Disclaimer: Aladdin and its characters belong to Disney.

The sound of clanking metal filled the inn, coming to a head every time the Genie brought his mallet down on Aladdin's chains. Aladdin just sat there and grimaced, praying the Genie was as good with a mallet as he was with granting wishes. Still, broken wrists were better than permanent cuffs.

At last, the rusted metal cracked, destroying the bind. Aladdin held up his arms, the chains dangling from his cuffs like carpet tassels.

"There," said the Genie. "Now you're a genie too!"

"Hilarious, dear." Dalia and Aladdin shared a weary look as she nursed a pot of stew over the cookfire, her round-eyed baby girl swaddled against her breast. The Genie gave a dismissive wave, setting the mallet aside.

"We'll get the rest off him when we reach the mountains. You know. Where an actual blacksmith lives."

Aladdin scratched the sand out of his hair. "What are you guys doing out here again?"

The Genie offered him a swig of water. "Lindy needed a miracle drug to help her sleep. And the only place to find it was in this pit on the edge of the world. See the bags under my eyes, kid?" He pulled down the skin of his cheeks. "Parenting can be a real bitch."

"So we're not far from Agrabah."

"No—we're far. Like thousands and thousands of miles far."

They were lucky they weren't robbed, Aladdin thought. Bringing their newborn daughter to a foreign land where the slave trade was rampant was the makings for a disaster. He couldn't help but be thankful, however, that fate kept them safe and brought them together.

"Whatever the reason—you saved our lives."

Abu chirped in agreement. The Genie grinned ear to ear. "Hey, that's kind of our thing, isn't it?"

Dalia finished the stew and handed Aladdin a bowl. He relished the scent of food—real food—that he hadn't had since his time in the palace, the day Jasmine's father died. Once they finished eating, Dalia took the bowls and cut up a ripe green melon for everyone to snack on, even feeding little mashed up pieces to her baby.

"He's still in power," Aladdin said grimly.

"Oh, we know. There's no shortage of rumors in this country, though it's hard to know if any of it's true." The Genie smiled to himself. "We were in the market the other day. The vendor claimed the sorcerer had three snake heads and obtained his power by drinking the sweet nectar of his melons!"

Aladdin guffawed. "And people really believe that?"

"Hey, you're eating it." The Genie nodded to the fruit in his palms. "There's a lot I could do with three snake heads."

Aladdin found himself smiling. The Genie found a seat next to him, his tone serious. "It's my fault he's back, kid. She came to me for advice after you and her father were poisoned. I thought…" His eyes went glassy. "I thought he could be controlled. Like I was controlled."

Every time Aladdin heard about what occurred while he was asleep, it cut him to ribbons. Those were the times she needed him most and he only made things worse by being another helpless victim she had to worry about. She must have felt so alone, so afraid.

Aladdin decided to look at the positives. "That piece of advice probably saved her life."

It was true, he knew. Rumors were rumors, but if they were right—Shirabad would have executed her and enslaved the people of Agrabah if it weren't for Jafar's intervention.

"And she can handle herself," Dalia said confidently. "She'd just want you to be safe."

"He probably told her I'm dead."

Dalia gave a snort. "Jasmine? Believe the vizier? She's known him a lot longer than you have, dear one, and she's never trusted a word that came slithering out of his mouth. Even in her sleep she distrusted him. Questioned! Besmirched!"

"Besmirched?" The Genie snorted too.

"It's a fitting word!"

Dalia had a point. Aladdin leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "If I could just…let her know I'm alive. That I'm trying to get to her, so she knows—"

"So she knows," said the Genie. "That won't help her one bit. It may torture her more knowing you're out there somewhere. Might make her do something rash—" he dragged a finger across his neck, "—that gets her killed."

"Don't be so dramatic," Dalia scolded.

"Hey, he's a bad dude."

"He wouldn't kill her."

"Why not?"

Dalia's eyes landed on Aladdin first, communicating something too nauseating for Aladdin to register. He quickly changed the subject. "I met this man on my ship to Agrabah. He said he had a grandfather, a diamond in the rough before me. He said there were other…things in the cave." Aladdin looked at the Genie. "Do you know anything about that?"

The Genie shrugged aimlessly. "You're making it sound like I had the whole cave to myself when all I really had was brass—brass—and more brass."

"Genie."

"I don't know, kid. Sorry."

Aladdin let his head hang, the smell of wet stew becoming suffocating. He stuck his face in his hands, struggling to find an optimistic side to this conundrum.

"Who knows," he muttered to himself. "The guy was probably drunk and making it up."

"Maybe." The Genie jumped to his feet. "But that might not be a bad place to check out before rushing back to Agrabah with no plan." His eyes sparkled as he waved around his thinking finger. "We may not have three snake heads, but we have the diamond in the rough. Maybe your little friend was onto something. Maybe there's something in there that can stop Jafar."

They all looked at each other, the new plan slowly settling in. Aladdin felt something stirring in his chest, something he hadn't felt in ages.

Hope.

A sharp rap came at the door—startling her awake.

"My Sultan," Amir was saying. "My Sultan."

Jasmine nearly rolled off her own bed trying to clamber for her bedclothes. The night before came rushing back into her mind and she realized to her horror she remembered nothing after she was spent. All she knew was that she fell asleep. In front of him.

Jafar was already on his feet, his black robe materialized over his body. While still floundering around for her own clothes, she sat back, finding herself already wearing a new turquoise bed robe that was exquisitely soft. Jafar voiced his approval for Amir to enter.

Her cheeks reddened as the door opened, the shame burning hot in her. She wished she could throw herself under the bed like she'd done as a child to avoid a scolding, to avoid as many people from the outside world discovering their involvement as possible.

As if they didn't already know, she chastised herself. The palace had always been ripe with gossip. Fortunately, when Amir entered, he didn't even look in her direction.

"Speak," said Jafar.

"The Pascua king was found beheaded on his travels back to his homeland. The country has…named you responsible, my Sultan."

Jasmine went pale. A sickening veil fell over her as her eyes landed on Jafar's back, who hadn't made the slightest indication the news had rattled him.

