Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.


Jasmine woke in the night, her legs tangled in the quilts. She could feel him—his side pressed in the small of her back. When she turned over, she found him asleep, his face calm in the blue of morning. The sight surprised her, launching her out of sleep. He trusted her enough not to lodge a knife in his neck?

She shifted closer, waiting for his eyes to open, his brow and jaw to stiffen to attention. Her fingers crept out of the quilts, pausing just before they reached his jawline. She didn't really want to wake him and yet a part of her did, wanting to see if his resting face was some illusion—some quest to deceive her.

After a moment, she gave in and let her fingers graze across his beard and down his chin, her touch light as a feather. He didn't move. She continued down to the field of his chest, open and bare, and across his collarbone where she felt movement beneath her palm. His heartbeat. Slow. Soft. There.

Terrible men had hearts, she reminded herself. Monsters had hearts—even when they didn't use them. Some magical forcefield could be woven in his flesh to fend off those who would do him harm, but beneath her touch he felt a normal man. Not unlike Aladdin whose heartbeat was soft like this, soft enough to rock her to sleep.

Still it beat against her palm. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Vulnerable. Defenseless. Fragile.

She held in a laugh. She had been reduced to a murderess, someone who fantasized about killing people in their sleep. Although Jafar could be an exemption. He chose to make her an enemy and a prisoner—and his death, she knew, was far more deserving than her dark thoughts.

Just as she started pulling away, his eyes flashed open.

He clamped his hand over hers, caging it, and turned to look at her, his eyes piercing through the soft morning blue. Their display was sudden and strangely intimate—something far too tender for the true nature of their relationship. Two people, side by side, sharing a bed and staring into each other's eyes like clandestine lovers.

His hand guided hers down beneath the quilt, down to his desired spot. Soon, the eye contact became too much, so she broke it by planting a kiss on his arm. Within seconds he was above her again.

At times like this, it was easy to imagine he was someone else when he was no more than a shadow—maybe Aladdin, maybe some faceless lover that came to her in dreams. Other times, when the light blared hard and unforgiving, he couldn't help but be the man she hated.

She said nothing; she simply went through the motions, moving the way he wanted, receiving what he gave. When he gripped her face—his way of requesting her to look at him—she did so without complaint. Stared up into the void of his shadowed face. Let her body become his bait, his flesh, his prey. Let him be the master he so desperately craved to be. Let him believe she was his.

But the moment he finished, when his face turned and found the light, she could see the truth as clear as day—that in fact, he was hers.


Mirit had much improved since her recovery; she kept up with Jasmine easily down the halls and moved fluid and free when performing her morning tasks. The kink in her back, the one she constantly complained about, wasn't ever brought up again. It seemed Jafar had healed her of every ailment she'd ever suffered through, everything but her old age.

"Your needle, princess." Mirit handed her the materials for a tapestry on the way to the dayroom. Jasmine took them reluctantly. She missed having a book to read.

Once the door opened, every harem girl gave her their undivided attention. Jasmine ignored it as best she could and continued to her usual spot near the window. Even after she set down her things, they continued to stare.

Were they jealous? Jasmine couldn't make sense of it. Was it apparent she had been with him a long time or did she simply have something on her face? Either way—the staring was most uncomfortable. She bit her cheek as she started threading her needle through the cloth.

One of them—she didn't know which—stood and approached her, her eyes round like saucers. Jasmine looked up, unable to hide the indignation in her voice. "Yes?"

"You're alive," said the girl.

Then without warning, the girl embraced her.

Jasmine sat there limply as the girl squeezed, filling Jasmine's nose with her sweet perfume. What on earth? She'd never been the recipient of anything so affectionate in this little harem group save for Zariah. The arms around her felt so foreign, so strange—stranger than Jafar's.

"You've been gone for days," the girl said as she pulled away. "We were worried."

The other girls did look worried. Jasmine tried coming to her senses and her manners. "Oh. I… didn't mean to cause you worry." And it was true. It was a wonder any of them cared for her at all.

"The Sultan…" The girl looked around. "He is... strange of late. Have you seen him?"

Jasmine frowned. "I did last night."

"How was he? With you?"

They seemed scared, puttering and scrounging for information like little mice. Jasmine didn't know what had transpired between them since Mirit's illness, but something must have happened for the harem to embrace her and include her in their conversations.

"He slept fine." Jasmine was honest.

Somehow, that surprised the girls even more. The girl with the sharp face—Ushila, was it?—stood up. "He let you spend the night?"

Jasmine surveyed her, and the more she did, the more she felt sick to her stomach. Jafar may have been a monster, but it seemed obvious Ushila had developed feelings for him, something Jasmine couldn't fault her for. Not long ago, Ushila had been the Sultan's confidant, the favorite of the harem. Now even his affections, trifling and insignificant as they were, were lost to her—giving her no solace to face the wretchedness of her circumstances. Jasmine found no joy in hurting the girl outright, so she said nothing—instead letting the silence speak for itself.

Ushila blinked several times. "Is he well, at least?"

Jasmine reflected on the past evening's events and decided to take care in her response.

"I believe so."

Nodding, Ushila thanked her but went reticent as she sat back down. The other girls returned to their activities, including Jasmine, who struggled to muster any effort into her stitchwork. Instead she observed the guards in the room, specifically Amir. The way he paced and glanced at the main door was indication he had somewhere else to be, and Jasmine knew well what that meant.

