She savoured the blessed relief the night brought from the day’s heat. The smaller of her world’s two moons sat high above, surrounded by stars twinkling like diamonds in the deep-purple sky. Dominating the horizon was the half-risen second moon, casting a fine magenta glow over the dark dunes. Even though it’d been an hour since sunset, the marble floor of the palace terrace still remained warm beneath her feet. And yet the cool air chilled the gold cuffs at her wrists. The bracelets were more than just symbols of her station; they bound her to this sumptuous palace as little more than a prisoner in a gilded cage, with only a young servant and her guard, Hussein, to see to all her needs. She’d become the Djinn a little over three hundred cycles ago, inflicted with the great powers that could only be used in the service of the one who possessed Ishari’s vessel. Ishari moved to the ornate stone pedestal in the centre of the courtyard. She ran her hand over the surface of the dark liquid within the rounded bowl that rested on the pedestal.
