“I miss him. I think I probably always will. But for a few moments… It really did feel like he was back.”
He presses a kiss to my temple, and I lean in closer to him. “Will you be all right?” I ask.
Rakan only smiles, and it’s such a gentle expression. “Better than all right. After all, I got my wish too.”
He flicks his wrist, and the cup disappears from his hand. He pulls me even closer, and smoke starts to pool around us. “Come on, Iris. We’re done here. How about we have that coffee at my place?”
This time, it’s an invitation. A proper one, born out of desire, not necessity. The smoke doesn’t scare me, and there’s only one way I can answer.
“It’d be my absolute pleasure, Mr. al-Rashid.”
Epilogue
Iris & Sigurd
The sand is everywhere. It’s in my shoes and in the seams of my jeans. I suspect it’s found a permanent home in my hair. A year ago, if someone had told me I’d ever sit in the middle of the Rub’ al Khali desert at sunset, I probably would have asked them what they were smoking.
But here I am, with the billionaire djinn who changed my life.
The dunes stretch out in every direction like giant waves of gold and copper. Under the last light of the sun, the sky bleeds a fiery crimson. It’s beautiful, in a way that makes you feel very small.
A part of me misses the cramped streets of the city and the smell of exhaust and burnt milk. Another part could live here forever.
Rakan is sitting across from me, his long legs folded easily. He’s traded his thousand-dollar suits for a simple, loose black tunic and trousers that billow in the wind.Sirwal,like the ones Kasim wore to The Daily Grind. Except, when Rakan wears them, they fit just right.
The veins of fire in his arms are a soft amber, almost the exact color of the desert. He looks like he belongs here, like he grew out of the sand.
Between us, a small brass pot sits on a bed of glowing coals. The smell of Turkish coffee is thick in the air, bitter and sharp.
It’s not like all the coffees we’ve had since the fight at the shop. It’s not even like the one Kasim summoned. This one feels… ceremonial. It has weight.
“It’s almost sunset,” Rakan says. “Are you ready?”
I nod, pulling my knees up to my chest. I’m wearing one of his hoodies, which is big enough to be a tent. “That’s my line, Rakan. You’re the one who has to make this choice.”
Rakan falls silent. He reaches for the coffee pot, his hand steady as he pours the dark liquid into two small porcelain cups, and hands one to me. His fingers brush against mine, and for a second, the internal hum of the desert seems to sync up with my own heartbeat. I take a sip. It’s strong enough to strip paint, but it’s delicious.
“I already made my choice. And I think that here… he’ll find a home.”
“There you have it, then,” I say, my gaze drifting to the velvet bag sitting on the sand beside Rakan.
The atmosphere shifts instantly. The light, easy moment between us hardens into something more somber. Inside that bag is a lamp. And inside the lamp is Kasim.
Rakan’s brother has given no sign that he can still hear us. He hasn’t spoken. He hasn’t moved. He’s just… there. And, according to Rakan, he’s waiting.
Rakan sets his cup down. He picks up the bag and pulls out the lamp. In his hands, it’s completely inert, but the sight still sends a shiver down my spine. “Come on,” Rakan says, standing up. “We can find a good spot together.”
I follow him, and together, we make our way through the dunes. Rakan doesn’t seem to be heading in any particular direction. He’s just walking, and so am I. The wind picks up, whistling through the sand, kicking up tiny dust devils that dance around our ankles. It’s more peaceful than it should be.
Finally, Rakan finds a spot he’s happy with. He drops to his knees and begins to move the sand with his hands.
He doesn’t use magic for this. He digs like a man, sinking his fingers into the cooling earth and throwing handfuls of grit over his shoulder. I join him, kneeling in the sand. It’s soft andsurprisingly fine, like silk slipping through my fingers. We work in silence, carving out a space in the side of the dune.
The physical act of it feels right. Like we’re earning this peace. My nails get dirty, and my palms get raw, but I don’t stop.
At last, the hole is deep enough. Rakan stops and looks at the lamp. He holds it in both hands, his thumbs tracing the script etched into the metal. Grief flickers in his gold eyes, a flash of the pain from three thousand years he spent loving a brother who eventually turned into a monster.
“Are you sure about this, Rakan?” I ask again. My voice feels thin against the vastness of the desert.