A meeting would soon be in session.

Sure enough, another guard entered to take Amir's place. Once he left, Jasmine put down her needlework and gestured Mirit over. "Tell the new one I don't feel well and would like to retire for the day."

Mirit paused. "Is this wise, princess?"

"You wanted me to get close to him. Let me do it my way."

Pursuing her lips, Mirit stood to do as Jasmine requested. The guard let them go without much resistance and her and Mirit parted ways upon reaching the fork in the hallway. Once the halls were emptied of men heading into the war chamber, Jasmine dashed to the secret room opening and shut the door behind her.

Jafar wasn't at the meeting yet—obvious enough by the heated discussion inside. Jasmine drew close to the lattice window, studying the men, seeing if there was anyone she recognized. Moments later, the main door opened and all conversation ceased.

"My Sultan," they said in union.

Jafar weaved for no one; everyone else adjusted to get out of his way. Straight and rigid as his body held him, he moved with fluidity—like a serpent carving a trail through grass. She could feel the tension in the room, the meekness radiating from the guards and captains alike, and Jafar's ever-present disdain for their insolence.

He turned to Amir first. "You said this was urgent."

"Yes, my Sultan." Quickly Amir gestured for the guards. Two armed ones had a tiny man between them wearing a tattered vest over his protruding ribs and skinny shoulders. The man looked utterly petrified as the guards shoved him in view of Jafar.

"This man is from Kaof, a district across the sea," said one of the guards. "He brings important news." He jabbed the man with his spear. "Speak, man."

The man stumbled forward. "M-m-my…S-Sultan…"

Jafar was unimpressed. "Is this a man or a rat?"

The chamber filled with laughter, making Jasmine wish she could slap every one of them individually. They probably ate more in one day than the poor man had in a week. "I'm—my name, my S-Sultan," the man tried, "is Yusef. I—I grew up in a shack, underground—"

"My guards brought you all this way to bore me with your life story?"

More cruel laughs. The man looked ready to cry. "T-there is a group of people…men. M-men who…want you dead, my Sultan."

At that, the mockery in the room subsided. Jasmine drew closer to the light, catching how the men started to whisper in hushed tones. Jafar smiled coldly.

"Go on," he said.

"T-They meet." The man swallowed, stepping forward. "Frequently. I overhear them, you see. Up above me." His thin hand formed a fist, pretending to knock on a roof.

A chill ran through her even though the threat wasn't directed at her. Jasmine strained her neck to see Jafar's reaction, to see if he showed any signs of unease. She should've known better: even if he were, he hid his emotions well.

"Plenty would see me dead. People far and wide would kill to have my power." Jafar idly summoned his scepter out of thin air. "So far, you've failed spectacularly to pique my interest on why this band of fools should affect me."

A guard stepped forward, grabbing the man. "Is he wasting your time, my Sultan?"

"Wait—wait!" the man squeaked. "They…aren't like the rest. They're smart. Armed. I… I just wanted to warn you, great leader. They're not drunkards like me—they're bandits. I…I worry for your safety."

Jafar didn't answer, making Jasmine wonder if the witness's account was indeed unsettling to him. How could it not be? Bands formed for the specific purpose of killing her would've terrified her beyond belief, as it would any normal person—but with all his powers, she had to remember he was no such normal person.

"At night, I hear them above me, chanting…"

Jafar still wasn't saying anything. Even the man's breath was inaudible as the council waited for movement from their ruler.

Suddenly, the small man was jerked into the air. Jasmine shrunk at the abruptness while Jafar lifted his hand, forcing the man closer. By the intensity of the man's wails and the focus of Jafar's gaze, she knew he had to be confirming the man's story in a more thorough, invasive way. Finally, Jafar released him, letting the man crumple to the floor.

"Reward this man for his fidelity," is all Jafar said.

The man's wails turned to appreciative gasps as the guards hoisted him back to his feet. "Thank you, great leader! Oh, thank you—!"

Jafar swished his hand. "Get him out of my sight."

They did at once. Conversation filled the chamber again, now alight with plans of how to solve the Sultan's assassination problem—their ideas anything but humane. Jasmine couldn't believe how much the Sultan's council had changed, how it had been reduced to a band of bloodthirsty wolves.

"I know Kaof, my Sultan," said a thick-bearded man whose face seemed familiar. "Send me there and the bandits' heads will be yours by sundown."

It dawned on her then: he was the one with Amir and Jafar when she came to ask for help with Mirit. Despite the man's boldness—his voice without the same meekness that infiltrated the others—Jafar was still unimpressed. "Lop off one head and five more will grow in its place," he bit out, quieting the room. "These bandits must be studied. Ripped from their roots."

The man tried again. "Let me—"

"Your duty is to Agrabah," Jafar's voice rose. "Have I made myself clear?"

It seemed he did. The brilliant answers among his council died away and the bearded man lowered his head, muttering a quick, "yes, my Sultan."

"The lot of you," Jafar swept his scepter around the room, "will rule in my stead when I'm in Kaof. Everything you do will be under my watch. Do not disappoint me."

While the men agreed and vowed their obedience, Jasmine took the time to adjust to the new information. Jafar would be leaving. He never left—not once since he took over Agrabah and never without her. She had grown so used to his presence that she never fathomed he would put his powers to better use by leaving the little nest that was Agrabah.