Amir continued. "I will assemble our soldiers at once—"

"No. If they want me to answer for this crime, they shall have me."

Amir's face twisted into a smirk as he bowed and took his leave. Jasmine read the implication between them all too well. "What did you do?"

Jafar turned. "Me—the assailant? I was rather occupied last night."

Jasmine continued to scowl as Jafar smiled humorlessly. "This may surprise you, princess, but I'm not responsible for every murder in the vicinity. Humans can be vicious creatures."

"I know it was you."

He gave a derisive scoff. Nonetheless, she could see the gears in his head turning, possibly contemplating giving her the information she wanted. Jasmine couldn't believe it. How could he kill the Pascua king after he'd laid aside his pride and surrendered to him? Did he have no honor?

Jasmine could answer that herself. No, he didn't.

"My new lieutenant," Jafar finally said, "may have been acting by his own mandates."

Jasmine was furious. "Control your dogs. He was a good man. He didn't deserve to die that way." She opened her fist, closed it again. "You can't be insulted by them blaming you—they don't know any better. You have to be diplomatic. Pascua is the primary food supplier to everyone in this country. If you hurt them, it would be suicide to us all."

"Suicide to those not under the Sultan's fold."

Jasmine was going to pretend he hadn't said that. Suddenly, an idea dawned on her—pure and perfect for initiating the next phase in her plan. "Take me with you."

Jafar raised an eyebrow.

"I can talk to the queen. I know her."

"Your time meddling in politics has ended, princess. For the good of everyone."

Anger coiled in her gut as she watched him stalk off, just as it always did when he dismissed her efforts at being a stalwart.

"I'd like to see you do better."

At that, he couldn't help but face her. "Is that a serious proposition?" he mocked, his tone disbelieving.

Jasmine stepped forward. "The only reason you're effective is because of your power. Because people are afraid of you and don't want their heads removed." She raised her chin. "Without your power, you'd be nothing to them."

Once the words left her mouth, she realized then she should've exercised more control. Insulting him put into question everything she had worked to get close to him and she knew he didn't take kindly to being insulted.

Sure enough, his eyes darkened as he studied her, his mind preparing a logical retort, but even someone as logical as him had to see the truth in her words—would they sing him praises and build him statues if he were powerless? Would they have taken so kindly to this male usurper when their female Sultan was still alive and well? Jasmine liked to think not.

She made her way around the bedposts to him, her long slender legs peeking out of the night robe he'd conjured for her. Jafar's eyes lowered. To an outsider looking in, she was a fool for questioning him, but she'd studied him, learned him better than one of her books, and she knew exactly what would reel the fish onto her hook. She knew she was the exception.

"I stuck out my neck for you when the king came. I didn't have to." Jasmine drew up into his space, her lashes long and half-lidded. "Was I wrong?" Her eyes flicked up to his. "Were you not the best thing to happen to Agrabah in over a millennium?"

Jafar's face was stone hard. She leaned in closer, her lips not a breath from his. "Prove it to me," she whispered. "Prove to me you can rule without fear."

"I don't have to prove anything to you."

"No. But I suspect you're craving a good challenge."

His eyebrows flattened.

There. That was it—the switch. Her bleeding bass, dangling from her hook.

Jasmine tried not to smile as she was swept up in the winds of his next teleportation.

"I will not kneel."

The Pascua queen, Dhyana, was a sharp-faced woman with grey-gold hair and shrewd eyes. She sat in a throne made of sawed pinewood and vines, something far more humble than others in different parts of the country. Their palace was wide and spacious, practically a forest; there was not a yard of tile not accompanied by a plant. Beneath Dhyana's olive dress, her pale feet stuck out, dirtied by earth—a tradition Pascua leaders believed helped them stay rooted and thus more diligent. She was exactly how Jasmine remembered.

Jafar, however, was less enthusiastic about interacting with her. Jasmine could see his long alluring fingers tightened around his scepter, perhaps struggling not to blow off Dhyana's head at will.

"You don't have a choice, my lady."

"First you slaughter my husband and then you come to my home and threaten me?" The queen's voice was loud, cutting. "Why even waste your breath, warlock? Why not just do us the honor of wiping us off the world like you did Shirabad?"

Jafar was considering it, she could tell. It was strange for her to watch Jafar squirm in this environment; for most of her life, he was a skilled linguist, skilled at manipulating her father and servants at will with his words alone. Now he didn't have to waste his patience on influencing others and it showed. His power had really gone to his head.

"More blood isn't necessary," he spoke curtly, "so long as you comply."

"Is that what you told my husband?" Dhyana's lip quivered with rage. "They told me how he was found. It's a great dishonor to kill a man of Pascua that way, did you know? Utterly inhumane. You don't want peace with us and your ignorance to our way of life proves—"

Jasmine caught the light in Jafar's scepter pulsing to life. She quickly threw herself between them. "My Sultan—let me have a word with the queen. Alone."

The light in the scepter steadily faded as he regarded her. He was beyond angry—she could read the tight locks in his face better than anyone. As vexed as he was, however, she knew the part of him that wanted to win her challenge grounded him to reason, so she was more than relieved to see him dissipate into the air, giving them the illusion of isolation.

Dhyana stood from her throne, approaching Jasmine. "How can you call this man sultan? After everything he's done—"

"Dhyana."

"I'm not blind, Jasmine. I see what he's doing—"

"Dhyana. Please."

The queen surveyed her all over, her face rolled up in contempt. "Maybe he has changed you. Bewitched you."

"You cannot declare war on Agrabah," Jasmine reasoned. "You and your people may be without a king—but if you don't comply, you'll be without everything. Your farmers will never have another harvest. The children will never grow to own land of their own. You'll have nothing—not even your lives." She reached for the queen's hand. "Swear fealty."

The queen jerked her hand away. "Maybe this is what I want. Maybe it's better like this, all of us disappearing in a puff of smoke." Her face was faraway, somewhere bleak. "I can't rule this country alone."

"Dhyana, you can—"

"No." She shook her head. "No. It was my husband they followed. I married into his family. That's the only reason they call me queen."

