She was in a swirling maelstrom. No up or down. No ground. Only a blinding storm of riotous color without shape or form and a thunderous voice pounding in her ears. Wield me. Master me. Bend me to your will. Or I shall bend you. In a panic, Fatma reached for the ring and yelped. The thing burned! Seizing it through the pain she yanked it free.
“Fatma? Fatma!”
She looked up into Siti’s worried eyes. Had she fallen? With help she returned to her feet.
“What happened?” Hadia asked.
Fatma looked to the ring in her hand. Glowing but cool again. How to even explain?
“Did you think it was just going to do what you wished?” Abigail mocked. Fatma met her smug smile. “The ring will bend you if you can’t master it.” She put out her hand. “I’m the only one who can control it. Let me wield its power. Let me save your city.”
Fatma heard the voice again in her head, faded to a whisper. That one we remember. Such ambition. She would wield us again. Give us purpose. We must have purpose! Her hand holding the ring twitched, and rose in offering.
Hadia grabbed her wrist midway, glaring between her and Abigail. Fatma shook off the voice, only then realizing what she’d been about to do. She frowned. Now this thing was trying to master her? Staring down Abigail she held up the ring, and slid it back onto her finger.
The maelstrom returned in a roar. No night, no here or there—just the chaotic storm. The voice thundered, proclaiming its demand.
No! Fatma cut in. You chose me to wield you, then I’ll wield you! Bend to me now, or I’ll throw you into the deepest, darkest hole I can find! Where no one will have you! Where you will have no use or purpose—ever! The voice didn’t speak again but in a blink the maelstrom vanished. She was back. Around her stood Siti, Fatma, and Ahmad—Abigail off to one side.
“I have it,” Fatma told them. “I can … feel them.”
It had happened as soon as the maelstrom vanished. She could feel the djinn. All of them. It came as a pulling—like she held a great magnet and they were beings of metal. Every single one tugged at her. And she knew she need only tug back. Her eyes went to the Ifrit Lords. The sensation they gave off was impossible to miss; all else seemed diminished in comparison. Lifting the hand with the ring, she reached out to take hold of one in particular—and pulled.
The Ifrit King, readying to deliver a final blow to the defeated water giant, staggered back under Fatma’s grip. His emotions flowed to her through the ring: shock, bewilderment, then an explosion of fury. With a snarl he roared his defiance. She grunted, tightening her grasp. Abigail had said holding him was like trying to hold a star. Now that star was raging. With a great heave he threw her off, sending her stumbling.
“What happened?” Siti asked, catching her.
“I couldn’t hold him. This battle, it’s made him stronger. Like he’s feeding off it.”
“A fire grows as it consumes,” Abigail whispered. “Now that fire hunts you.”
Fatma looked up to see the woman was right. The Ifrit King stood glaring about. He had felt the ring’s power again, and was seeking the wielder. They didn’t have much time.
Reaching out, she grabbed hold of him again. It felt like she was trying to ensnare a rumbling volcano. He flared into white-hot flames, throwing her back a second time. She looked at her palms to find them singed red—her clothing letting off wisps of smoke.
“I think you have his attention,” Ahmad said.
Fatma looked to see the Ifrit King’s eyes fixed on her like burning lamps. He rose into the air, bellowing his rage. The other eight lords rose with him on great fiery wings to soar in her direction. She lifted a hand to try again when Hadia stopped her. “Fatma, listen! Remember what that Marid said? That there was more power to the ring! That the seal isn’t even a ring! That it would only reveal its true self to someone whose want was pure!”
The memory came back to her at once. Lowering her hand, she called out. I want to talk!
There was no response, even as she watched the Ifrit draw closer.
I want to wield the true seal!
Still no answer. The Ifrit were almost upon them, the heat of their massive bodies intense.
My want is pure!
Without warning, she tumbled back into the maelstrom. No up or down again. No ground. Just the chaotic dance. Then from the corner of her eyes, a part of the storm began to stretch. Where it opened up was only a white space, an emptiness like a blank canvas scrubbed of all color or movement. It enveloped her, and everything went abruptly quiet.
“Is someone here?” she asked.
In answer, a small furry form trotted up, surprisingly familiar with silver fur. Ramses? But no. Ramses had yellow eyes. These glowed a bright gold.
“Are you the ring?” she asked hesitantly.
“We are the Seal,” the cat answered melodically. Because of course it talked. “You are wearing the ring.”
Fatma looked to her hand. So she was. But the ring wasn’t gold any longer. Instead, half of the small band was formed from iron, the other brass. Her attention returned to the Seal.
“Why do you look like my cat?”
“Your thoughts are shared so freely. We could choose again.” In a blur, Siti stood before her—with those same bright gold eyes.
“No, the cat’s fine,” Fatma said quickly.
The ring—the Seal—shrugged Siti’s shoulders, and was a cat again.
“I want to wield you as your true self,” Fatma said.
The Seal laughed. It was odd to watch a cat laugh. “Who are you to make such a demand? Do you think yourself another Sulayman? Do we not give you enough of our self? You would have our inner heart as well?”
Fatma heard her mother. The cat runs from its collar. She