He would be leaving. Leaving her alone.

She didn't know how to react.

Following the orders, the meeting was dismissed and the men swarmed out, leaving Jafar to study the map alone. Jasmine stayed seated where she was, unsure if she wanted to risk him hearing her until he'd dismissed himself.

"What do you think?"

Jasmine frowned, straining her neck to see who he was talking to until his head tilted up towards her window, waiting expectantly for her response. A blush crept up her neck.

"I think you're being unreasonable," she said, her voice far too loud and echoey in a room not meant for a speaker. Jafar smirked, gesturing her down.

"Come."

Her—allowed in the war chamber? To talk about politics? She would be daft to refuse such an order. Gathering her dress, she started down the stairs and made her way to the main war chamber entrance.

Ahead of her, some of the men from the meeting were still wallowing down the hallway, not yet reaching the corner. One man looked back and saw her—that man with the thick beard. Even as he kept up with the rest, he continued to stare, maybe interested that she'd popped out of some hole in the wall. She wasted no time slipping into the chamber and joining Jafar by the map.

"My approach is unreasonable you say."

"They don't mean anything," said Jasmine. "Most people don't know who you are or your intentions."

Not that knowing his intentions would make him more likable, she casually thought. Jafar gave her a long, searching look, but showed no signs of interrupting.

"You have an opportunity to show them what you can do," she went on. "Show your power. Help them eat, find shelter. They would have no reason to assassinate someone aiding them."

Jafar let his sneer slip. "Your trade with Shirabad was sufficient for both your cities and yet they still came for your neck."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"The prince thought I was weak because…" She cleared her throat. "Because I'm a woman."

"You are weak."

Her eyes flashed up. Jafar smiled plainly now. "But you don't see it that way."

"I wasn't a fit—"

"Spare me your rehearsed lines." He turned, walking further down the map. "You think you know things. You think you're a better leader than I. Perhaps you believe you were just unlucky to be the first Sultan in a century to encounter war."

More of the blush crept up her neck, now from anger. "Well, I can't exactly help being a woman."

"Your sex had nothing to do with it," said Jafar, sending the map pieces toppling. "Man or woman—they would have come for you. Your only chance was to have had someone like me on your side."

Jasmine openly rolled her eyes.

"Where was your military demonstration? Your negotiations with Shirabad when you came to power? Your council?"

"I had a council."

"A vizier?" His brow raised.

Jasmine felt a rock in her throat. "Hakim," she got out.

"A man who could council you where to aim a sword and nothing more."

"Well, it's not like viziers had ever been trustworthy in my experience."

"Trustworthy," said Jafar.

For a moment, they said nothing more, just glowered at each other from across the Agrabah map. The adrenaline was building inside her, ready to go to war with him all over again, the very thing she'd trained herself all these weeks not to do. Maybe Mirit had a point to be hesitant with letting her leave the dayroom.

But she didn't detect anger in him—just his usual intensity that followed him into every conversation they shared. Without a word, Jafar touched the map, and suddenly the paper and pieces were fading, fading into some sort of colorless matter. They formed into tall figures, and with each second, the figures became more distinct—humanistic and statuesque, so tall, they even towered over Jafar. Jasmine took several steps to safety as new ones formed in front of her, around her.

Jafar appeared behind one. "You've read books," he said. "Have you read the tale of Sultan Nurad II?"

Jasmine looked around as she studied their faces, now becoming so detailed she'd believe them to be real colorless people.

"Nurad the red," she recalled. "A despicable man."

"Despicable how?"

Jasmine found Nurad's statue wearing long robes and a jeweled turban. His face was screwed in tight as if he were shouting at someone. "He went on a war expedition for a meaningless cause and had his men rape thousands of women and children."

"And he died on the battlefield for his homeland." Jafar appeared behind a new statue, a thinner man with a scribe. "Do you know this man?"

Jasmine shook her head.

"Hamza. Nurad's vizier."

Jasmine stepped closer, her eyebrows knitting in a line. Whether it was Jafar's interpretation of the man or not—this vizier looked small and undistinguishable, a person who never held a sword in their life.

"Hamza counseled him to go to war," said Jafar. "Nurad was hesitant. He didn't have the means. His lands suffered droughts and his people starved and his enemies' armies outnumbered his own three to one."

The statues around her plummeted into the ground, giving way for a new scene. Statues formed, women and children huddled into the ground, teethless, desperation in their colorless eyes. Beside her, a statue of Nurad sat deflated in his throne, his head in his hands.

"But where Nurad saw deficiency—Hamza saw greatness." Jafar emerged from the statue's hands. "Strategy would defeat anyone. And though Nurad succumbed to his wounds in battle, Hamza was right in the end, and his people remained free of foreign influence."

Jasmine reached out, touching one of the distressed mother's faces, which dissipated like sand. She turned to Jafar.

"So he counselled him to his death," she surmised.

Abruptly, the scene changed—returning them to the war chamber. Jafar crossed his arms together. "A new Sultan would come to power. Nurad's brother, for he had no other heirs. Hamza served his brother just the same. And the Sultan after him."

"Interesting how Hamza survived them all."

Jafar's lips curved. "Viziers have always taken the work for personal gain, princess. Every man in every council takes it for personal gain. You will not find one vizier who has been trustworthy. Hamza was not a great vizier because he was good-hearted. He was cunning, sharp, and he wanted his kingdom to flourish. And so it did."

