But even legends have their cracks.
For weeks now, her body had reminded her—with brutal honesty—that she had crossed an irreversible threshold. The child she had secretly dreamed of—the heir she imagined while speaking with emirs and queens—now announced itself through relentless nausea and a bone-deep exhaustion.
She released the eleventh bout of vomiting of the morning onto the carved ebony table that had once belonged to a fallen king. Acid burned her tongue and splashed in bright droplets over priceless parchments, crimson inks, and a box of uncut jewels. With her strength reduced to a thread, she grabbed an alabaster vessel beside her and continued, her dignity shattered with every retch.
Beautiful even in misery. Sweat beaded on her brow without dulling the pale brilliance of her hair or the intensity of her gaze. She wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand and felt two savage, opposing cravings: to devour a dozen fresh oysters drowned in lemon… and to vomit until there was nothing left inside her. Pregnancy—damn it—was both a blessing and a curse.
She fell to her knees; the black marble floor was cold and struck her with its reality. Amid pools of bile and the crushing weight of responsibilities that had never felt so real—fleets of dhows, caravans of a thousand camels, dealings with emirs, alliances creaking and betrayals ready to erupt—Natalie felt a new kind of vertigo: the realization that even the Desert Vixen could break.
She lifted her gaze toward the ogival window without meaning to.
Outside, suspended some thirty meters above the palace’s hanging gardens, floated an entire house.
It was neither mirage nor desert hallucination. It was a mansion of reddish stone crowned with golden domes, held aloft by nothing visible except magic vibrating in the air like static electricity. And what truly stole her breath was the foundation of that impossible architecture: a flying carpet as large as a small ship, embroidered with threads of fire and constellations that rearranged themselves with every blink.
Upon the carpet traveled a dozen djinn—men and women of inhuman beauty—skin like polished bronze, gazes holding storms and entire deserts, hair moving with a will of its own, wings of smoke that dissolved into the wind only to re-form. They laughed in a language that sounded like music and spoke without haste. Some played lutes and rababs whose sounds came from no visible strings.
At the center stood a tiny figure she recognized instantly.
“Jazmin.”
The rukh smiled with an open happiness—dangerous in its infectiousness, Natalie would once have said. Jazmin tried to leap down from the carpet with elegant confidence, but gravity chose mockery instead. She failed spectacularly.
She slammed face-first into the marble balcony with a loud thump, rolled a couple of times, and ended up staring at the sky, wearing an expression halfway between surprise and childish pride.
Two figures followed her, dissonant as mismatched notes: a very tall man whose presence seemed to grow heavier with each step, swelling into grotesque opulence—a mass of fabric, gold, and power—and beside him, a woman whose sensuality condensed into almost childlike traits: wide eyes, tempting lips, a body shaped for desire, wrapped in deliberate innocence that made her all the more dangerous.
“What is it that brings you before me, young Jazmin?” Natalie finally asked, her crooked smile half joy at seeing her again, half curiosity.
The rukh—now in human form, the body of a fragile-looking eight-year-old girl—stepped forward. Her hair was still moon-silver, but her amber eyes burned with intelligence far older than her face.
“My mother and father have told me that I may be your daughter… if you wish it,” Jazmin said, standing straight, her hope so pure it made one want to embrace her.
Natalie felt the world tilt a fraction off balance.
“Wait… what?” she replied, and for the first time in ages, her voice betrayed uncertainty. She touched her own hand, suddenly unsure she could raise a child—much less a rukh.
“That is correct, my lady,” said the woman Natalie had already identified as a djinn.
She inclined her head slightly. Her beauty did not seek to dazzle; it was restrained, ancient, almost ceremonial.
“It is not uncommon for many rukh to live human lives for centuries,” she continued. “They learn from the mortal world—its bonds, its losses. Some return to our realms. Others remain. There are three powerful rukh who delight in living among these lands, hidden from sight… but that is another story.”
She gestured to herself with long, elegant fingers.
“I am Airam, servant and tutor to Jazmin.”
Then she indicated the tall man standing one step behind. His silhouette seemed even heavier now, as though gravity itself claimed him more strongly than others.
“And this is Khan, her bodyguard.”
Khan did not speak; he merely inclined his head in respect. His eyes, however, never left Natalie for a single instant.
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“We are at your service,” Airam concluded. “But if you do not wish to bear this responsibility…”
She took a small step back.
“We will withdraw without offense.”
Silence fell over the balcony like a heavy veil. Natalie lowered her gaze to Jazmin: a child, yes… but also a being born of ancient, powerful entities, entrusting her with something no empire or army could buy.
Her womb tightened—not with nausea this time, but with something far more dangerous.
“Raise her as my daughter…?” she repeated softly, as though the words were made of glass.
Natalie looked at Jazmin again. No longer did she see a rukh, nor the heir to an ancient lineage, nor a dangerous piece on a magical and political board. She saw a small girl standing before her, shoulders straight through sheer will, amber eyes shining with hope.
Something inside her opened.
She rose slowly, ignoring trembling legs and lingering dizziness. Her hands—still stained, still vulnerable—moved with a gentleness few had ever seen. She knelt before Jazmin, bringing herself to the child’s height.
“Jazmin…” she said softly, her voice no longer that of the Desert Vixen. “Would you like to live with me?”
The girl nodded.
“I would like that… if it does not trouble you.”
Natalie smiled—a broken but sincere smile. Her violet eyes moistened without permission, and she made no effort to hide it.