Jasmine's heart sank as she watched Dhyana drop her hardened mask, the grief starting to creep back into her features. She shook her head again. "I don't belong in this position. I don't know what I'm doing."

"I was in your shoes once."

"Oh, no. Ruling is in your blood. You've always had a handle on these things."

"That's not true." Hundreds of dead Agrabah soldiers and citizens was far from 'handling things' and she wouldn't let Dhyana forget it. Jasmine reached for her hand again, and this time, her attempt was successful. "I'm sorry," she said in earnest. "I know what it feels like...to lose a husband. Your pain is mine."

The queen swallowed, her eyes red-rimmed. Jasmine dropped her head, joining her other hand to cradle Dhyana's in warmth.

"You're right," said Jasmine. "Things may be different now—that I cannot deny you. You won't have your beloved, but you will have your future. All the Sultan is asking for is compliance. For you to acknowledge his power. Nothing will change for Pascua. But it starts with you. You must do what is right for your people, Dhyana. Give them the chance to live."

The queen plainly did not want to make a decision—so like her husband, the Pascua king. It hurt down to Jasmine's core to see how alike they responded to situations and how tragic it was to ask that she carry on without her other half.

From the far end of the room, Jasmine caught a glimmer in the air, some small crack in reality—likely Jafar waiting for them to wrap up their conversation. "The Sultan might be the best thing that's happened to this world." She hoped that was the finishing point, the turning one for Dhyana.

It wasn't. "So I acknowledge the warlock's power. That still doesn't change our crop problem."

Jasmine thought quickly. Maybe Jafar was the least of Dhyana's problems after all. Pascua had battled excessive rainfall for years now and it made sense why the task was daunting for Dhyana to face alone.

Jasmine found the spot where the glimmer in the air was.

"My Sultan."

A moment later, Jafar emerged from behind the pillars—still maintaining that illusion of not being anywhere close to overhear every word. When he came to stand beside them, he seemed relatively calmer than when he left.

"The queen will swear fealty," Jasmine told Jafar, then turned to Dhyana. "In return, the Sultan of Agrabah will restore your crops to full health to last your people many seasons."

The declaration hung in the air, both rulers still and soundless. Dhyana's face piqued but Jafar was frowning, struggling to understand her words and how they blatantly went against the more violent course of action he wanted to take.

Jasmine shot him a reproving glance. "Do you agree, my Sultan?"

Jafar continued to frown.

Take the bait, you bastard, she willed. Take the bait. It was logically sound—even he couldn't deny it, and it was the most civilized agreement they could come to that would keep everyone's lives intact.

Finally, Jafar inclined his head to the queen, the way he often did as the vizier. "And for reparations for your husband's untimely death."

Jasmine visibly relaxed.

"You mean it?" Dhyana was reeling. "You…but how?"

At that, Jafar smiled his first smile in the presence of the queen. He stepped past her towards the terrace, out where dirt and grass traveled for miles. Jasmine followed them closely, just in time to see Jafar lift his hand out to the fields, to see crops flourishing out of their roots and breaking through the earth's surface. Farmers below were ecstatic, disbelieving.

As if seeing her husband alive and in front of her again, Dhyana's face broke with relief. "I can hardly believe it…"

Jafar said nothing, keeping himself angled to the terrace. Jasmine looked at him again, looked at his frame against the backdrop of endless green, endless life, and it made her chest swell. This terrible monster of a man was capable of so much destruction, so much death and doom, and yet so much good—something she'd never considered him capable of.

And he hadn't the slightest clue.

He washed his hand back across the landscape, the crops again deadened in their roots—a clear display of how easily he could flip a switch at will.

"Your fealty, my queen," said Jafar, making Jasmine want to bash his head in. "I would hear it now."

Dhyana's face shrunk. She looked at Jasmine first, a look Jasmine knew well: the face of someone who desperately wanted to deny him.

"Pascua," she muttered after a long moment, "will follow you."

Pleased, Jafar returned the crops to bloom.

When he transported them back into her chambers, Jasmine knew despite his little hiccup at the end, it was time to swallow her pride and reward him for complying.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Quiet or not—those were not words Jafar would miss. Had she ever thanked him for anything in her life? His expression told her otherwise.

"You didn't have to be civil, but you were. I appreciate it."

Jafar's sneer slipped loose. "I've known how to play the civil game longer than you've been alive, princess."

Jasmine held her tongue. Typical. Not a humble bone in his body.

Let him think it was his idea, she reminded herself. That would be how she could influence him.

"I wasn't lying to Dhyana," she went on. "You have the potential to be the best leader in existence. You have the power to change things. End world hunger. End crime." She paused, deciding to take the plunge and go a step further. "I wish I had the power you did. So many Agrabah lives could have been saved if it were you in charge from the beginning. Not me."

Jafar was listening—how could he not? But the frown had returned to his face and he was lost in himself, looking away. She couldn't imagine what he was thinking. He liked the flattery before, didn't he? Liked when she admitted he was better than her—even though it was tooth and nail for her to say. She didn't understand why he was receiving this differently unless he was growing uncomfortable by her praise. That seemed too good to be true.

Without warning, Jafar teleported himself out of the room, leaving her alone with her unmade bedsheets.

Something was wrong.

Jafar struck his hand against the wall of his study, the whole tower tremoring under the weight. As soon as he steadied himself, he rose, finding his bearings after his erratic teleportation. It was important for a wielder of magic to know where they were going before they transported, not after—but rules were damned when all he wanted to do was escape her.

He looked down at his hands, turning them over to look at his veins, as if the initiator of this foreign energy was in the very power source itself. Red light shivered through as it always did when he drew attention to it. Nothing new. Nothing different.

Moments later, Jafar came to his senses, resolving that the problem may not have been a physical matter at all.

But something was indeed very, very wrong.

His scepter disintegrated in his palm as he ventured further inside his study, full of obsolete books and contraptions from when he was a lowly vizier—a powerless man. Iago cackled dryly, following him inside and landing on his old perch.