With one flick of his wrist, he sent the map spiraling into a field of green, images of lands, working merchants, and strong walls. "That makes a good council. Subjects whose loyalties lie with the land over the Sultan himself. Your council was useless the moment you selected a man whose love for you outweighed the good of Agrabah's."

Jasmine stuck a hand in the scenery, destroying the illusion. "So I should've picked someone like you—someone who would betray me and torture me like you did my father?"

Yes, she would go there. If he wanted to preach about self-righteousness and the good of the kingdom, she wouldn't let him do it without atoning for his mistakes.

"Your father was a frustrating man to serve," he said simply.

"And that warrants torturing him?"

"If provoked, yes."

Jasmine scoffed. He would sure be singing a different tune if it were him writhing on the ground.

"Very well, princess. We'll do it your way." She was thrown back into a statuesque scene, the same one that showed Nurad on his throne. By his side stood Hamza, comforting him. "Hamza is madly infatuated with his Sultan and would rather die than see him go off to battle where he could meet a fatal end. They never go to war. Peace and harmony rule the land."

Jasmine said nothing.

"Ah—until the enemy swoops in anyway. The walls are unguarded, meaning the capture of their kingdom is swift. The enemy meets little resistance breaking into the palace. Both Nurad and Hamza are captured, beheaded, and strung up to establish dominance. The women and children are rounded up like cattle for the foreign men."

The scene was changing, shifting—showing heads on spikes, tongues out, and women being captured, their homes invaded. It took everything in her to remember that all of it was an illusion.

When she opened her eyes, they were back in the war chamber, Jafar standing in front of her, his chin raised. "Now the same fate awaits them as the foreign civilians from before. Which do you prefer, princess? Thousands of women raped in Agrabah or thousands in some foreign land?"

"Neither," she bit out.

He smiled knowingly. "Sometimes there is no alternative. You must choose. That's why it's helpful to have someone selfish in your council."

Jasmine too raised her chin. "You have no vizier."

"The rules don't apply to me. Not when I can do this." He raised his hands, disfiguring their reality in a multitude of colors, shapes, and images. Jasmine kept her focus on him instead of all the distractions thrown her way. In one sweep of magic, reality stilled once more. "Now do you understand, princess?"

The story was interesting, she'd give him that. And maybe a part of him was right about Nurad. Maybe Hamza had made the right decision, although whether it was due to his supposed tact for advising or sheer luck, she didn't know.

"I understand," said Jasmine. "But not every ruler has a superiority complex. There are leaders with no motive, who simply want the good of their people—"

"All rulers have motives. Even you."

Jasmine blinked. "Me?"

"You want to be adored," he said, drawing closer. "Not respected, not feared. Because it tears you apart to be thought of as cruel, even for the good of the country." He came before her, angling his face down to hers. "You want a fantasy. An illusion that will never come to be."

Jasmine met his gaze unwaveringly. "I want to be the ruler my mother was."

"And how did that end for her?"

For a moment—she saw red, the reaction he wanted from her. But instead of acting outright, Jasmine smiled sweetly. "I'd say her legacy far proceeds the one that birthed you."

Now his face tightened. Jasmine continued to smile. "See?" she whispered. "I can be cruel."

He reached up, stroking her cheek. "And I can be adored."

Flustered, Jasmine pulled away and endured his subsequent snicker. He then plucked a book out of thin air and dropped it in her hands; even though it was half the size of most books she'd read, it was heavy—as if each page was made of gold.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The history of your line. Cut and dry. You'll find I wasn't jesting about some of them having harems."

Jasmine looked up. "But none were so terrible as Nurad."

"As I said, every royal line has their ruthlessness." He inclined his head. "Except the land of that prince you so adored. Alibabwa, was it? Because it simply does not exist."

Jasmine ignored the jab. "Pascua? Gräda? The Abbas?" she offered examples. "They took our people in when Shirabad invaded. They opened their gates when we needed them."

"Did they?"

Jasmine's frown deepened, not understanding. Jafar again gestured to the book, his face infuriatingly amused. "Read that."


His words stayed with her long after she left the war chamber. Jasmine tried to busy herself in other things—in studies, in grooming, in his book, even, but all she could think about was how their conversation ended and what had truly happened in the Abbas.

Jasmine stayed quiet as Mirit bathed her, trying to focus on the fresh creams soaking into her scalp, the fragrance of lemon and lavender. It would be impolite to bother her maid with troubling questions, especially so soon after her brush with death, but Jasmine found it impossible to think of anything else.

After Mirit had combed her hair and arranged Jasmine into bed, she could stand it no longer. "Mirit."

"Yes, princess?"

"You told me before that I helped you and your husband escape to the Abbas when Shirabad came."

From the corner of her eye, she could see Mirit pivot from arranging the throw pillows. "Yes," she said cautiously.

"Was it peaceful when you got there? Or was there conflict?"

Silence followed, a silence that formed a pit in Jasmine's stomach with each passing second. She could feel it—the hesitation in Mirit, the way her maid's mind scrambled to formulate an appropriate answer, something that would save her feelings.

"Peace or conflict, Mirit."

Her maid grimaced. "They turned us away."

