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“Never in my long existence have I been more aware of the fact that my fate is not my own. I do not have the freedom to choose my purpose. I am simply what I was created to be, nothing more and nothing less. But it’s not enough.

Why should I be content with the cards I have been dealt?

Is it so wrong for me to want something different, something more?

Is there great cost because of what I want?

Yes. But that is the way of things. Nothing worth having is easy.

The fight, the win, it’s what makes it all worth it.

And I will win.” ~ Raja, before the djinn battle.

T he darkness was absolute, suffocating in its entirety. Raja drifted in it, his consciousness long since dulled to the passage of time. How long had it been? A day? A year? A century? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. Or at least, he hadn’t cared. Until now.

Now, something stirred.

It was faint at first, like the whisper of a breeze in a long-dead forest. But it grew—a low hum vibrating through the void that surrounded him, tugging at the edges of his awareness.

And then, like a dam breaking, a flood of sensation and memory crashed into him, wrenching him from the murky depths of his imprisonment.

His eyes snapped open—or they would have, if he still had eyes. Instead, he felt the world around him, a twisted amalgamation of darkness and power, pulsing and alive in ways it shouldn’t be. This wasn’t his realm. It wasn’t the Realm of the Dead. It was something else. Something wrong.

Raja inhaled sharply, though he didn’t need to breathe.

The sensation was instinctive, a remnant of what he once was.

He tried to move, but the space around him resisted, as if the very air sought to bind him in place.

For a moment, panic clawed at him—a foreign feeling he hadn’t experienced since the early days of his rule.

But it was quickly replaced by anger, hot and searing—a fire that burned away the fog of confusion.

He was awake. But why? And where?

The memories hit him like a tidal wave, dragging him back to the time before his imprisonment, before the djinn dared to enter his realm and challenge his dominion.

The throne of the Realm of the Dead had been his for as long as he could remember, carved from the essence of shadow and light, a physical manifestation of the Balance he had once been charged to maintain.

His domain stretched endlessly in all directions, a vast and intricate expanse of quiet order.

Souls arrived at his gates, each carrying the weight of their choices, their lives, their regrets.

They were not the wicked—that was Hell’s domain.

No, the souls that lingered here were those who had walked the line between darkness and light, who had turned away from evil but had not chosen the Great Luna.

These were the remorseful, the ones who had sought redemption but had never found the courage to embrace it fully. They were not condemned, but neither were they rewarded with eternity in the Great Luna’s light. Here, in the Realm of the Dead, they found rest—a place of reflection, of waiting.

Once, Raja had accepted this role without question.

He had been the ruler of this in-between place, the guardian of those who could not pass on.

He had sat on his throne of bone and shadow, watching those souls move through his domain.

He had listened to their whispered regrets, their stories of lives half-lived, of choices they could not undo.

He had presided over this realm with a detached sense of duty, content to be the Watcher, the Keeper of Balance.

But over time, that contentment had soured.

He remembered the slow, creeping ache of dissatisfaction.

The throne that had once felt solid beneath him now felt like a cage.

The souls moved through his realm in an endless stream, their faces blurred together, their voices a constant murmur of longing and regret.

Raja had no such choices to regret, no such burdens to carry.

He had no life, no destiny, no will of his own.

He was a tool of the Balance, a cog in a machine older than time itself.

And it wasn’t enough.

He could still see the moment it began. He sat on the throne, watching as a soul passed—a shifter who had betrayed his pack in a moment of weakness but had spent the rest of his life trying to atone.

The soul had paused at the foot of the throne, its essence flickering as it awaited judgment.

It was no different from the countless souls Raja had seen before, but something about this one struck him.

The shifter had made his choices, lived his life, and now, even in death, he had purpose.

Raja, the ruler of this realm, had no such thing.

Anger had bloomed in Raja’s chest, hot and sharp, and in that moment, he had reached out with his power. He had taken a fragment of the soul’s essence, drawing it into himself. It was small, almost imperceptible, but the rush of energy was intoxicating. For the first time, he felt alive.

That moment changed everything.

He began to take more. A sliver here, a fragment there.

The souls didn’t notice—they were too focused on what could have been, but also relieved at what hadn’t come to pass if they’d continued on a dark path in their life.

And with every fragment Raja took, his power grew.

He became stronger, more aware, more real .

The aching emptiness that had haunted him for so long began to fade, replaced by the thrill of possibility.

But it wasn’t just power he gained. It was freedom. Freedom from the monotony of his existence, from the constraints of his role. He was no longer a passive observer of the Balance. He was shaping it, bending it to his will. And it felt right .

The Balance began to shift, and with it came consequences.

The Realm of the Dead grew heavier, darker, as the boundary between life and death thinned.

Souls lingered longer, their passage slowed by the weight of Raja’s growing power.

The ripple of his actions spread outward, touching the other realms, disrupting the natural order.

He had heard the whispers, the murmurs of those who had noticed the change. He dismissed them. What did it matter? He ruled the dead. The Balance was his to command.

And then they came.

The djinn.

Their presence was an affront to his realm, their light cutting through the shadows like a blade.

Raja had always known of them, the Keepers of History, the Watchers of Watchers.

They rarely intervened in the affairs of the supernatural, content to observe and record the rise and fall of power across the realms. But now, they had come for him.

They didn’t come alone.

Behind the four commanders who led them stood an army. Hundreds of djinns, their forms shimmering with ancient power, their eyes varying from silver to black. They filled the chamber, their light pushing back the darkness that clung to every corner of Raja’s domain.

At their head was Samir, the leader of the djinn army.

His presence was commanding, his silver eyes unwavering as they met Raja’s.

His voice, steady and deliberate, carried the weight of eternity itself.

“Raja.” Samir’s tone cut through the silence like a blade.

“You have disrupted the Balance. Your actions threaten not just your realm but all realms.”

Raja leaned back in his throne and smiled. He was amused as he regarded Samir. “Balance. A word used by those too afraid to claim power. Tell me, Samir, why would I care for balance when I have the strength to reshape it?”

Samir’s gaze didn’t waver, though the light around him flared brighter, a subtle warning. “Your strength is an illusion. Born of stolen power, tainted by greed. You are not a ruler. You are a thief.”

Raja chuckled. “And yet here you stand, in my realm, uninvited, daring to judge me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at Samir. “Do you think your light can extinguish my darkness? Do you think your history can bind my future? You are fools, all of you.”

Beside Samir, Nimara stepped forward. If Raja remembered from his own roaming in the human realm and listening to other supernaturals, she was the Seer.

Her gaze was piercing, her expression calm but unyielding.

Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of truth.

“You do not understand what you’ve done.

The Balance is not a chain to be broken.

It is the foundation of existence. Without it, all realms will fall into chaos. ”

Raja’s laughter rang out, echoing through the chamber. “Chaos?” he mocked. “Chaos is merely another form of order, one that bends to the will of the strong. And I am the strongest here.”

Zahran, a warrior, stepped forward then, his presence like a storm barely contained. His voice was sharp, his tone a challenge. “Then prove it, Usurper. Show us the strength you claim to wield.”

The chamber grew still, and the tension crackled like a thunderstorm on the verge of breaking.

“So be it.” Raja rose from his throne. Shadows surged around him—a living, writhing mass of darkness that swallowed the light in its path. “If you wish to challenge me, then prepare to fall.”

The battle began with an explosion of power that shook the very foundations of the Realm of the Dead.

The djinn army surged forward, their light blazing as they clashed with the darkness that poured from Raja like a flood.

The souls that lingered in the realm screamed as the fabric of their existence was torn apart by the sheer force of the collision.