“I don’t know if I’m worthy of being a mother,” she confessed. “I have done terrible things. I have sacrificed entire cities, betrayed those who trusted me. I don’t know if I will be able to take care of you.”
Jazmin stepped closer. It was a small gesture, yet filled with resolve.
“I don’t want a perfect mother,” she said. “I want one who looks at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
The impact was silent—and devastating.
Natalie closed her eyes. For a moment, the empire vanished: no routes, no contracts, no enemies. Only the heartbeat of two lives—inside and outside her—demanding a place.
When she opened them again, tears streamed freely down her cheeks.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid of failing you both.”
She touched her own belly.
Jazmin lifted her hand and, with childish clumsiness, touched Natalie’s wet cheek.
“Then… that means you care.”
Natalie laughed—a short, broken laugh that ended in a restrained sob. She gently took the small hand in her own.
“I don’t know if I deserve to be called your mother,” she said. “But if you choose to stay… if you truly choose this path…”
She took a deep breath.
“I will not abandon you.”
The silence that followed was no longer tense. It was warm.
Airam lowered her gaze in respect. Khan dropped to one knee in an ancient gesture reserved for no ordinary moment.
Natalie placed both hands on her still-flat belly and looked once more at Jazmin.
“It will be an honor to be your mother.”
.
.
Sofía Ramírez. Mexican, from Guadalajara. She had black, long, wavy hair that fell all the way to her waist like a living shadow that never quite obeyed. Her eyes, dark brown—the kind that seemed calm until they focused on you with real attention—were always measuring distances, exits, mistakes. And her tongue… her tongue was as sharp as her sword: quick, sarcastic, incapable of staying silent when something smelled wrong. And here, everything smelled wrong.
With the rest of the summoned, she kept her thoughts to herself. They were all ecstatic about being in a magical kingdom in another world, with those incredible abilities they now possessed. And yeah, at some point it felt amazing to be able to do movie-like things. But that didn’t mean she was going to forget her father’s lessons.
Her father had worked in Mexico’s intelligence police. Not the heroic part that appeared in speeches, but the real shit: narcos in expensive suits, fraud disguised as legitimate companies, politicians smiling while moving dirty money. Sofía grew up hearing that the world didn’t fall because of obvious monsters, but because of systems that were too well-oiled.
“If something seems too perfect,” he used to say, “it’s because someone’s covering up bodies and a ton of shit.”
That’s why, even as she walked through the castle corridors wearing those tight kingdom dresses—fine fabrics that clung to her body with almost obscene precision, shamelessly outlining the lines of her panties—she had decided her beauty was a useful weapon. Especially when half the nobles in this kingdom were dying to fuck her, so she didn’t mind how tight or revealing the clothes were. Sofía didn’t feel like she was part of the fairy tale. She felt like she was infiltrating it.
Every step she took was calculation. Every glance, an assessment. No one suspected her. Not the girl with the firm figure, elegant movements, and quick smile. No one expected that beneath those fast smiles and playing along, there hid a swordswoman capable of drawing and cutting before the other person even finished blinking. No one dared make a real move toward her—it seemed they had strict orders from the kingdom not to approach… except for the princes of this empire. They were the only ones who hinted at taking her to their chambers at night. She would go, throw drinking parties until they passed out, strip them, and let them imagine the rest.
No one imagined that the same girl used her nights to move like a shadow, slip into places she shouldn’t, and steal books using the authority of the royal seals.
And with that, she was able to read hundreds of books. Ever since she had learned to use her mind enhancement ability, reading had become almost instantaneous. She devoured entire tomes in minutes, connecting data, spotting inconsistencies, smelling lies the same way her father had taught her to smell money laundering.
And that’s when a lot of inconsistencies appeared:
- There was nothing about a war against a demonic kingdom.
- There was nothing about a demon king.
- They spoke of an enemy kingdom that had refused to surrender thanks to the Emperor’s “benevolence.”
- They said the summoning magic could bring 12… she had forgotten it was 12, but once she realized… she started counting in her head.
There were twelve.
Not eleven. There had always been twelve.
They told her John had simply “left.” That he had disappeared six months ago. The explanation was weak, lazy, insulting. The least powerful, the clumsiest, the one everyone underestimated… erased without a trace. In the real world, people like that don’t just disappear. In the real world, they get used or they get buried. Here, instead, they scrubbed him from the story—and she had completely forgotten him… that was strange. Her memory was intact except for certain details and foggy recollections.
And then there was the princess. Or rather… the princesses. Since the days when her memory brought the forgotten back to life, she remembered details she hadn’t consciously registered—things she had seen but ignored while training her abilities, even though she felt something was off in this castle.
Sofía noticed it purely on instinct: The princess had two different gazes, two incompatible attitudes. One princess who looked at John with contempt, like he was trash. And another version of her—identical in face and voice—who smiled at him with real, dangerous warmth that couldn’t possibly be faked.
That wasn’t decorative magic. That was manipulation.
Sofía found a book on mind magic, studied the stolen volume, and hid it under her dress with the same naturalness others used to conceal daggers. She thought of her father, and how he said that when a story had two versions, neither one was innocent.
“Fine,” she thought. “If they want to play at appearances, I’ll play dirty.”
She adjusted her dress and looked at the prince—she couldn’t remember his name. He was passed-out drunk. Let him imagine he had fucked her. She kicked him right there and discovered that the princes thought she was so good in bed it actually hurt their dicks. Idiots. She kicked his miserable parts again.
But inside, she had already decided something:
She was going to find out what they were hiding… even if she had to break the entire fairy tale apart to do it.