Jasmine took the blow, horrible and gut-wrenching as it was. "Where is your husband? You never told me. Is he in the palace with you?"

Mirit went silent once more. Jasmine heart thudded as Mirit's face churned in pain.

"Mirit."

"No," Mirit said finally. "He's not."

The world around her was blackening, caving in. So there was something to Jafar's words—something no one had the gall to tell her upfront. Jasmine swallowed. "What happened?" she had to ask.

Mirit was still debating telling her—it was obvious, but Jasmine hoped her desperation would push Mirit to give her what she had to know.

Finally, her maid caved. "Some of the families tried to force themselves in. They tried breaking down the gates and the Abbas' guards came and…made them stop." Her voice quivered. "My husband was among them."

Jasmine couldn't stop the tears filling her eyes. She squeezed them shut, but that just made the tears fall. "I thought you'd be safe there."

"I know," said Mirit.

"That's it? 'I know'?" Jasmine stood up. "Why are you not furious with me? Why do you want me to be Sultan after everything I've put you through? You should be overjoyed that I'm not in power anymore—"

"I believe in you, princess." Mirit's voice stayed firm. "So did my husband. Until the end."

Jasmine whirled away, holding her hair at the roots. She felt Mirit's hands on her arms, gently guiding them to loosen. "Please do not weep for him. He died freely—not a slave of Shirabad. That was the greatest gift you could have given him."

At once, Jasmine pulled away, coming to stand in front of her window. A dry wind hit her, ruffling the hair around her shoulders, freezing the feel of her tears. Mirit's husband could have begged for death at the hands of the Abba's guards and it still wouldn't have sat right with her. It was torture enough remembering the people she'd lost during the siege. The only silver lining was that maybe some of them had been saved—but even that silver had burned out.

"I watched Baba rule all my life. Even after my mother died, I was sure I could handle it. I could handle being the next Sultan just as the men before me did. Ruling was just council meetings and trade and loving the people." She looked over her shoulder. "I thought that, Mirit. I thought war only really existed in the stories my maids would read me. A thing angry men did without reason."

"The prince of Shirabad was a very angry man."

"Because of me! Because I was easy prey." Jasmine inhaled a shaky breath. "Maybe if I'd just…held my tongue and married one of those witless princes—"

"This game does not serve you, princess."

She shut her eyes again. What game did serve her? What game had ever served her where she had been victorious? Everything she did felt like some grand failure—something Jafar might have been right about her. Hadn't she done anything right by her people?

Mirit's fingers were in her hair again, stroking the strands out of her face, off her neck. With a pang, Jasmine realized those hands were something, some small nugget of victory. She was the reason they were warm and soft, not dead and cold. Jafar wouldn't have saved her on his own.

Jasmine accepted Mirit's embrace but her eyes focused past her, on the sprawled open book among her quilts. It called to her now, sang to her.

"Let me prepare another bath," Mirit was saying.

"No."

"No?"

Jasmine shook her head. "I'd like to read."


He hadn't done it for her.

That's what he told himself when he'd transported himself down below the palace, down to the room where the old woman decayed on a bed of wood. She laid quivering before him, gasping and spluttering like a fish out of water. A nuisance. A nobody. Someone far too old and sick for him to understand why the princess so desperately wanted to fight for her life.

Then again, the princess was weak. Swayed by the needs of the desperate, held down by the dirty grappling hands that wanted to drag her down into their pit of despair. Perhaps when he first came to her father's council, he should've acted sickly in turn—maybe he could've taken a fall in front of her—and her first impression of him would be sympathy instead of hate. She was always so keen on handing it out, even he couldn't be refused it.

Jafar hovered the woman into the air, a change she hardly noticed in the midst of her decline.

And, oh, how he wanted to kill. He hadn't in such a long time. Dispose of her, still rang loud and clear in his head. Dispose of her, dispose of her.

He didn't.

And he hadn't done it for her.

Whether it came from the jurisdiction of his magic or his personal desires, he knew not. But the solution remained. If he wanted what he wanted from her, he needed her alive. Surrendering to her tantrum was anything but ideal, yet for better or worse, he wanted her still. Such a thing would pass, he knew. It passed with every other woman he'd been with. Once the novelty wore off, he would be ready to move on from her. Let him thoroughly enjoy the spoils of his conquest, his prize that was long denied him. He enjoyed her now. So he let it be and surged life back into the dying woman.

Mid-afternoon, Jafar studied the progress of his small council in his study. Amir stood at his old podium while Ranvir took the couch, also utilizing Jafar's magic to spy on the foreign bandits. Although many of the men in the war chamber shared their enthusiasm to dismember the foreigners, only so many of them had half a brain he trusted to study them before such dismemberment could occur.

The bandits were much like that rat-man insisted in the chamber earlier. Smart, crafty. Able-bodied. Valiant for whatever it was worth. Jafar was more than alighted; if there was ever an opportunity to show the world what would happen to those who challenged him, it was this.

Ranvir suddenly got to his feet, his hand paused on an image. "My Sultan." He took the image in his hands and expanded it.

Jafar looked at it. "A sword."

"Aye," said Ranvir, eyes bright. "Made of wootz steel."

"Your point?"

Ranvir closed the image, still beaming like a fool. "Their swords are made from wootz steel. No area of that continent is industrialized enough to create steel like that."

"No area?" said Amir. "I doubt you are so well-traveled."

