That night, the rain came in sheets, hammering the thatched roofs and turning Dustwater's streets into muddy veins. In a cramped shed behind an abandoned barn, Lia crouched beside a fire built from stolen wood and dried leaves. Maru huddled near her, wrapped in a burlap sack.
Mister Genie stood in the corner, arms folded, his presence dimmed but never absent. His golden robes shimmered faintly in the flickering firelight, and his eyes glowed like embers beneath a banked hearth.
Lia stared into the flames. "Are you real?" she asked softly.
"I am bound to your voice, your hand, and your choice. That is more real than most things in this world," he replied.
Maru looked up. "Can you make it so we're never hungry again?"
Mister Genie's gaze softened. "Such a wish must be carefully made. Hunger is more than empty bellies—it's tied to the world's balance. A poorly worded wish can bring ruin."
Lia frowned. "You mean there's a catch."
"There are always consequences. Power without clarity invites chaos."
She glanced down at the lamp. "So even kindness can turn cruel."
"Yes."
The wind howled through the cracks in the wood. Lia tightened her grip on Maru's shoulders.
"Why us?" she muttered.
"There is no 'why.' The lamp chose. You touched it. You are now its master."
"But I didn't ask to be anyone's master."
"Few who hold power ever do."
A silence fell between them, filled only by the crackling of fire and distant thunder.
Then came a knock—sharp and deliberate—on the shed's door.
Lia stood quickly. Maru whimpered. Mister Genie's figure brightened.
A voice called, deep and slurred, "You rats in there? I saw smoke. That's my shed."
Lia didn't move.
The door rattled. "I'll burn it down with you in it, thieves."
Lia looked to Mister Genie. "Can you make him go away?"
"I can," the genie said. "But I must remind you—every wish burns one-third of your fate."
Her fingers hovered near the lamp. But then she stepped back. "No. Not yet."
The door slammed open. A broad-shouldered man staggered in, drunk and furious. He raised a club.
Before Lia could speak, Mister Genie stepped forward.
The man froze.
A golden barrier shimmered between him and the children. He struck it, and the club rebounded, cracking his own wrist. He screamed.
"Leave," Mister Genie said, voice low and cold.
The man turned and fled into the night, howling in pain.
Lia stared at the genie. "You didn't need a wish?"
"I am bound to protect you from harm until your wishes are granted. That is part of my existence."
Maru laughed nervously. "You're like a hero from the stories."
"No," said Mister Genie, returning to the shadows. "Heroes act by choice. I act by chains."
And in the dark, Lia watched him—not with awe, but with something deeper.
Doubt.