The jungle around Chichen Itza thrummed, humid air thick with earth and vine, the midday sun blazing on ancient pyramids that stood like silent guardians. Feathers drifted—Quetzalcoatl's Bloom offshoot, vibrant greens and golds pulsing with restless energy, mirroring the storm in my chest. The Peace Bloom tin glowed in my backpack, Fernie Junior poking out—swish-swish—to boop a curling fern, like it was sizing up the local flora for a brawl.
Kai paced by a weathered stone altar, his amulet glinting under his hemp shirt, murmuring about Itzel, the priest whose test loomed atop El Castillo, the tallest pyramid. Zahir hovered close, his misty form coiling tight, bells jingling with a fierce, protective edge, his ember eyes scanning every rustle—guarding me, always guarding me, with a softness that set my heart racing.
We'd paused by a cenote, its turquoise water shimmering like a jewel, waiting for Itzel's summons. My sneakers scuffed the dirt, my mind tangled—Jasmin's forge ambush, Aisling's searing flames, and now this, Quetzalcoatl's trial of "flight" and trust. The Bloom's power was a wildfire inside me, chaotic, untamed, and the fear of losing control clawed at my throat. What if I failed—unleashed a storm, hurt Zahir, Kai, or myself? My phone buzzed, Trendy Threads group chat crashing through—retail hell never sleeps.
Jen: "Cuz, ur vid's at 500K—myth status! Greg's feral, says Fernie's 'brand poison.'" Dave: "Mira, shifts suck without u—u okay? Genie cooler than me yet?" Greg: "ABSENCE UNACCEPTABLE—legal's drafting write-ups!" I groaned, shoving it back, Fernie thwacking—thwap!—my bag, leaves rustling like a middle finger to Greg.
Zahir noticed, his bells tinkling softly, mist brushing my arm—cool, jasmine-scented, warm where it lingered, like a touch he couldn't pull back.
"Your world troubles you," he said, voice low, rich, his form solidifying—braids swaying, blue-gold tunic catching the cenote's glow. "Speak, my lady—let me carry the weight."
I smirked, leaning against a moss-covered stone, the tin's glow anchoring me. "Greg's a tool, work's a circus, Jen's hyping, Dave's… Dave-ing. But it's not that.
" My voice dropped, vulnerability slipping through. "It's this—Quetzalcoatl's test. Itzel wants trust, but my chaos… what if I can't control it? What if I fail you?"
Zahir's ember eyes softened, devotion and longing flickering. He floated closer, mist wrapping us, the jungle fading. "Fail me?" he said, bells quiet, a tremor making my breath catch. "Mira, you've woven Afi's web, forged Aisling's flame—your chaos is your strength. But I see it—fear shadows you, as it once did me."
I tilted my head, heart pounding, his closeness electric. "You? Scared?" I teased, voice wavering. "Mr. Golden-Flame Djinn? Spill, Zahir—when were you afraid?"
His smile was faint, real, his hand—flesh, warm—tangling with mine, a jolt sparking through me. "Long ago," he said, voice heavy with centuries.
"Before chains, I was Lashame's spark, born of fire and wind, tasked to guard the Peace Bloom with Hiva, a mortal whose laugh lit the Indus Valley. The Bloom was creation's root—Lashame's gift to balance life, its offshoots tying gods in a pact: Afi's web, Aisling's flame, Itzel's feathers, Ryūjin's mist, all sworn to guard against evil like Jasmin's hunger."
My breath hitched, her name a blade. "Jasmin," I said, voice tight, jealousy flickering. "The one who cursed you. What happened—really?"
His bells trembled, a sharp clang softening, his gaze locking on mine, wary but open. "Hiva's apprentice—fire in her soul, ambition sharper than obsidian. Her laugh drew me like a moth." His thumb brushed my knuckles. "I thought it was love. She whispered of power beyond duty, craved the Bloom's heart. She sold Hiva's secrets to a warlord—gold, armies. Hiva fought, petals glowing, but Jasmin's knowledge guided the blades. Hiva fell, the Bloom stolen, and I burned the warlord's camp to ash. Jasmin survived; I cursed her—made her an anti-Djinn, hungry, hollow. Lashame chained me—three wishes, my freedom gone."