Jafar silenced him, loath to tolerate another moment of their pathetic rivalry. "Finish your thought," he ordered.

"Their weapons were imported. From somewhere in this country."

Amir started again. "We have fealty from every nation—"

"Doesn't seem that way, friend," said Ranvir. "One of our neighbors has been aiding your assassination, my Sultan."

Jafar's lips spread. It seemed he had chosen the right people for his small council after all.

"Who?" said Amir.

"I have a suspicion."

Ranvir brought up another image, one that bypassed the swords to a lone cloth on a table. The colors were unmistakable: green and yellow with a Pascua insignia. Jafar lifted his eyes to Ranvir and nodded curtly. He may have held his hand with the maid, but indeed another's blood would be spilled that night.

And it would be a woman's.


The Pascua harlot was retiring for bed, shrugging herself out of her corset and donning a gown that made her as sultry as a peasant hag. She began taking out her hair from its style, though no sane man would think it a style with all the bits poking out. On and on she went, unraveling and unraveling her thin yellow hair until she finally turned from her mirror, finally hearing the slow drag of his breathing.

"Who's there?"

Jafar normally liked to play with his food, but this time, his hunger got the best of him. He took form in front of her, his tone flat. "The man you want dead."

The harlot grew still, though her heartbeat deliciously raced. He waited for a moment, waited for her to run, to call for her handmaids, to scream, even. The harlot kept him waiting.

"You don't even have the grace to deny it," said Jafar, ridiculing. "After I gave you crops. Fed your starving people."

"For now." She spoke it proudly, as if it were nothing noble. Jafar scoffed at her.

"So the harlot dooms herself over a fictionalized fantasy in her mind. A pity, truly. Although you and I can agree on one thing. You're useless without your husband."

Her skull was thrown back into her mirror, shattering it into a web of shards. She gasped, her hands at her neck, holding something strangling her.

"My headless husband," she spat out.

"Headless, yes." Jafar took a step closer. "Something you seem to crave for yourself. Fortunately for you, I will give you what you desire."

Shards from the mirror lifted, turning to slitted points as they drew near her throat. Her grey eyes widened, the fear slipping free the way it often did with cowards. At the last moment, her eyes narrowed once more.

"It's—hers," she choked out. "The true Sultan—it was—always—Jas—"

She was dead before she finished, the blood coating the glass then cascading down to the floor where, according to Pascua philosophers, she would be reborn as a weed.


The harem disbanded without a word after dinner, Jafar's absence the topic of conversation for most of the courses. Jasmine didn't mind. For how obsessed he could get with his enemies, it didn't surprise her that dining with women would be the last thing on his mind. She would gladly accept the break going into his bedchambers in kind.

The palace servants hadn't yet tied the curtains down the hallway, so Jasmine pulled her shawl over her shoulders to warm herself. Mirit had stayed in her room during dinner to wash her bedding materials. She would love hearing that dinner had been pleasant and Jafar-free.

Down the hall, moonlight sprawled in diamonds, cutting sharp and angular against the backdrop of shadows. Jasmine carried on until a small cough made her jump.

Clamping a hand over her chest, she watched as the silhouette of a man emerged, looking as if he was posed intentionally to catch a passerby off-guard. She knew him at once. That bearded man from the war chamber.

"Sorry," he said, his hands up innocently. "Didn't mean to frighten you."

He most certainly did and Jasmine refused to think otherwise. Slowly, she lowered her hand, but didn't relent her guard. The man stuck out his own hand. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Ranvir."

Jasmine just looked at him. "The cutthroat."

"You've heard of me." He sounded surprised. "Perceptive for a woman, aren't you?"

"Women have eyes, just as men."

"You'd think my wife didn't," he scoffed, attempting a joke. "Every time I walked by her, I'd scare her out of her wits."

Jasmine didn't smile. Something about him made her uneasy when she saw him outside the war chamber and being in his presence now only inflamed that instinct. Knowing he was the notorious cutthroat did nothing to help her nerves either.

"And is your wife proud of the work you're doing, Ranvir?" she asked pointedly.

"She will be," said Ranvir, "in the end."

She wasn't going to pretend she understood. Ranvir turned from her, jaunting around the hall relaxed and unbothered. By all accounts, he looked innocent. Could easily be mistaken for a loving father or some brilliant cooker of baklava. All he needed was a trim. But that part of him that refused to be trimmed made it possible his wildness carried into his character, the very character that made it amusing for him to kill Agrabah citizens in their beds. It was the highest dishonor for Jafar to employ a person like that into his service.

"So," he said idly, cracking his knuckles. "Sultan's taken a liking to you, eh?"

Jasmine grew suspicious. "Is there a purpose to this?"

"Oh, aye." He pivoted on his heel. "Just thought it best I get familiar with the relations that go on in the palace."

She cast her eyes away. "If you're trying to find disloyalty in me or trying to scare me out of my wits, you should know I have longed for death far longer than you've been here."

"Now, now, woman." He laughed, the moonlight melting off his body with each step. "Fret not. You're safe from my list by the Sultan's request. It is fascinating though, you two. How he so hates disloyalty but doesn't mind it from you."

"We've never seen eye to eye."

"Oh, your husband will so appreciate hearing that."

"My husband?"