The trip to Pascua. That had to be it—the reason he didn't feel himself. Jafar stalked around the study, unable to keep himself still. The Pascua harlot was a nuisance; he would have much preferred Ranvir had offed her instead of her husband. She should have died an excruciating death for raising her voice to him—her Sultan, her god, her—

Her returner of crops?

Jafar couldn't put into words how the outcome made him feel.

The princess—ever the peace-making diplomat—wanted to preserve the harlot's life. Predicable. And her solution might have been practical had he wanted to build some inconsequential relationship with the farmers, but him? Build with farmers? Harlots?

Yet he'd done just that. Just to prove to her he could.

"Second," squawked Iago. "Second, second."

Jafar glowered up at the bird, the meaning of Iago's squawks taking form in him. After everything, in the end—he'd bested her challenge. But he'd also compromised something far more important.

He'd done what she wanted.

The blood in his veins simmered as it all descended upon him. Why else would she go to these lengths? What was in it for her to remain passive, quiet, a lifeless shell? What did she have to gain by handing herself over, giving him everything he wanted? A sweet docile thing she seemed on the surface, perhaps at a point in her life where she was finally ready to appreciate him. But just as she was shrewd, she was stubborn, and like him—she would claw her way to power and influence even if it ruined her.

Jafar closed his eyes, repressing a snarl. He'd been a fool—no different from the countless simple-minded men that had fallen prey to her charms in the past. A man he vowed he'd never be.

The walls around him shuddered, cracks running down to the very base and erupting all throughout the palace. Screams could be heard, people caught in the shockwave, while Iago took flight into the sky, still squawking, "second, second!"

Hours later, still holed up in his study, he repaired the palace, but lingered there in his brewing resentment. She could be disposed of. He had what he wanted from her—what use did she serve him anymore? She was far from his only bed companion; he could find someone less troublesome, someone even more beautiful. Any astute man would dispose of her before she inflicted further damage.

"Jafar…"

That damned illusion again, wearing its violet dress and the princess' inviting face. Looking at it alone reminded him why he kept her around. It went beyond her beauty, somewhere even he didn't know. What came after? What followed a woman's attraction, his desire for her, and their coupling?

Revulsion, came a black thought. Revulsion for everything she was and everything she represented came after. His need to make her suffer more than all the scum in Shirabad combined. That was it, he was sure of it.

His captain found him in his study shortly after sunset. Jafar walked headfirst through his illusion, his nose filling with her scent as it dissolved away, clearing the way for Amir to enter.

"The harem is awaiting your arrival for dinner, my Sultan."

Jafar exhaled, releasing the scent of spiced amber. Blood rushed everywhere—to his head, his chest, his groin.

"Bring me one," he ordered.

Amir paused. "Which, my Sultan?"

"Any."

"The princess?"

Amir stiffened as soon as Jafar's eyes opened. "Anyone but her."

The young captain nodded and hurried off, his footsteps quick down the tower's long spiraled stairs. He brought back a young woman with an apricot-colored kameez, brown hair, and wide hips. She bowed her head once Amir left the room. "My Sultan."

Jafar wordlessly beckoned her over. He didn't remember her in his lineup. Perhaps this was one he hadn't bedded yet. He could see why he'd chosen her; her face was comely enough. But for all he cared at that moment, she might as well have been faceless.

He went through the motions impatiently, wanting the burning in his pit to be extinguished, drowned away. The study made for a cumbersome setting for the act, little space for a seat or other resting spot. His old bedding quarters were stationed at the base of the tower, but it wasn't worth the teleportation. He didn't want comfort. He wanted release.

The girl could sense his temperament, it seemed, and fumbled to match his expectations. Stripped of her kameez, she lowered herself to her knees. Jafar leaned his head back, willing himself to harden as his hand went to her hair and knotted itself inside. The girl worked and worked his length. Jafar felt nothing.

It made no sense. Anger had aroused him before. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip, adjusting his position into her. She made a noise, but adapted well, working, working—

He hated the princess.

His nails scraped the girl's skull.

He hated her so much.

His breath hissed through his teeth—

She'd made him a fool.

—hissed in—

A fool.

—hissed out—

A fool—!

Jafar's eyes flashed open, seeing no longer the faceless girl—but her—her illusion working him, her knowing, sparkling eyes—

He saw black as his power sliced through gravity.

When he eventually came to, toppled over bookshelves and splintered wood filled his vision. Smoke, too—something was burning. Jafar sat up, extinguished the small fires, and cleared the smoke with one motion.

Once he got to his feet, he saw the girl lying crooked against one of the obliterated bookcases, her body stark against the room's dark accessories. A deep red wound started from her navel, made its way through her breasts, and traveled out her collarbone, where the cracks in the walls journeyed on behind her. Her gaping eyes stared but did not follow as he left his study.

Warm and rested in her quilts, Jasmine woke to the sound of movement. She knuckled the sleep out of her eyes as she looked around, seeing her shelves moved out from the walls, the drawers and pots as well. Her maid collapsed on her bookshelf, struggling for breath. Jasmine threw back her sheets. "What are you doing?"

It took the maid a few moments. "I heard," she breathed, "the vizier has a new recruit in his fold. A man who cuts the throats of those who speak ill of him." The maid knocked a fist on the shelf. "We can't have him lurking in here too."

A cutthroat. Maybe the same one Jafar claimed beheaded the Pascua king. "I think Jafar would have cut my throat long ago if he cared what I thought of him."

The maid gave a shrug, still breathing raggedly. "You can…never be too careful. One of the girls died…I heard. In the…harem."

"The harem?" Jasmine was stricken.

"What I heard…yes."

Her mind ran through their faces, the ones she remembered sitting around the dinner table. Why would a harem girl be a target? Weren't they all enamored with Jafar? How could one of them have said an ill word about him when they worshipped his every move?

"You might…be safe," said the maid. "But he won't spare…me. And I…would like…to see you…"

The woman coughed sharply, wheezing and wheezing into her armpit. Jasmine got to her feet and put a hand on her shoulder. "You shouldn't have moved all this yourself. You should've waited for me or someone else to help you."

