The morning sun broke over Dustwater like a dull blade—no warmth, no color, only the promise of another difficult day. Lia sat on the roof of the abandoned bakery, her legs dangling over the edge. Maru slept inside on a sack of hay, snoring softly. She hadn't slept. Not really.
Her hand gripped the wrapped bronze lamp inside her satchel like it might vanish. The genie—Mister Genie, as Maru had insisted—hadn't spoken since last night. He just stood quietly, sometimes fading into smoke, sometimes appearing beside her like a shadow with eyes.
Now, he stood a few steps away, arms crossed, watching the waking town.
"You didn't sleep," he said without looking at her.
She shook her head. "I kept thinking... What if I mess this up? What if I wish for something stupid and it ruins everything?"
Mister Genie tilted his head. "Wishes are not tools of certainty. They are mirrors. What you desire reflects what you are."
She glanced at him. "That's not comforting."
"It was not meant to be."
Below them, the town stirred. Market stalls creaked open. People limped through the mud. And near the fountain, a voice barked like a whip.
"Move, you rats! You're not even worth the crumbs you steal!"
Lia looked down and froze. Lord Brenner's son, Cray, strutted through the square with three of his father's men. He couldn't have been older than seventeen, but he acted like a king—worse, really. One of the guards shoved an old woman aside, sending her bread basket tumbling into the muck.
Lia's fists clenched. That was Mirra, the widow who sometimes gave them burnt crusts.
"They're taking from people who have nothing," she muttered.
"Many with power believe they deserve more than they need," Mister Genie said.
Cray and his men weren't just bullying. They were collecting something—coins, bread, even scraps of cloth—from the market folk.
"Protection tax," Lia whispered bitterly. "From what? Rats?"
"No," the genie said. "From men like him."
Lia leapt to her feet. "Stay here. I need to check something."
"I cannot leave you," he said.
"Then stay out of sight."
She climbed down the back of the bakery and made her way through alleyways until she reached the old weaver's shop. Inside, Marra the weaver was sobbing, clutching an empty coin pouch.
"They took it all," she whispered. "My thread money... I was saving it to fix my roof."
Lia gritted her teeth. "I'm sorry, Marra."
That night, Lia and Maru shared a crust of bread they'd begged from the baker's discarded bin. The lamp sat silently between them, like a coiled beast waiting to wake.
"You could wish for food," Mister Genie said quietly.
"I could," Lia agreed. "But if I do that, I'm just feeding us. The rest of the town stays broken."
The genie's eyes narrowed, faintly curious. "And what would you do instead?"
She hesitated. "I want to scare Cray. I want him to stop hurting people. But… if I wish for something violent, it might twist wrong, right?"
"All power carries weight," he replied. "A wish to harm, even justified, invites consequence."
She thought for a moment. "What if I just wished that Cray couldn't lie anymore?"
The genie's expression changed—just slightly. Intrigued. "That is... clever. You do not force pain, only truth. Still dangerous, but less… volatile."
Lia stared at the lamp.
"Would that be my first wish?"
"That is for you to say. But once spoken with intent and while touching the object, it cannot be undone."
Maru was already asleep again, curled against the wall. She stood, the night wind blowing her curls across her face.
"I'll wait," she said.
The genie nodded.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
In the dark, beyond the market, Cray's men were already following the trail they'd picked up—of two orphans who might be hiding something valuable. They'd heard whispers about golden smoke in the sky. And tomorrow morning, they would come knocking.