Djinn.

They go by many names—genie, ifrit, marid, jinn—but whatever you call them, they're more spirit than physical being. Descendants of the Umbra, those ancient shadow dwellers who slipped between realms when the world was young.

During the Second Age, when humanity and magic were still figuring out their complicated relationship, djinns developed quite the reputation for mischief. Some played harmless tricks—moving furniture, whispering in dreams. Others were considerably more troublesome—causing droughts, spreading plagues, possessing the weak-minded. The worst ones? They engineered wars between kingdoms just to watch the carnage.

Eventually, powerful mages and priests decided enough was enough.

They devised a way to trap these entities inside ordinary objects—lamps, rings, bottles, even mundane items like combs or bowls. The containers weren't special until after a djinn was bound within. Any object could serve as a prison with the right enchantments.

The tradition became something of an art form. Trap a djinn in a vessel, seal it with runes of binding, then leave it for some future fool to discover. Or, if you were feeling particularly vengeful, you might set the bound djinn as a trap for your enemies.

And so it was that countless djinns found themselves imprisoned, subject to a powerful curse: serve whoever freed them, grant them three requests, and perhaps earn redemption and freedom.

Now, here's where the stories get it wrong.

Contrary to popular belief, djinns can't grant any wish. They can't conjure gold from thin air or make someone fall in love or bring back the dead—not really. There's a rule of magic no one escapes: nothing comes from nothing.

Djinns aren't gods. They're not miracle workers. They're more like extremely capable supernatural servants with a knack for finding loopholes.

You want gold? A djinn won't materialize a mountain of treasure in your bedroom. Instead, it might go dig up a forgotten hoard, or "borrow" from a wealthy merchant's coffers, or lead you to a vein of ore that's been right under your feet all along.

You want knowledge? It won't suddenly make you the smartest person alive. But it might steal books from every library in the world, kidnap scholars to teach you personally, or whisper forgotten secrets it's gathered over its millennia of existence.

You want to live forever? Well, that's where things get particularly messy. The Umbra used to specialize in that sort of request. They'd extend your life, sure—by binding your soul to theirs, feeding off your essence for centuries until you were nothing but a shell, technically alive but wishing you weren't.

This is all to say: when making deals with supernatural entities trapped in household objects, one should choose one's words very, very carefully.

Biggins giggled, hands clasped together like a child watching a favorite puppet show. "This is so fun! I haven't let him out in decades!"

Adom's eyes darted between the towering djinn and the delighted old shopkeeper. "What exactly should I ask him?" he whispered urgently.

"Ask about the Fae Realm, of course!" Biggins nudged Adom's side. "But be precise with your wording, my boy. Very precise. These beings are tricksters, especially this one." He pointed a finger at the djinn. "Caught him myself back when he was terrorizing the Westmarches."

The djinn's smoky features contorted in outrage. "What do you mean, you? I was captured by a mighty dragon prince who—" His rumbling voice faltered as Biggins looked up, eyes suddenly changing.

The round, almost comical eyes of the old shopkeeper narrowed, pupils contracting into vertical slits that glowed with inner fire. The transformation was subtle but profound—no longer the eyes of a harmless eccentric, but those of an ancient predator.

Adom watched with fascination. He'd asked Biggins countless times to show him his true dragon form, but the old shopkeeper always refused, muttering something about "not being the right time yet" or "demolishing half the street." This glimpse of the real creature beneath the hunched exterior was rare.

"You were saying?" Biggins asked pleasantly, voice unchanged despite the draconic eyes.

The djinn's massive form seemed to shrink several feet. "Merely... reminiscing about old times, O Magnificent One."

Biggins turned back to Adom, eyes already returning to normal. "See? He remembers me." He patted Adom's shoulder. "Now, your wording needs to be extremely specific. Ask him how you can safely enter and exit the Fae Realm without being trapped there or losing your identity."

"That's oddly specific," Adom remarked.

"Not odd at all," Biggins countered. "Just the minimum requirements for not ending up as someone's eternal court jester or breakfast."

The djinn loomed over them, smoke swirling impatiently around his massive arms. "I await your first wish, mortal."

"Uh..." Adom looked from the djinn to Biggins and back again. "I wish to know how I can safely enter and exit the Fae Realm without being trapped there or losing my identity."

The djinn's eyes narrowed. Then, surprisingly, he smiled.

"Clever mortal. Very well..."

The djinn's wispy gaze flickered toward Biggins, who watched the proceedings with a calm demeanor. Adom noticed the exchange—was Biggins somehow pressuring the spirit? The old shopkeeper hadn't moved or spoken, yet the djinn's smoky form seemed to keep compressing slightly, as if trying to make itself smaller.

The moment stretched, uncomfortably silent.

The djinn straightened up, shoulders broadening as it attempted to reclaim its intimidating stature. It cleared its throat with a rumble like distant thunder.

Adom found himself wondering why a spirit would need to clear its throat at all. Did smoke get dry? Could a being made of essence even have a throat to clear? Seemed like an oddly human affectation for something so otherworldly.

"To enter the Fae Realm as a non-fae," the djinn finally pronounced, "you require an invitation from a fae native to that realm."

"That's it?" Adom asked.

"No," the djinn continued. "You will also need a Wayfinder's Token for your return."

"And what's that?"

The djinn's eyes narrowed. "The invitation of a fae is merely a blessing that permits entry. It remains effective for seven days and seven nights. After this time, the mortal mind begins to... unravel. You forget—first small things, then larger ones. Your purpose, your home, your very self. This process takes another seven days, after which nothing of your former identity remains."

"That's... disturbing," Adom said.

"The Wayfinder's Token prevents this. It serves as an anchor to your realm and will guide you to the nearest exit point when activated."

Adom turned to Biggins. "What exactly is this token thing?"

Biggins scratched his chin. "Usually a small object imbued with essence from our realm—a stone, a coin, sometimes a bit of jewelry. The important part is that it contains enough of our world's magic to resist the Fae Realm's tendency to... rewrite things."

Adom nodded, then looked back at the djinn. "You're being surprisingly straightforward. I expected more riddles and tricks."

"Indeed," Biggins said, eyebrows raised. "I see you're less tricky these days. Is that because I'm here?"

The djinn's form wavered. "I-I have learned my lesson, O Magnificent One. I would not dare play games in the presence of one so... illustrious."

Biggins laughed—a full-bodied sound that started as a chuckle and built into something almost too big for his current form. The shop's glass bottles vibrated in sympathy.

Adom studied the old dragon thoughtfully.

Biggins never talked about his past in any detail. The rare times he did mention something from centuries ago, it only left Adom hungrier for more information. But watching him now, accepting praise with such obvious pleasure, reminded Adom of something he'd learned in history class—how dragons had once been worshipped as deities.

Was Biggins one of those?

It seemed likely, given how much he clearly enjoyed being called "Magnificent One." The ancient being who spent his days selling magical trinkets and jumping out at customers might once have had temples dedicated to him.

"Your flattery is noted," Biggins told the djinn, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "But unnecessary. Just answer the boy's questions honestly."

"What about the second wish?" Adom asked.

"Ah." The djinn's eyes gleamed. "That is entirely up to you."