"I'm…I'm fine—"

"You don't sound fine." Jasmine's heart began to race. "Hold onto me."

The maid threw out a hand, failing to find Jasmine's. She collapsed on all fours—a painful fall. "I…I need to…lie down…"

"You need help." Jasmine dashed to her door and yanked it open. "Help! Please—my maid needs help! Please!"

No one was coming. Jasmine ran down the hallways, searching for a face, a guard—anyone. No one was around. Her maid's faraway coughs knocked around her head like a pendulum as she felt her knees buckling beneath her.

Just like Baba. Just like Baba.

Her voice caught in a sob while her hands snaked up into her hair, her roots—

"Please…" she whispered. "Please…somebody…"

Only when she heard a pair of approaching footsteps did she find the strength to compose herself.

A servant woman helped Jasmine carry her maid down several flights of stairs, down where the infirmary was held. Servants and guards watched them go but did little to help or intervene, disgusting Jasmine to no end. In the palace she grew up in, the people rushed to help those in need.

When they reached the final floor, Jasmine was struck by the odd surroundings. It wasn't an infirmary anymore—there wasn't a single bed in sight. Just desks collecting dust with a few other maids sweeping and tidying up the area.

"Where's the infirmary?" Jasmine demanded.

One maid frowned. "Excuse me?"

"The infirmary!"

"There is no infirmary."

"What?" Panic set aflame in Jasmine's chest.

The maids looked at one another. "The decision to heal someone or not lies solely with the Sultan," said the one.

Jasmine was going to burst. "You can't be serious."

The maid shrugged helplessly. The rest of them gathered closer, surrounding the ailing woman in Jasmine's arms. Jasmine looked past the first to the girl with high cheekbones behind her.

"You," said Jasmine. "I recognize you. You were one of the nurses when Aladdin was sick."

Everyone turned to the girl, who meekly nodded. "Yes."

"I need you to gather up any nurses you can find to help keep this woman alive."

"Yes, my Sult—er, I mean—"

"Just go!"

The girl obediently dropped her broom and fled. Meanwhile, the maids gathered around, pushing desks together to create a makeshift bed. Jasmine did her best to keep herself calm amidst the chaos, finding the words to tell the incoming nurses what happened and when her maid's cough started.

"She has a fever," a nurse said. "We need ice."

"Ice, ice…" the girls repeated, scourging around.

Once her maid was propped up as comfortably as possible on a wooden desk, her maid's fevered hand found Jasmine's. "Prin—princess…" she wheezed.

"I'm here." Jasmine squeezed her hand. "Listen. I'm going to get Jafar. He'll heal you and you'll be good as new. Just hold on for me, will you? Just a little longer."

The maid blinked faintly, lost in her illness as Jasmine took off up the stairs.

According to the guardsmen, the Sultan could be found in the war chamber holding another meeting for his closest advisors and captains. Jasmine rushed faster than royal protocol once taught her, ignoring the instruction to keep a straight back, a graceful pace. Instead her footsteps pounded down the hallways like a warrior's, her morning hair loose and unpinned, her night garments hanging off her shoulders. She didn't care. Emergencies triumphed protocol.

When she reached the chamber, the meeting was sparse, singled down to Jafar, the captain Amir, and a bearded man she'd never seen wearing tattered rags. She batted the wisps of hair from her face and raised her chin as she approached the trio.

"Jafar."

The men turned, Jafar the last to do so. Their conversation seemed trivial, fortunately, so it didn't seem like she was interrupting anything.

"This can't wait," she said.

Jafar regarded her dismissively, a look she wasn't accustomed to receiving as of late. "Actually, it can." He raised his hand, sending her back outside the chamber. A click could be heard in the door, locking it in place.

Was he serious? Jasmine suppressed a scream, fighting the urge to tear down the door panel by panel. She would've found a way, she was certain, but that risked the possibility of Jafar not hearing her out at all. She paced outside instead, already seething that he was choosing now to be a wretch of all times.

After an eternity, the door opened. Amir and the man left the room, and Jasmine reentered in the same breath. Jafar did not so much as look up from the map.

"My maid is very ill and needs medical attention."

Jafar's eyebrows lifted slightly, the only reaction offered. He conjured up another piece on the map, somewhere outside Agrabah's border. Jasmine was growing more and more annoyed by his lack of urgency.

"Can you heal her or not?"

"I can," he said stagnantly. "Why should I?"

Jasmine blinked. "Because she's an Agrabah citizen who has served me loyally and has thus served you loyally. She can't heal from this on her own—"

"And how does that concern me?"

It struck Jasmine then the kind of mood he was in. He was being intentionally cruel, intentionally cold and uncaring. Air stuck in her chest as the coming dread gnawed at her insides. This mood of his did not bode well for her or her maid.

"Don't do this now," she couldn't hide the edge in her voice.

Jafar angled himself to her. "You seem to have forgotten that you're no longer my master, princess, and I don't bend to your will. Years of pampering have filled your silly head with expectations you are not due." His tone was biting. "As for your decrepit looking maid, she's old and replaceable."

Jasmine wanted to cry. "She is not a bedsheet."

But the horrible truth was to him—she was. She was nothing, no more than a pest that wasn't worth the two seconds it would take to restore to health. It would've been far more pragmatic for Jafar to just heal her maid to avoid her wrath, but this showed a blatant want to refuse her no matter the cost. And Jasmine, for the life of her, couldn't understand what she'd done to upset him so.

Regardless, it was clear he wanted her to suffer. He had gone back to his map again, summoning pieces and clearing ones that weren't fit. Jasmine's hands balled into fists. Begging was almost too low for her; not only did it relinquish all control to him, but it made her seem weak and powerless and incapable of doing anything for herself. If it were her laying on a bed of two wooden desks, she would've died proudly in the throes of her fever before she begged him for her life. Her maid, however, was an innocent woman, someone who'd looked after her in her darkest moments, and there would've been no greater disservice to her than for Jasmine to bypass any means of saving her.

"I will ask nothing of you ever again," Jasmine finally got out, her lips tight against her teeth. "Just please heal this woman."

