward in a soft wave that rippled the curtains and made the lamp flames tremble.

  When the brightness faded, there, standing on the mosaic floor, was a little girl.

  She appeared to be about eight years old, perhaps a little younger.

  Silver hair, the same cold metallic tone as Natalie’s, cut into an impeccable bob that barely brushed her jawline, with the ends curving slightly inward, framing a delicate, almost unreal face. Her enormous eyes were a deep amber, with vertical eagle-like pupils that seemed capable of piercing anyone’s soul if they dared hold her gaze for more than two seconds.

  For an instant she stood completely naked, her pale skin still shimmering with residual magical energy, but before anyone could even gasp, three lesser djinn burst from the air like blue lightning.

  One wove a pleated skirt of almost translucent sky-blue, with edges that looked like sea foam. Another lifted an ethereal white cotton blouse with slightly puffed sleeves. The third, the fastest, unfurled a short cape of midnight-blue velvet so dark it nearly absorbed the light, yet embroidered with the finest filigree of rukh in gold and silver that moved slowly, as though breathing. In less than a heartbeat, small jewels appeared floating in the air and placed themselves: a necklace of lapis lazuli droplets, tiny feather-shaped earrings, and a thin ring on her right index finger that seemed made of frozen light.

  The girl blinked several times, as though she had just awakened from a very long dream.

  Then she lifted her gaze toward her mother.

  “Thank you, Mama,” whispered the girl in a voice that still trembled slightly, as though she were still testing the limits of her new vocal cords.

  Although the change had been completed in its essentials, the body she now inhabited still felt… incomplete. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was more a sense of misalignment, as though someone had assembled a puzzle with the correct pieces but with the edges ever so slightly twisted. The muscles, the bones, the distribution of fat, the precise shape of the ribs, the subtle curve of the waist… everything required fine, almost artistic adjustment.

  And for that she needed her mother’s help —the one who always took the form of a woman.

  Reshaping an entire body from its very essence was not merely a matter of divine power; it required an intimate, almost obsessive understanding of human anatomy. Every cell, every proportion, every tiny imperfection that made a body feel alive and not merely functional. The rukh, like nearly all truly divine beings, were naturally hermaphroditic: they possessed the absolute capacity to choose, to contain both principles or to transcend them entirely. There was no biological urgency, no internal clock pushing them.

  That was why, when he —or she, now— had asked to become a girl, it wasn’t out of urgent gender necessity, nor to escape anything. It was simply because she wanted to. Because the idea of inhabiting that body, of experiencing the softness, the roundness, the fragility and the particular strength of a human feminine form, felt beautiful to her. Fascinating. An aesthetic and existential whim at the same time.

  All of this while she cast sidelong glances toward Cyrus.

  A glance that the mother noticed perfectly.

  The father, of course, did not notice —because men are foolish creatures in any species.

  .

  .

  Natalie felt the great mother envelop her in an embrace that was at once immense and delicate, as though the desert wind and the warmth of a hearth had melted together into arms. The scent of sandalwood and ancient roses surrounded her completely.

  “Thank you, daughter of mortals,” the mother whispered against her ear, with a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Thank you for taking such good care of my little one… my beloved daughter. You were her refuge when she still didn’t know how to ask for one.”

  Natalie closed her eyes for a moment. Her heart beat very fast—a powerful mixture of immense gratitude, joy at seeing the girl—her girl—so radiant, and that subtle but inevitable pang of melancholy. Once again the house would fall silent. Once again the long corridors, the fountains continuing to fall with no one to listen to them with childlike wonder.

  The rukh, when they decided to adopt a gender permanently, maintained the tone of voice with surprising ease. There were no breaks, no effort. They simply… were. And the little girl’s voice, though still shy and slightly trembling from the novelty, already carried that silver clarity.

  Meanwhile, the great father—with that laugh that made the lamps tremble—held his daughter high as if she weighed no more than a feather. He had fathered thirty sons before. All male. All enormous, fierce, proud bearers of storms and constellations. That one of them, after so many centuries, had chosen a feminine form had awakened in him an almost forgotten paternal instinct, primitive and overflowing.

  He lifted her with both hands above his head, looked at her with eyes shining with pride and wild joy, and threw her.

  Not to the side. Upward.

  The lesser djinn, attentive and swift as blue lightning, had already undone part of the great hall’s ceiling. The cedar beams opened like petals, the stars suddenly appeared above them, and the night air rushed in, laden with jasmine and desert chill. The father threw her again and again, higher each time, laughing with that deep laugh that made the ground vibrate. The girl rose spinning, arms wide, the midnight-blue velvet cape billowing like real wings, and came down laughing with a new, crystalline laugh that no one in the room had ever heard before.

  For a mortal it would have been impossible—and perhaps they would have been torn apart by the speeds and pressures of ascent and descent. For her, it was simply… fun.

  While the little one flew for the third time—who knows what impossible height she had already reached—the great father turned toward Natalie with a crooked, sincere smile.

  “Princess of the caravans,” he said, inclining his head slightly in a gesture that was both respect and promise. “Thank you for caring for my daughter when she still wore the form of the hunchback. For that, and for everything you have done without asking for anything in return… the rukh will answer when you call. Your people, your house, your roads… whenever you need us, we will be there.”

