Prologue
The Sultana of Agrabah sits alone in a gilded room. Guards flank the doors on the outside. If she called to them, they would be by her side in a moment, but they offer no companionship.
Her Father has been gone now for many years, leaving her his throne and kingdom when she was but a child of 19. She was not alone then. Her husband, Aladdin, had ruled at her side.
Badly. He ruled very badly.
The youthful optimism of the true-hearted boy did not translate to strategy or responsible leadership. A few short years of arguments and bad choices crashed into one incident that should have been a mere footnote in the expanse of her royal legacy. A neighboring kingdom had threatened their borderlands, fire and pillage terrorizing her people. They were a rogue faction, not sanctioned by the crown. She wanted to follow diplomatic means to a resolution. Aladdin saw injustice and, not only sent, but led a small contingent of men to defeat those responsible. Ever the hero.
The foolish boy was killed for his efforts and the attacks continued. The former proud Princess was reduced to a broken girl, but in the end found peace through her preferred means of communication. The monarch in question put down the rebel commoners swiftly and their diplomatic relationship resumed, but with Jasmine losing some of her political power that her Father (No, she reminds herself, that his advisor) had built.
She was a widow at 23.
The men she selected for the task that came next were her most trusted, most loyal. They did not question the strange request by their beloved Queen. They were rewarded for their trouble after long years of search. She had given to them riches and status. One she had taken to her cold bed, if only for a night.
Now she sits, a woman of 28, aged beyond those years by the heavy crown and by loss. She remembers a sweet boy, loving her with innocence and childlike romanticism. She remembers her father's soft eyes when he left her, already beaten by his own loss and by betrayal. A palace of gold surrounds her and the years loom ahead full of possibility, but mocking her with the weight of choice.
She looks down at the dusty and beaten oil lamp in her hands. She need but stroke the side with her hand. Unlimited power could be hers. But more than that: The companion of her childhood, the dark man with cold black eyes, who made her feel clever and challenged, would bring that power to her, forced to prostrate at her feet.
Power is, however, hard to control.
It feels like a great risk. Her heart has hardened in time however and she has less fear of risk. She had been a proud, defiant girl. Now a strong confident woman instead.
With a held breath, she delicately rubs the side of the artifact, watching a red plume of smoke seep from its spout.