She said it with sincerity, hoping somewhere in his twisted mind, he recognized it too. He'd tortured her long enough, got his fill making her sweat and squirm, and now it was only fitting that he restore the woman's life as he would any other Agrabah citizen. She remembered young Zariah walking out of the palace with her bag of gold. Dhyana, with her crops blossoming for miles. He was capable of it. He was capable of mercy. Jasmine prayed and prayed.

"My sincerest hopes," said Jafar, his voice dripping with contempt, "that you successfully find another genie to do your bidding, princess." He paused. "Come to think of it, I did hear a miracle worker resides on the edge of the bazaar. He should be easy enough for you to seduce."

Fighting back tears, Jasmine stormed out of the room, regretting every moment she had served him and his pathetic existence.

She didn't need him. He could keep his wishes, his powers. Her maid didn't need to be saved by the likes of him.

She only wished she believed her own lies.

The air in the room sat hot as the shadows from the candlelight jumped and moved along the adobe walls. Most of the nurses had left, called away to other tasks in the palace or simply did not want to risk carrying out an intervention when their Sultan had withdrawn support to help. Jasmine was thankful the first girl, the one who cared for Aladdin, stayed the longest.

Her maid was covered in sweat head to toe, her wrinkled chest scorched red. When she finally found sleep, the nurse took Jasmine aside.

"She is not improving." The nurse's face was grim. "You should prepare yourself."

"Prepare?" said Jasmine.

"Yes. I don't believe she will make it through the night."

A lump formed in Jasmine's throat as she looked back at the bed, the poor old woman whose cough was so innocuous a short time ago. In a way, Jasmine cursed herself for not being more accustomed to how death worked. They never took the ones she loved gradually: it was always abrupt.

Jasmine swallowed. "How long can you stay?"

The nurse sighed, the pity for Jasmine's situation written all over her face.

"Until sunset," said the nurse.

Sunset came and went, and soon Jasmine's footsteps were the only ones in the cramped makeshift-infirmary. She wiped her maid's face with a wet cloth like the nurses instructed her, fetched new buckets of water every hour. Jasmine's forehead pounded like a drum as her own hunger and thirst grew, but she knew indulging in those needs could possibly take her away at a critical moment.

Just as she started to wipe the sweat along her maid's brow again, her maid jerked awake, flustered and confused. Jasmine took her hand.

"It's okay. It's me."

The maid's head tilted to her side. "I know…these hands…"

Jasmine let out a broken laugh. "I'd imagine you would, yes."

The maid relaxed, her fingers so warm yet so weak. "Is my time…close…? I would…prefer…you tell me…"

"We're doing everything we can." Jasmine knew she deserved better than a lie.

The maid strained her eyes around the room, still too weak to lift her head, but enough to see they were alone. "Don't…exert yourself."

Jasmine shook her head, shrugging the request off in the most polite way. Naturally the maid would think only of Jasmine's wellbeing even on her own deathbed. "I'm just fine."

"It seems…the Sultan thinks…it's…my time to go."

Just the mention of him made Jasmine's stomach roll with disgust. She hoped somehow that her maid wouldn't have remembered her leaving to find Jafar, not wanting her maid's final moments to be filled with hopelessness and wondering why she wasn't good enough for him to save. The maid, even in her fevered state, seemed to read Jasmine's face and rested her hand on hers.

"Don't…give up on him. I still…have…faith in you."

Every part of her screamed the ruse was done with after the way he'd treated her in that war room, although it seemed compassionless to refuse the woman's desires now. Jasmine forced herself to nod, to smile, until a thought occurred to her.

"I don't know your name."

The maid blinked heavily. "You've…never asked…before."

"I know," said Jasmine, swallowing back the lump as best she could. "So many people around me have died. My mother, when I was young. Then Baba. Hakim. My people." She blinked back tears. "I'm so tired of people I love dying. I think I thought by not knowing your name, it would prevent me from feeling anything if you left me too. But that was foolish of me." She gave her a watery smile. "You've been my only true friend here and I should've asked for your name the first day. Because the truth is…I would not have survived this if it weren't for you."

The maid smiled back, warm and motherly. Jasmine pictured a future life in the palace without her maid there, replaced by some wraith of a girl who didn't understand any of Jasmine's struggles and pains and she felt the horror of it consume her whole. She gripped the maid's hand tighter, tears leaking through the corners of her eyes. Don't leave me behind, she willed. Please—don't let another one leave me.

"Mirit…" said the maid. "My name's…Mirit…"

Jasmine closed her eyes, cherishing her friend and every moment she had spent at her side. "Thank you, Mirit."

"Stay you…always. It is how…it is how…you will win."

Jasmine stared at her in wonder as the woman centered her head on the wood and slipped back into fevered sleep.

The women of Jafar's harem feasted without a word, the usual conversations replaced by deafening silence. Women could be mischievous creatures when they wanted to be, he knew, but this time they were quiet for a different reason. The fourth chair to his left was empty, the place of the girl he took to his study. Rumors circulated that it was Ranvir. Others claimed it was him. As a result, the women who once competed for his attention now competed for the title of 'most statuesque' while they ate—the fear settling into their stomachs faster than their food. Being the Sultan's companion was all fun and games until the threat of death hung over their heads.

Jafar studied the other empty chair, the one in the far corner. He knew why she wasn't there. Frankly, he expected no less. The princess had always rebelled when things didn't go her way. When he was vizier, she'd often starve herself or hide away or give them the cold shoulder when forced to show her face. Jafar's lip curled. Unlike her dearest Baba, he had no tolerance for her disrespect, and he would wrangle her in by her hair if he had to.

"Find her," is all Jafar said, listening to Amir's footsteps retreat away.

He returned without the princess, making Jafar want to snap his utensils in half. "She is not in her chambers, my Sultan. Nor is her handmaid."

Ah, yes.

The maid he'd heard so much about.