  The great mother, still holding Natalie in her embrace, added in a soft voice heavy with ancient power:

  “I offer the beautiful Natalie the protection of the rukh. May no storm, no dagger, no envy touch what is yours so long as you carry our gratitude in your heart. And let me tell you, my sister is the goddess of fertility—I will complain to her why you have not yet become pregnant. Wait, very soon you will grow tired of laughter.”

  Natalie bowed her head, unable to speak for a moment. Between happiness and melancholy, she felt something warm and final settle in her chest.

  Then the girl descended once more—this time gently, aided by a swirling vortex of silver light that cushioned her fall. She landed on her feet in front of everyone, silver hair slightly tousled, cheeks flushed from the wind and excitement.

  She took a deep breath, looked around with those enormous amber eyes and vertical pupils, and proclaimed with an almost comical seriousness for someone so small:

  “Call me Jazmín.”

  It was not a request. It was a declaration. The name she had chosen for herself, the one she would carry in this new life.

  Natalie felt her eyes grow moist. Jazmín. Like the flower that had perfumed their shared baths for weeks. Like the scent she had always associated with her hunchback. She had called him Jar because it was the closest thing her tongue could manage.

  The great mother, still with a protective arm around Natalie’s shoulders, turned her amber gaze toward Prince Cyrus.

  “Prince,” she said with that voice that seemed to caress the soul while simultaneously reminding one that they were speaking to something far older than mountains, “for your benevolence and for the great display of wisdom you have shown by treating my daughter not as a curiosity, but as a person… I offer you a gift.”

  She extended her right hand and touched the center of Cyrus’s chest with two fingers, right over the heart. There was no spectacular light, no thunder, no howling wind. Only a gentle warmth, like a winter sun finding skin after a long time. The prince felt something inside him… unfold. As though someone had opened a door that had always been there, but which he had never known existed.

  “I have amplified your martial and magical potential,” she continued calmly. “What was once mere possibility is now an open path. Your strikes will be more precise, your sword lighter in your hand, your magic deeper and more obedient. Not because you need it… but because you deserve it.”

  Cyrus bowed his head, serious, touching his chest with reverence.

  “Mother of the heavens… it is an honor I do not know if I will be able to repay.”

  She smiled—a maternal smile, a little weary.

  “It is not repaid with gold or blood. It is repaid by living well. And by protecting what you love.”

  Then her gaze slid toward Ariadna, who stood beside the table with arms crossed and that ever-present tomboyish expression of distrust. The mother watched her attentively, like someone reading an open book written in an ancient tongue.

  “And you, her friend…” she said, and the tone made Ariadna tense almost imperceptibly. During those weeks, Jazmín—or the hunchback—had looked at her with wariness and a certain envy. In truth, Ariadna had felt far more comfortable observing and studying everything to avoid the wrath of her parents than actually being her friend.

  The mother continued, with the same implacable sweetness. She had seen with her magic those weeks: how the girl had even played with her little one without fear, albeit reluctantly. And she understood why her daughter looked at her with wariness.

  “When you decide to set aside being so rough, you will become a beauty.”

  Ariadna raised her eyes, surprised, vulnerable for the first time that entire night.

  “Huh…?” she murmured. “Wait—so that idiot gets magic and martial abilities, and I get… beauty?”

  …

  The girl—Jazmín—stood in the middle of the hall, the midnight-blue velvet cape still gently rippling from the last flight. Her enormous amber eyes locked onto her mother’s, but she did not speak aloud.

  Instead, her thought arrived clean and direct, like the whisper of wings brushing the great mother’s ear:

  Why do you give her beauty, Mother?

  The question floated only between them, invisible to everyone else. The prince, Ariadna, Natalie, even the great father who continued laughing with the djinn—none of them heard anything. Only mother and daughter shared that private space of mind and essence.

  The great mother tilted her head slightly, as if listening to a very ancient melody. Her lips did not move, but her answer came just as clearly, warm and firm, straight to the heart of the child:

  Because if all my male children must learn the importance of strength… you must learn the importance of subtlety and femininity.

  She paused mentally, letting the words settle like soft snow upon wings.

  If I let it be simple for you, my daughter… you would not be my daughter.

  .

  .

  Ariadna stood frozen, fists clenched at her sides, eyes glued to the mosaic floor. Her thoughts sliced like knives with nowhere to land.

  What the hell is wrong with these goddesses? One turns me into a girl like my body’s clay for her amusement. The other hands me “beauty” like it’s some grand prize. Beauty? Why not a sword? Magic? Anything useful?

  All I want is to stop the damn end. Twenty years. Twenty years and that lunatic Lynch rolls in with his unstoppable army, torches Persepolis, loots Susa, wipes out centuries of trade routes, palaces, lives. Everything Natalie built, everything the prince fights for, everything I’m trying to shield—and they gift me a pretty face.

  What the fuck is wrong with them? I refuse to be a girl. I’ll go back to being a man and screw their nonsense. I’ll collect a harem of hot women, stay as masculine as they come.

  And without realizing it, she crossed one leg over the other in a distinctly feminine way.