Paimon knows the day her master has been removed. She can feel the clamoring of her children, her familiars, scattered across hundreds of men who believe so deeply in Hakuei. She can feel the emptiness those familiars feel as they are cut off; severed from her power by an ancient foe. The household of Paimon may not realize the Lady Hakuei's absence, but she does.
The thing that wears the Lady's skin is wicked; her ruhk the black of scorched bodies or stretched, pustulous corpses. Her smiles are not Hakuei's smiles, and her words are not Hakuei's words, no matter how well they may deceive the men she speaks with. Paimon watches when Arba makes Hakuei sentence her brothers to failure, and she watches as Arba wraps her master's body around the King of Sindria like an obedient doll.
Hakuei had never liked Sinbad before now.
Paimon is bound by the rules of this world, so no matter how clever or powerful she thinks herself she cannot go against simple facts. A djinn cannot manifest to mortals without aid. A djinn cannot speak to mortals without conduit. By those rules, it would seem a djinn is helpless against an ancient witch who plays beyond the rules that bind her foes.
Paimon is a djinn of chaos itself, a woman ruled by no man's law, and were Solomon here, she'd gladly tell him where to stick his opinions.
She makes her move in dreams. Liminal spaces are weaker, less bound by law. She's sure Solomon and the rest would admire her ingenuity.
Hakuei's whole consciousness feels tar-sticky, and Paimon's passage is impossible to mask. Very well. Let Arba know she comes. She topples walls of black despair and clears the ichor of depravity from her path, a roaring wind that cannot be stopped, until she find the core, fetid and stinking of decay. Hakuei lays motionless in the blackened embrace of her "mother," and Arba clings on Hakuei less like a human cradling its child and more like a parasitic growth spreading tendrils over its host. It makes Paimon's stomach turn.
"You should really open a window, Arba," Paimon snaps, "else poor Hakuei will be forced to suffocate on the stench of your rotting corpse."
The sound of Paimon's voice stirs the Arba-thing, and she peels from Hakuei, remembering herself, remembering flesh and form. The gloom coalesces, and Paimon realizes in horror that every inch of darkness she has stepped in or dispelled has been a tiny piece of Arba. The witch grins, her face remembered, but it is a cruel mockery, not only of Paimon but of the very concept of a smile.
"I had a feeling you would come..." she purrs, her voice as slick as the oily black. "You do love her so."
"Let Hakuei go," Paimon demands. "I won't let you ruin any more innocent lives."
Arba considers this for a moment, playing with a braid. "And if I don't?"
Paimon's stomach turns with hate. "I'll give every inch of myself to take her back." Ever drop of bitterness is well up now that they are face to face once more. "And I'll exact justice for every evil you have done til now. Sister-slayer. Filicidal lunatic. You used our friends for-"
Arba laughs over Paimon. She doesn't need her sins detailed. She knows them well, embraces every single one. Her nails dig into Hakuei's shoulders. "Well then, Paimon. Do it."
This woman, this monster, this murderer, thief, witch, hate, hate, hate- she doesn't care if this is a trap.
She will destroy Arba.
The maelstrom of Paimon's rage could topple mountains and end wars. Here, it simply tears through walls and tosses Arba and Hakuei alike into the air like ragdolls. Arba's mocking laughter fills Paimon's ears, and so she counters by laughing back, twice as loud, with the roaring of wind and the shrieking of storms. The wind is deafening, but the gloom cares little about Paimon's rage- it simply grows and seethes and surges, and it isn't until Paimon feels its disgusting crawl upon her skin that she remembers what creates black ruhk in the first place.
"You cannot win against me here."
Paimon struggles against the unwanted touch.
"You have no power over me, djinn."
Paimon pulls at the bonds of rage and hate that bind her. She doesn't need to win, she just needs-
"Hakuei is mine."
A guttural no, the primordial no of all the universe, tears itself from Paimon's throat. She needn't win. Destruction is for another day. She has only one true objective here. Her queen feels tiny when Paimon snatches her in her arms, and Arba's cruel laughter rings all around them. They are ensnared now, trapped in webs of her hate and rage and-
The thing about liminal spaces is they're damnably fragile.
Arba wakes in her her daughter's body, and Paimon's victory is only bitter in her mouth for a moment. The djinn has taken Hakuei? No matter. Arba will claim her body then, and the two may be her prisoners for eternity.
Since she cannot destroy the metal vessel or sink it to the bottom of the sea, she simply confines it, locks it in a box to be kept at the foot of her bed. A magician such as herself has no need for such trinkets anyways.
It's an ugly compromise, but it will do for now. Paimon's removal from Hakuei's body is painful, but the pain is lessened with the real Hakuei cradled to her breast. For while her queen may tremble now, weak and driven to the corner, Paimon knows she will rise again. She kisses Hakuei's face and whispers words of strength to her. Hakuei is empress, warrior, sister, woman- and none of these are things that can stay beaten forever. Their salvation will be wrought, Paimon swears, and when it is, she will be the wrath by which Hakuei may ring in her vengeance.
And if they must wait, well, at least the company is good.