He didn't mean that. He couldn't. Regardless, he had caught her attention and he knew it. Though most of his face was obscured by shadow, she could see the mischievous quirk in his beard, his eyes that danced like riddles. "Poor fellow and his little chimp must not have been so sly sneaking in. Damn." He gave another shrug. "I know he waited a long time to reach you."

Jasmine's heart began to race. Everyone that lived in Agrabah knew she was married to Aladdin. Few knew about Abu. "You know Aladdin?"

"We took the same ship."

A ship? "When?"

"A fortnight ago, maybe."

Within moments, all emotion came rushing to the surface—so many different ones she couldn't decide which to feel. She held it in though, remembering that a sly cutthroat was giving her this information, not Mirit.

"I have no reason to trust you," said Jasmine.

"Would you rather trust the Sultan?" Ranvir's eyes widened. "I may not have been here as long as you, but enough to see the Sultan can be a possessive man. Be dumb of him to bring up a rival when things are going so well between you two, ain't it?"

Jasmine could scarcely breathe. He jaunted on, disappearing behind her.

"Would also be dumb of him to tell you what he's doing to the Pascua queen as we speak…"

She whirled around. "What?"

Ranvir continued walking, his face locked in a grimace. Jasmine pressed on. "What's going on with Dhyana?"

"I'm afraid I've said too much."

"No—no. Tell me."

Ranvir went quiet, seemingly satisfied he had drawn so much emotion out of her. She couldn't rein it in—not when the fate of Aladdin and Dhyana were in question. "Is she okay—can you tell me that?"

"Must I?" said Ranvir.

An unspoken truth passed between them, making Jasmine exhale sharply. Ranvir stopped his circuit, pausing, just past her shoulders. "Remember," he said, soft as a whisper. "It's your choice. Who to believe."

Jasmine could only watch as his silhouette slinked back down the hallway.


Underneath the muted moon and stars, her father's tomb sat dark in the courtyard, absent of the usual tomb-guards that kept thieves from desecrating the bodies and their buried jewels. Jasmine carefully stepped around the other tombs with her torch, gently opening the sconce attached to the redwood. The lantern livened, kindling the blue and white glass.

She had no reason to be surprised by Ranvir's words. If Aladdin really had found his way back, trekking through storms and snow and Allah knew what else—why would Jafar share that information with her? He'd only want her to know if he were still intent on torturing her, but she wasn't sure that was his resolve anymore, especially after the ordeal with Mirit.

Somehow that made things worse.

No matter how much she enticed him, no matter how many times Mirit insisted she could change him—he was a cruel, immoral person who only served himself in the end. Changing the core of who he was, was like conjuring flesh back onto her father's bones. Impossible.

What was power if she couldn't stop him from torturing Aladdin or slaying Dhyana?

Jasmine swallowed, letting her fingers linger on her father's tomb. How she envied him—how she envied her father escaping this life. At least he was safe wherever he was, forever out of Jafar's gasp. Perhaps drinking his morning tea beside her mother—the Sultana—in the afterlife.

She would give anything to see her husband again.

What had he heard during his short time in Agrabah? Did people talk about her—how she'd been reduced to Jafar's whore? Were there rumors she loved him? She prayed that wasn't the case. Such a rumor, even one he ought to know better, would destroy him—just as it would destroy her.

She had to find him. Somehow. Someway.

Beyond the cemetery terrace, Jasmine could hear the voices down in the city, the bustling of the nightlife. Past the tomb she could see the lights, the nightly spectacles, the dance of fire between adobe buildings—so close yet so far from her grasp. Aladdin could still be down there for all she knew. It wouldn't be unlike Jafar to have him within reaching distance of the palace, but forever unable to cross the gates.

She didn't have those same restraints. Did she?

Jasmine drew closer to the edge of the terrace and for a moment let herself consider it. Aladdin would be down there, bundled up in his old tower. Jafar would be in a different continent, studying the assassins for an unforeseeable amount of time. She would be hidden underneath the fruits of one of the carts leaving the palace, letting herself be rolled out to the public, then breaking free, free in Agrabah—for a moment untethered, free to do as she wished—

Her heart began to race.

Was it possible?

If he wasn't watching her. And he always watched her. He would be watching everyone in the palace as he said in the war chamber. When she was angry with him or didn't want to be watched, that was when he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away.

Unless she gave him reason to.

Jasmine's eyes stilled over the hypnotic dance of fire, the way the light chased the torch. He would be so beyond angry with her. Risking leaving the palace had the very real consequences of destroying all her progress thus far; it would be a very clear message that she still yearned for her husband, a truth that could have her shackled to the dungeons for eternity. A life of misery.

But misery was no stranger to her. And if Agrabah was truly lost to her, she would fight to have one last moment with her husband.

Jasmine's chest swelled, swelled with the plan too great for her to vanquish, and promptly extinguished the torchlight with a twist of her fingers.


She found him alone in his study, a room no larger than a cellar with tall bookcases and podiums at every corner. She'd never been in this part of the palace before, not even when he was vizier. Avoiding him had been her mission in life as the Sultan's daughter, and that entailed a strict avoidance of spaces he might've been.

Now he occupied it in a way she'd always imagined: standing beside his war map replica, deep in the studies of some sorcerer book. If he was surprised to see her, his tone betrayed nothing. "Princess."

She took a few steps inside, examining more of the room. "So this is it." Her fingers ran over a gold knickknack. "Where the vizier plots."

