Wind swirled inside the room as if a window was suddenly opened. But there were no windows. Wakiza’s eyes met with Gideon, his expression unclear. Did he expect something? A demon or the devil himself, angry that someone had occupied his chair?

He looked at his daughter. Her body gasped, arching against the chair’s back before she collapsed in a breathless, shuddering stillness.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

“She lives.” Wakiza’s voice was barely a whisper, disbelieving. He fell to his knees beside the child, his trembling hands hovering over her as though afraid she might disappear again. But her small chest rose and fell, her lashes fluttering in a dreamless sleep.

He bowed his head, a long exhale shaking loose from his chest. Relief crashed over him like a tide, drowning the weight of fear he had carried since she was taken.

“He did it,” Gideon murmured. The burly man flopped to the floor. His eyes were locked not on the girl, but on Dhanvatori.

Wakiza followed his gaze, and something inside him twisted.

For years, he had dismissed Dhanvatori as a lost man, one who had turned from the true faith to chase shadows and whispers of forgotten knowledge. He had feared that the scholar’s path led to ruin. But it had not been the Church that saved this child. It had been Dhanvatori.

And Kabeir.

Wakiza’s throat tightened. He turned to the djinni’s host, studying the man through new eyes. The being inside him was ancient, powerful—beyond his understanding. Yet without Kabeir’s intervention, they would have been lost.

Dhanvatori stepped closer, his sharp eyes catching the unspoken turmoil in Wakiza’s face. He smiled—a small thing, not triumphant, not gloating. Just understanding.

“There is more to reality than what we once believed,” Wakiza admitted at last. His voice was quiet, but the words carried weight. They had been long in coming. “I see that now.”

Dhanvatori inclined his head, accepting the moment without need for vindication. “It is not an easy thing, to learn the world is larger than the walls of one church,” he said gently. “But I am glad you see it.”

Wakiza let out a slow breath. He reached out, clasping Dhanvatori’s wrist. “You are a good man. And a better friend than I have been.”

The scholar laughed, warm and unburdened. “And here I thought you would never say it.”

A low chuckle rumbled from Gideon. “Miracles come in many forms, it seems.”

Wakiza turned back to the child. She stirred, her small hand twitching in the blankets. He squeezed it gently, a silent promise that she was safe.

“And what of this gabamnoteh, Kabeir?” Wakiza inquired, wanting to show gratitude.

“I don’t know,” Gideon answered is voice drifting. “I imagine he has returned to the one who hosts him.” 

Wakiza tried to imagine the same. For a heartbeat, he saw another place, another life. A boy standing at the threshold of destiny, his own soul bound to a djinni’s whispers. A girl with knowing eyes, remembering this adventure that saved her.

Then it was gone.

“We all serve a purpose in the great design,” Gideon continued. “Even those who do not yet know their place in it.”

Wakiza nodded, the weight of the night settling upon him. There would be much to reckon with in the days to come. But for now, the girl was safe, and his faith—his understanding—had been made greater, not lesser, for all he had seen.

And somewhere, in the distant weave of time, another story was waiting to begin.