He remembered her face when he refused to cave to her will, remembered the absolute hate burned in her pupils as she turned away. Then he remembered her sleeping face in the night, her loosened eyebrows, the slight give of her mouth, her body warm nestled against…

Jafar decided immediately that he didn't want her found after all. When dismissing Amir, the suddenness of his arm movement made half the girls flinch, causing his mood to drop to an utterly foul level. He disliked their mute trepidation. His people—his women—were meant to adore him, worship him. Even that mistake with the harem girl wouldn't have happened if the princess had—

No.

He would not waste another thought on her. He didn't care. He didn't.

Ushila met him at his chambers that night, her demeanor, like the others, more guarded than before. Her kameez was bright. Arbitrarily turquoise. Jafar's blood boiled as she undid her buttons.

"Are you alright, my Sultan?" she inquired meekly. "You don't seem yourself."

The last thing he wanted to do was discuss the turmoil churning around in his mind like some distressed woman. All he wanted was the same thing as before. Release. Release from this torment.

"May I ask something?" she spoke again.

When he failed to answer, she went ahead. "Is she still alive?"

Jafar didn't know what she was talking about. Ushila pushed her kameez off her shoulders, visibly trying to find comfort in her decision to probe.

"The eleventh girl. Is she alive?"

Jafar wanted to scream.

If he were not so wound up and desperate to be free of all mention of her, he could understand the need for Ushila to ask; the harem girls knew so little about the princess and her empty seat at dinner likely fed their fears that he disposed of her too. However, Jafar couldn't seem to climb his way out of the emotion of it—the sheer loathing he felt and the obsessive need to get it out, to release it in some way. He looked down at his hands and recognized the shiver of red in his veins, threatening to burst like it did the night before.

Ushila stared at him, confused, and now practically nude. When he turned away, she followed, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Repulsion seized him hard and fast.

"Go." He materialized Ushila's kameez back on her body.

"My Sultan?"

"I will not tell you again."

It was for the girl's own good, even as she skulked out of his chambers hurt and rejected. Should she have persisted, she may have ended up in worse condition than the other girl. Once he was alone, Jafar reached his hand up and summoned an image of where the princess could be found, smoke forming in plumes in front of him.

She was somewhere deserted, it looked like, down in the bottom caverns of the palace. Her old hag of a maid was there on a table, either sleeping or deceased—he didn't know or care. The princess, still in the same disarrayed clothes as before, was rinsing out rags in a bucket of water—hunched over like some servant girl. Jafar drew closer to the image, observing her swipe her wrist across her forehead, her face screwed in determination. Nothing about what she was doing made sense to him and nothing about her in that moment was even remotely sensual—yet he still felt something dark and carnal pass over him.

It hit him that even though he didn't understand it, even though he was certain he was repulsed by her and everything she was—somehow, someway—it was only her touch he craved that night.

Jafar looked down at his wrists again, seeing the light flit through as if it were pleased he finally understood.

Jasmine wrung out the last cloth and subsequently hung it over the rim with the rest. The water had grown warm and needed to be replaced. Both of Jasmine's arms ached and trembled as she dragged two new buckets into the stifling infirmary and set them beside the bed.

Mirit's breathing had quickened—her inhales nothing more than little gasps of air. Jasmine wasn't familiar with Mirit's condition but could deduce from her body's temperature and the occasional twitches that her time was nearing. Watching the process crawl by was agonizing. If Jasmine weren't so sure that Jafar would refuse, she might have gone upstairs and begged him to put an end to Mirit's suffering.

Footsteps echoed down the stairwell, lumbering loud and heavy. Jasmine stood up, aimless hope flitting through her. Maybe it was one of the nurses from before, someone coming to help.

It was just Amir. "The Sultan has requested you to his chambers."

Jasmine stood there for a moment, unable to grasp just how great Jafar's nerve was. He couldn't spend the two seconds it would take to heal her maid, and yet he had the time to make a whore out of her? She couldn't repress her laugh. "Tell the Sultan he can find entertainment elsewhere."

"This is what you want reported back?" Amir's eyebrows shot up.

Now the humor had run its course. "I'm not leaving."

Amir shook his head as he headed back up the stairs. Jafar had the audacity—the audacity—to think she would willingly go to him after his performance in the war room? She'd rather die a thousand times over than give herself over to him—especially at a time like this. Let him see how it feels to be spurned.

Moments later, her surroundings shifted—and suddenly the orange adobe walls were replaced by large decorated ones, blue moonlight filtering in through the terrace. Wind hit her for the first time all day, sifting through her hair and robes. Jasmine knew immediately where she was, and she inhaled sharply as she turned and faced Jafar in the center of his room.

"If you do not put me back right this second," she spoke low and firm, "I am going to hurt you."

His face twisted. "You're wasting emotions on a replaceable maid."

"Her name is Mirit."

"And she will be replaced in the morning."

Jasmine charged up to him, her anger unleashed. "How can you call yourself a sultan when you refuse to help your own people? You're delusional if you think you're worthy of Agrabah. You're sick. And evil. And a thousand of you could not measure up to one of her! You don't save lives. All you do is take and take and—"

"It was I who saved your life." His mouth formed into a hard line.

"You call this a life?" Her voice cracked. "You—who've taken everything from me? She's the one who's kept me from throwing myself off a balcony—not you and whatever favor you think you're doing by keeping me alive. Take me back. Right this second."

"No."

Biting back a scream, Jasmine stormed towards the door, none too pleased to find it bolted shut without any give. "You have an entire harem at your disposal. Pick someone else."

"No."

"Fine. Fine." She came to him again, nearly ripping her bodice open. "Since you're such a spineless coward anyway, why not add rape to your list of offenses? Here. Have me."

His eyes were cutthroat, searing her to the bone with an anger that would send the bravest men to their knees. Even her own heart skipped a beat, but she held strong, her own fury meeting his in a dangerous clash of storms—and this time—this time—she would not back down, not even if he destroyed her right then and there.

"What are you waiting for?" Her voice rose, strong and daring. "Do it—!"

Jafar froze her mid sentence.

There she stayed, a statue of utmost loathing, as he forced himself to exhale.

Insolent woman.

Every part of him trembled. If she were anyone else, he might've let that dark side slip, the part that wanted to burst and destroy everything in its wake. He would not, however, let her coax him into losing all control.