"Where your Sultan plots."

Jasmine smirked to herself. His responses were becoming predictable. "You don't think to expand it with all your powers?"

"It's in need of no alteration," said Jafar.

Interesting, she thought. She believed he was the kind of man who would strip away any reminder of his life before. Apparently he did value some things from his past.

Never the less—she had her own plot to get on with.

"I read it." Jasmine took out his book, leaving it on one of the abandoned podiums.

"And?"

Beside where he stood, she hopped up on the ledge of the map. "Droll reading. But informative."

His eyes swept over her figure, a look even she couldn't miss it. The gesture could have been seen as childish, something no one would dare do in front of the Sultan of Agrabah, something no royal princess would do who respected the property of her council, but he showed no signs of ordering her down. His face finally settled on a sneer.

"I imagine it would be for someone of your coddled upbringing," he said, returning to his book.

"You were right."

His eyes shot up. Again—too predictable. "My ruling methods may have been…a bit soft," she said. "To answer your question, I would rather save the women of Agrabah than a land I hardly know or a land that exploits us."

He gave a slow nod. "Very good."

Jasmine's eyes lowered to his hands where he bolstered the impressively paged volume. She was spinning a web and the web was spinning her too.

"Make me your vizier," she said brazenly.

He laughed. "You, my vizier?"

"You don't have one. All the great sultans have one—you said it yourself."

His book forgotten, he came to stand in front of her, his torso at her knees. "And what information do you possess that could feasibly council me?"

Jasmine thought quickly. "How to control yourself. How to be more diplomatic." She paused, considered, then made the leap. "How to deal with the rulers of other countries, say…the Pascua queen."

The bastard didn't even have the heart to look ashamed. Instead, he just brushed a hair from her face, guiding it off her forehead.

"That's taken care of," he told her.

Her stomach flipped. "Taken care of?"

"Yes. It's taken care of."

So she wasn't going to get the truth from him. Typical. She was right to trust Ranvir over him. He had really slayed Dhyana—the rightful ruler of Pascua and her friend—and was never planning on telling her.

Pushing down her anger, she took his hand to implement the next phase of her plan.

"I could counsel you how to do that better."

His eyes darkened, letting her puppeteer his hand back down her face, down her neck. "What else?" he whispered.

Soon, her back made a bed of the war map, her shoulders digging into the Isle of Reber, her thighs coating the bricked towers of Uthman. He read her discomfort and transported them, but Jasmine ordered them back to how they were. She wanted it to her hurt, wanted the clay figurines to impale her, the paper to peel underneath her fingernails. Only the hurt and the pain would drown out everything else.

In half the time, with the country her sheets and her legs clasped around his waist, she had him spent.

"How long will you be gone?" she asked, fixing her garments back in place.

He took a long pause, still coming to. "Until the weed is uprooted."

"That will take a while."

"Perhaps." He looked at her. "Should you want more familiarity with the casualties that accompany ruling, I extend you the invitation."

She tried not to hesitate while tying the laces in her dress. This would be a valuable opportunity. Another step forward to growing close to him.

"I think the Sultan can manage," she said instead.

He made a surprised noise. "For once she doesn't want to insert herself in politics."

Jasmine smiled furtively. "I trust you."

Whether he believed her words or not, they made an imprint enough for him to mercilessly bend her over the map and shove her face in the parchment-trees of Gräda until she too was spent.


Jafar left for Kaof in the middle of the night. The palace went on as usual, the servants with their chores, the guards at their posts. His threat of violence hung heavy in the palace walls, so no one dared risk anything, knowing full well he would be watching. Only Jasmine prepared to act.

"All day?" Mirit was in disbelief. "No—I cannot possibly leave you alone that long."

"I am more than capable."

"But your baths, your food—"

"The Sultan is gone. I don't have need to leave the room." Jasmine took her hands, gripping her knuckles. "Ever since he's been here, I haven't had the chance to properly mourn my father. I would like to spend the day in prayer."

Mirit sighed and grimaced. Jasmine hated lying to her like this, but she couldn't risk Mirit knowing the truth and facing Jafar's wrath when he returned. She needed her to be as clueless as the next.

"I will call if I need you."

"May I just…check on you—"

"I don't wish to be disturbed, Mirit."

Under the guise of prayer, Mirit eventually gave in and left for the night. Jasmine went straight to her wardrobe and pushed through her rich silks and linen dresses until she found them: her black harem pants and top, the clothes she wore during the siege. Months in the closet had wrinkled them greatly.

They were perfect.

The base of the palace was much as she remembered when Dalia last snuck her out, the room lined with filled fruit carts ready to be distributed to the people. They went out twice a day, once at daybreak and once at midnight. Servant hands were preparing to send them out when Jasmine ducked behind one such cart, waiting for an opening, a moment for them to turn away.

Once they did, Jasmine quickly hopped into the cart and stacked the oranges over her body, letting them bury her from head to toe. Her heart was racing. This was a dangerous game—and it might end before it began if Jafar had some magical restraint on her.

A man shouted and soon the carts—including hers—were thrust forward. Jasmine held in her breath, bracing for the restraints, the magic, something—until the small visible gap between the oranges turned from ceiling to open sky. The cart carried on without any resistance.

She closed her eyes then, trying to keep her thoughts hopeful on Aladdin and not the distracting soreness between her legs.


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