His hand tightened, bells quiet, confession spilling. "I feared then—losing Hiva, losing myself to rage. Centuries of masters, wishes, Jasmin's shadow—I grew cold, until you." His eyes met mine, fierce, tender, gold flaring—freedom, love, a wish unspoken. "Your chaos—your laugh, your defiance—it's Hiva's warmth, fiercer, brighter. You're breaking my rules, Mira—not with wishes, but with… you." His free hand grazed my cheek, trembling, petals swirling, jasmine-scented, alive.
I swallowed, heart racing, fear and warmth colliding. "You're saying I'm your redemption?" I whispered, half-teasing, leaning into his touch, breaths mingling. "Zahir, I'm scared—of failing, losing control, losing us. You're my anchor, my fire. If I fly, it's because you're with me."
His smile blazed, bells chiming, wrapping my heart. His forehead rested against mine, hand cupping my face, petals drifting. "You'll fly, my lady," he whispered, voice raw, love burning. "I'll catch you—always. Jasmin took my past—you're my future, my wish, my sky."
Our lips hovered, inches apart, air electric, my pulse roaring. I tilted closer, ready to kiss him, when—WHAM!—Fernie's vine shot out, thwacking—thwap-thwap!—a low-hanging branch, startling a howler monkey that screeched and hurled a mango, splattering juice across my shirt. The tin toppled with a clank, petals scattering. I yelped, Zahir's mist flaring, his laugh bursting—rich, unguarded, bells chiming like a melody. "Chaos!" he gasped, smirking, pulling me close to shield me from imaginary monkey attacks. "Your plant's a menace, my lady."
I laughed, swiping mango juice off my cheek, our hands still tangled, eyes locked, the moment softer but no less charged. "Fernie's just jealous," I teased, heart still racing, his warmth promising more.
Itzel emerged, a tall priest with obsidian eyes and feathered robes, his presence commanding yet cheeky, a grin tugging his lips. "The Bloom's root stirs," he said, voice like a warm breeze, eyeing Zahir's mist around me. "Quetzalcoatl's feathers demand trust—fly with your chaos, Mira, or fall. Your Djinn's love strengthens you, but risks the pact's balance."
The test was brutal. Atop El Castillo, feathers swirled, a vortex of light and wind. Itzel's voice carried lore—the Bloom, Lashame's gift, bound gods in neutrality: Afi's web, Aisling's flame, Ryūjin's mist, guarding creation from Jasmin's corruption. "Trust, not control," he urged. I summoned petals, vines curling, but fear surged—Jasmin's hunger, my failure—chaos erupting. Feathers lashed, knocking me to the edge, the drop yawning below. Zahir's bells roared, his golden magic—his, not mine—catching me midair, arms solid, face inches from mine. "I've got you," he growled, bells trembling, love breaking rules.
I clung to him, petals steadying, and pushed—feathers lifting us, a shaky flight. We landed, breathless, chaos barely contained. Itzel's gaze was stern but amused. "You pass—by a feather's width. Your chaos is raw, unmoored by fear. Seek Ryūjin's tide in Japan—find SereniTea, the Bloom's inner peace, or your power will consume you." He nodded to Kai. "SignaYork awaits—the pact gathers there."
Kai grinned, texting Aisling: "Feathers done, firebird—SignaYork's calling." The city—New York's gritty pulse fused with Singapore's sleek glow, orchid-draped skyscrapers, neon-lit gardens—would host Afi, Aisling, Haruka, Arjun for Jasmin's final strike, where Kai and Aisling's spark would kindle.
I squeezed Zahir's hand, his bells a promise, Japan's tide looming, my fear sharp—but with him, I'd find SereniTea, and more.