10. Meetha

10

MEETHA

J arvil's heavy footsteps echo through our small dwelling, accompanied by... giggling? A woman's voice?

"Where's that useless elf?" Jarvil's slurred words reach me before I see him.

I rise from the floor where I'd been curled up, my body aching from hours of sobbing. The scent of death still lingers in the air, a stark reminder of what transpired mere hours ago.

My mother's face flashes before my eyes—her kind smile, now forever silenced. The ache in my chest threatens to consume me. How can the world keep turning when she's gone? The grief is a physical weight, pressing down on me, making each breath a struggle.

But as Jarvil's drunken voice cuts through my sorrow, that crushing sadness begins to shift. A spark of anger ignites in my gut, growing hotter with each passing moment.

"He's gone," I manage to croak out.

Jarvil stumbles into view, dragging a woman behind him. Her gaudy makeup and revealing clothes leave little doubt about her profession. My stomach churns.

"Good riddance," he grunts. "Meet your new mother."

The woman giggles again, clearly intoxicated. "Ooh, you didn't tell me you had a daughter!"

I stare at them in disbelief, bile rising in my throat. "Are you serious? Korrine's body isn't even cold yet!"

Jarvil's eyes narrow dangerously. "Watch your tone, girl. Your mother was nothing but a whore. This one's an upgrade."

A memory flashes through my mind—Jarvil, years ago, his face twisted with grief and rage.

"She tricked me," he'd snarled, reeking of cheap ale. "Your mother... she told me she was a good woman, a wife who would serve. Made me love her. And now I'm stuck with you, a constant reminder of her lies."

I push the memory aside, bile rising in my throat. His bitterness, his cruelty—it all stems from that perceived betrayal. But it doesn't excuse what he's become.

"How dare you?" I spit out, trembling with rage. "She was ten times the person you'll ever be!"

The slap comes so fast I barely see it. Pain explodes across my cheek, and I taste blood.

"You ungrateful little bitch," Jarvil snarls. "I should've drowned you at birth."

I don't wait to hear more. I shove past them, fleeing into the night. The cool air hits my face, carrying the stench of the city – rotting garbage, unwashed bodies, and despair.

I run without direction, my bare feet slapping against the cobblestones. That pathetic bastard clearly hasn't learned anything. This is the last straw.

"Milkor!" I cry out into the night, my voice hoarse and desperate. "Where are you?"

The streets echo my pleas, but no answer comes.

I collapse against a grimy wall, my legs finally giving out. The adrenaline fades, leaving me hollow and lost. What am I doing? Where can I possibly go?

For a moment, I consider returning home. The thought makes me physically ill. No, there's nothing left for me there. Just pain and bitter memories.

As I push myself to my feet, ready to continue my aimless flight, something strange happens. My chest aches, not just from the exertion of running, but from a peculiar, inexplicable pull. It's as if an invisible thread tugs at my very core, urging me forward.

Confusion mingles with curiosity. What is this feeling? Despite my exhaustion, I find myself following this mysterious sensation, letting it guide me through the labyrinthine streets.

I stumble through winding alleys, barely registering the curious glances of late-night revelers. The pull grows stronger with each step, guiding me like a compass I never knew I possessed. My feet seem to move of their own accord, carrying me deeper into the maze of the city.

The scent of stale ale and sweat grows stronger. I find myself in front of a rundown inn, its weathered sign creaking in the night breeze. The Drunken Wyvern. The magical tug becomes almost painful now, centered on this dilapidated building.

Without hesitation, I push open the door. The innkeeper, a burly man with a scarred face, glares at me.

"We're full up, girl. Get lost."

I ignore him, scanning the dim common room. The pull leads me to a rickety staircase in the back. I bolt up the steps, my heart pounding in my ears.

At the top, I pause. Which room? The invisible thread yanks me towards the last door on the left. I press my ear against the worn wood, hearing nothing but soft breathing from within.

My hand trembles as I grasp the doorknob. It's unlocked. I push it open, wincing at the loud creak of rusted hinges.

Moonlight spills through a grimy window, illuminating a figure sprawled across a narrow bed. Milkor. His white hair gleams in the silvery light, his face peaceful in sleep.

I step closer, drawn by a force I can't explain. "Milkor," I whisper, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

His eyes snap open, silver and piercing in the darkness.

Milkor sits up, startled, his silver eyes gleaming in the dim light. "What in the hells are you doing here?" he demands, his voice a low growl.

"You're not just some random dark elf, are you?" I demand, my voice shaking.

Milkor's lips curl into a smirk. "No, I'm not."

"Then what are you?" I press, stepping closer. "Tell me the truth."

He rises from the bed, his movements fluid and predatory. "You're more perceptive than I gave you credit for, little human. How did you find me?"

"I... I don't know," I stammer, suddenly aware of how bizarre this situation is. "I just felt this pull, like something was guiding me here."

His eyes narrow, a mix of suspicion and curiosity crossing his features. "A pull? Interesting. Very interesting indeed."

"Why are you here?" I ask, finding my voice. "How did you end up in this tavern?"

Milkor's lips curl into a wry smile.

"Answer me," I insist, refusing to back down.

Milkor's eyes flash dangerously. "Very well. I am a demon from Galmoleth. I needed a place to regroup, to plan my next move."

He pauses, studying me intently. "But it seems fate had other ideas."

My breath catches in my throat. A demon? Here?

"How is that possible?" I whisper.

"I was cursed," he growls, pacing the room. "Trapped in this pathetic dark elf form by a purna."

"Your curse," I whisper, remembering his earlier words. "Is it connected to why I felt drawn here?"

"Perhaps."

I watch him, fascinated and terrified. "But why are you here? With my father?"

Milkor stops, fixing me with an intense stare. "Your father possesses something I need. A ring of great power."

"The one he stole," I realize aloud.

He nods. "It may be the key to breaking my curse."

I swallow hard, processing this information. A demon. A cursed demon. Right here in front of me.

"What now?" I ask, my voice barely audible.

Milkor's lips curve into a wicked grin. "Now, little human, things get interesting."

My heart races as I process Milkor's words. A demon, a cursed ring, my father's newfound power—it's all too much.

"The ring," I whisper, "what exactly can it do?"

Milkor's silver eyes gleam in the dim light. "It's called the Ring of the Deceiver. An ancient artifact of immense power, created by a sorcerer known only as The Deceiver."

"What kind of power?" I press.

"It grants the wearer the power of compulsion. Your father can now bend others to his will with mere words."

Milkor's face darkens. "But its power comes at a great cost. It corrupts the wearer, twisting their mind with paranoia and mistrust. Many who've worn it have met gruesome ends."

A chill runs down my spine. "That's how he got you to—to kill my mother?"

He nods, a hint of regret crossing his features. "I had no choice. The ring's power is absolute. And now, with each passing day, your father sinks deeper into its influence."

My mind races with possibilities. If such power exists... "Milkor, can you make me into a demon?"

He laughs, a dark, rich sound that sends shivers through me. "If I had my full powers, little one, I could grant your wish. But alas, I am but a shadow of my true self."

Desperation claws at my chest. I need a way out, a chance at a different life. "What if... what if I killed my father and gave you the ring? Could you get me out of this miserable existence?"

Milkor's eyes widen, a mix of surprise and intrigue dancing across his face. "You'd do that? Kill your own father?"

I clench my fists, years of anger and resentment bubbling to the surface. "He's no father to me. He's a monster who's made my life hell. If ending him means freedom, I'll do it gladly."

A slow, wicked grin spreads across Milkor's face. "Well then, little human. It seems we have ourselves a deal."