The cursed Jinn

“The Cursed Jinn”

The desert sands have long memories.

Beneath their ever-shifting waves lie secrets too dangerous for the wind to whisper. And in the heart of the ancient Rub’ al Khali, the Empty Quarter, there was once a city swallowed whole—not by time or war, but by a curse.

They called it Zahran, the City of Gold, where minarets shimmered and fountains whispered with rose water. But its riches came not from toil or trade.

Zahran had made a pact.

It began a thousand years ago, with a scribe named Kalim, a quiet man who lived in shadows. He was not born into wealth or royalty. He walked among the blind and the lepers, scribbling verses on scraps of parchment. But Kalim was clever. And desperate.

One moonless night, Kalim ventured deep into the desert, following whispers he’d heard in dreams—promises of knowledge and power, buried beneath the bones of ancient empires. He carried a blade of silver, a jug of goat’s blood, and a scroll inked with forgotten names.

There, among the black rocks of Wadi al-Hamra, he found it: a pit carved by no hand of man, its mouth breathing heat and darkness. Kalim spoke the names. He poured the blood. And he waited.

From the pit rose smoke.

And in the smoke, it came.

Eyes like dying stars. A voice like thunder in a tomb. A body of shadows wrapped in fire. A creature of ancient rebellion, chained long ago by the angels and cast out of the higher realms.

A Jinn.

Not just any jinn, but Qaz’ul the Bound, a cursed prince among his kind—exiled for breaking the ancient law that forbade their kind from loving humans. His chains glowed with runes that burned through flesh and time.

And still, Kalim made his offer.

“I free you,” Kalim whispered, “and you give me power. Enough to make a king kneel.”

Qaz’ul smiled with teeth made of lightning.

“So be it.”

Zahran grew rich overnight. Crops never withered. Merchants arrived with silks, spices, and stories. Gold flooded the streets like rain. Kalim became Vizier, whispering advice into the ears of kings who thought the ideas their own.

But the bargain had a price.

Each year, a life was taken. Quietly, neatly. A child here. A merchant there. The king’s own brother, found with his heart shriveled into ash.

The people called it the Crimson Tax.

Kalim said nothing. Neither did the king.

But the blood never satisfied the jinn. His hunger grew, and so did his whispers. He spoke of empires, of endless reign, of becoming gods. And Kalim, so long lost in the taste of power, listened.

Then came the Year of Ash.

It began with silence. Birds stopped singing. Wells dried to dust. The sun hung still in the sky for three days. And on the fourth, the jinn’s true form emerged above the palace—towering, burning, laughing.

“I am no longer bound,” he roared. “I was never yours to control.”

The city screamed. Sandstorms rose, scouring skin from bone. Flames fell from a sky that bled smoke. And Kalim, broken by guilt and fear, crawled to the sacred ziggurat where the pact had first been made.

There, he wrote a final verse. A binding verse, using his own blood.

And with it, he imprisoned Qaz’ul again—but not in the pit.

This time, he sealed the jinn in an obsidian lamp, locked in chains forged from a star that had died screaming. Kalim gave his last breath to do it.

And Zahran vanished, swallowed by the desert.

Centuries passed.

Stories became myths, and myths became sand.

Until one day, in the dusty corner of a Marrakesh antique shop, a young woman named Leila Hassan found the lamp. She was a university student—bright, skeptical, and bored. She bought it for a few dirhams, thinking it a curiosity.

That night, she cleaned it.

And the air split open.

Smoke poured forth, and with it, a voice smoother than silk and sharper than knives:

“You have freed me, mistress. What is your wish?”

Leila stared. “This… is a prank. Right?”

The jinn bowed low, eyes burning gold.

“I am Qaz’ul. I can give you beauty beyond queens. Wealth to silence kings. Love, eternal and true. But all gifts bear weight. Choose wisely.”

Leila laughed. “Okay. Sure. I wish for… knowledge. All of it.”

The jinn blinked.

And then, he smiled.

In an instant, her mind cracked open. Languages, equations, visions of stars dying, galaxies birthing, the thoughts of insects, the names of all who had ever lived.

She screamed.

Blood poured from her ears. Her eyes burned.

The jinn knelt beside her, a touch of mock concern on his face.

“I did warn you,” he whispered. “Would you like to make another wish?”

Through the pain, Leila understood. The lamp wasn’t a gift. It was a trap—an ancient prison that fed on desire. Every wish twisted. Every desire doomed.

But unlike Kalim, she had read the old stories. She knew something he hadn’t.

She whispered a second wish.

“I wish… that you could feel what I feel. Right now.”

The jinn froze.

And then he screamed—a sound like mountains splitting. The pain of infinite knowledge rushed into him, and for the first time in a thousand years, Qaz’ul trembled.

Leila used that moment.

She grabbed a shard of broken glass, carved an ancient binding glyph into her palm, and spoke the sealing verse Kalim had written—hidden in a scroll she’d found folded inside the lamp.

Qaz’ul roared.

And vanished.

The lamp clattered to the floor, dark and cold again.

Leila collapsed, the curse lifting just enough for her mind to quiet. She wrapped the lamp in chains and buried it in the earth, far from any map.

And she told no one.

But sometimes, at night, when she sleeps, she sees him—trapped in a dream with no door. Watching. Waiting.

Because jinn do not die.

They wait.

And all it takes… is a hand brushing away the dust.