What he would do was erase every damned memory she had of that maid of hers, the woman responsible for making her act out like a petulant child. The sooner the maid was banished from her mind, the sooner he would have the princess back to the way he wanted her.

Jafar pulled up her memories in one motion and flipped through them like a book. She really had been holed up in that room all day, working herself to death like a handmaid to her own handmaid. He stopped at a recent memory of the woman on the table and pulled back his hand to extract it, the movement abrupt and vicious—

—and it answered just as viciously back.

Pain bloomed in his hand. He turned it over, looked down, and saw nothing out of ordinary—just heard the faint hum that followed being electrified. Gritting his teeth, he put the same hand into the memory—

He jerked back again.

"Why?" he growled.

Down in his arm, he could see the red light in his veins surfacing, forming a word.

Violation.

"Of what," he bit out.

Rule Number 2: A wielder of magic cannot force a person to fall in love.

Jafar stepped back, his fury overt. Surely his own magic couldn't be this dense. What did extracting memories have to do with wanting feelings from the princess? Besides, those were the rules of a genie, a prisoner—and he had broken out of his chains long ago.

He reached back in again and again, the pain building with each try. He snarled as the words kept appearing: Rule number 2, rule number 2…violation, violation…a wielder cannot force a person to…

"That's not what I'm trying to do!"

His magic—his traitorous magic—did not relent. For some inconceivable reason, it was protecting her, throwing out any reason it could to justify it. He shook with rage. Of all the weeks and months he had been a sorcerer, a master of his powers and dealings, now even it would betray him for some girl who didn't matter, who hadn't held a finger of authority in ages. Her wiles were manmade; how could they possibly have infiltrated a field of sorcery as well?

Unless his magic truly believed otherwise.

He remembered the day he freed himself, the day his chains chinked and hit the floor in a scatter of gold dust. He'd wanted to destroy Shirabad right then and there until a violation crept into his veins as it did now, this time advocating the first rule. A wielder of magic cannot kill another human being.

No.

But he could set the land aflame and burn all those within. He could line up the soldiers and have their throats clean and exposed to a mile-long blade. He may not have had limitless power, may have been bound to laws that far proceeded him, and yet he knew well there were loopholes to everything.

Jafar lowered his hand, the memories disintegrating and leaving only her infuriated statue. He stared at her awhile, taking in every detail of her face, the water in her eyes.

Dispose of her, the thought crept in. Dispose of her before she inflicts more damage.

His heart pounded.

He would be a free man again.

No one alive would ever come between him and his power.

Dispose of her.

Down below her collarbone, the lacings in her robes were slackened, a most tempting invitation to the skin beneath. Easy enough to undo the rest of the bindings running down her navel. One last time wouldn't hurt. She wouldn't even know the difference.

Dispose of her.

He rested his stare back on her face. Something in his chest moved, bristled, and then fell to the pit of his stomach. He hated it, whatever the emotion was. It was most unsettling.

Finally, after a long frustrated sigh, he unfroze her.

"What are you waiting for? Do it!"

Jasmine noticed his eyes suddenly weren't so black and murderous, his expression not so pointed. He seemed almost…pained? Jasmine couldn't place it and frankly didn't have the patience to place it.

"Do it," she said again.

The pain in him was growing, swelling. Infuriated, Jasmine took a step closer. She wanted the pain to build. She wanted it to swallow him whole.

"Do it!"

Faster than lightning, he slammed down his scepter, and the floor beneath her withered. In the next moment, she was on the floor of a dungeon cell, the very one he'd imprisoned her in before. Jasmine found her feet and hurled all her weight against the bolted door.

"Let me go! She's going to die—you monster. She's going to die—!"

Her screams caught in her throat, turning to sobs. "Isn't there anything in you at all?" she said up to ceiling. "Or are you really so despicable that you'll let this old woman die alone? Please. Let me stay with her. Please. Just let me…"

She shook and shook the dungeon bars until her palms went bloody.

Jasmine didn't remember falling asleep. Certainly not after the emotional ruin of trying to break through impenetrable bars for hours on end. Straw filled her nose as she jerked awake, little bits of it stuck in her tangled hair. As soon as her vision came to, she noticed the barred door was swung open all the way: wide, gaping, insouciant. She flew to her feet.

Daylight hit her hard and fast as she hurried into the palace. She'd been in the dungeons for a minimum of six hours—so many hours away from Mirit. The lump in her throat was forming already. How could she expect her maid to have survived until daybreak?

Racing down the stairs to the infirmary, she came to an abrupt halt at the last step.

No Mirit. No makeshift bed. No buckets of warm water. Everything had been moved and pushed back into its original position, no indication of someone dying there hours prior.

Jasmine brought her hand to her mouth, her eyes refilling with tears. She hadn't been there. She'd been locked away at the worst time—

"Princess?"

Jasmine spun around.

Mirit stood where the other maids were working, standing upright and seemingly healthy. No scorched chest, no sweating brow. Jasmine blinked several times. Her mind had to be playing tricks on her.

But the ghost of Mirit wasn't disappearing. She took several steps forward and grabbed Jasmine's hands. Real flesh. Real blood. "What happened to your—?"

"You're alive," Jasmine choked out.

Mirit looked up, her smile wrinkling her face. "I am."

"How—how?"

"I don't know. I remember sleeping and feeling hot…and then I woke up this morning and I felt fine. Really, I am."

Hot tears came streaming down Jasmine's face as she embraced her, the sheer relief of it all hitting her like a ton of bricks. Someone she loved had survived. Had lived. Had not left her alone.

When she opened her eyes, she caught it just barely: the shadow of someone in the staircase moving out of view, back up towards the palace. It could've been anyone but Jasmine caught the familiar shape of his turban, his long scepter. She immediately broke from the embrace.

Mirit was still trying to console her. "Can I get you anything, princess? Have you eaten?"

"No." Jasmine cleared her throat, wiping at her cheeks. "No, um…get some rest, Mirit. I'll be back soon."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Please just get some rest."

With that, she left Mirit behind as she started up the stairs after him, slowly undoing the lace fastenings in her bodice.

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