14. Meetha

14

MEETHA

T he door creaks open, and I freeze. Milkor's hand on my back urges me forward into the dim interior of my childhood home. The stench hits me first - copper and bile. What had happened here?

"Jarvil?" My voice quavers, betraying the mixture of anticipation and dread churning in my gut.

A wet, gurgling sound answers from the kitchen. I round the corner and stop short.

Jarvil sprawls on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, remnants of a violent confrontation etched into his features. His eyes roll wildly, landing on me with a flicker of recognition.

"You..." he chokes out.

Seeing the gaping wound across his abdomen, my mind races. "What happened?"

His lips move, but only a raspy wheeze escapes.

Milkor's low voice rumbles behind me. "You said there was a woman." Then he turns his gaze to my father.

"You should've been more cautious, Jarvil," Milkor murmured, his silver eyes scanning the room, seeking out the source of the violence. "Where is she?"

Jarvil's gaze darts to the bedroom door, hanging slightly ajar. Understanding dawns.

"She did this to you?" I ask, unable to keep the hint of satisfaction from my tone. My father manages a weak nod, his face contorting in pain and fury.

As I lean closer, my voice drops to a whisper. "Good."

The metallic tang in the air fuels my resolve. I rise, my gaze hardening, as I see a candlestick in the kitchen. My fingers wrap around it, a silent promise of retribution.

Approaching the bedroom door, each step is deliberate. I sense Milkor following close behind. The door creaks under my touch, revealing a sight that sets my blood boiling.

There she is, the woman my father brought home, her back to me as she greedily fills a bag with his stolen fortune. Her tattered clothing suggests desperation. Desperation often turns people into monsters, doesn't it?

She's oblivious to my presence, too consumed by her own greed to sense the danger lurking behind her.

Time seems to slow as I watch her, my grip tightening on the candlestick. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of coins clinking against each other. Each clink is like a hammer blow to my resolve, reminding me of every moment of suffering, every bruise, every hungry night.

The rage that has been simmering inside me for years begins to boil over. It's a living thing, clawing its way up my throat, demanding release. I feel my muscles tense, my body coiling like a spring.

In this moment, I see not just this woman, but every person who's ever taken advantage of the weak, who's ever hurt someone simply because they could. I see my father. I see myself.

The candlestick feels heavier in my hand, its weight a promise of retribution, of justice long denied. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps as I take a step forward, then another.

I grip the candlestick tighter, rage simmering within. "Fucking thieves," I hiss.

Before she can utter a sound, I swing the candlestick with all my strength, connecting with a sickening thud. She crumples to the ground, blood trickling from a gash on her head, pooling around her like a crimson halo.

I watch, breathless, as life ebbs from her eyes. For a moment, I see my own recklessness reflected in her desperation. It's intoxicating, yet terrifying.

The moment of reflection is short-lived. I drop the candlestick, the clang echoing in the stillness.

Milkor's voice cuts through my thoughts, his tone laced with approval. "You've done well, Meetha."

The copper scent of blood is stronger now, drawing me back to the kitchen where my father lies dying. His breaths are shallow, each one a rattle that echoes off the walls of our small home. I approach him, my footsteps heavy with the weight of my actions.

Jarvil's eyes flutter open as I kneel beside him. There's a clarity in his gaze that I've never seen before, a stark contrast to the fog of violence and alcohol that usually clouds it. He knows he's at the end of his road, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the man he could have been.

My hand shakes as I reach for the ring on his finger, the band still warm from his fading heat. The Ring of the Deceiver is now mine to command. As I slide it off his finger, Jarvil's hand twitches, grasping weakly at the air before falling back to the floor.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words barely audible. "I was a bad person."

Anger flares within me, hot and fierce. "You should have thought about that before murdering your family," I hiss, my voice cold and unforgiving.

A ghost of a smile crosses Jarvil's lips, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in my words. "Maybe... in another life," he murmurs, his voice little more than a breath.

And then he's gone, his chest still, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. I sit back on my heels, the ring heavy in my hand. The man who had caused me so much pain, who had hurt my mother and resented me for nothing more than being born a girl, was now nothing more than a shell.

I rise to my feet, leaving Jarvil's body behind. The ring pulses with a strange energy, its power now mine to wield. I can feel its potential, a seductive whisper in the back of my mind promising strength, promising freedom.

I turn to face Milkor, the ring clutched tightly in my palm. Its power thrums through me. Milkor's eyes lock onto my closed fist, his gaze hungry and intense.

The ring continues to pulse against my skin, its rhythm matching my racing heart. Each beat seems to whisper promises of power, of a future where I'm no longer at the mercy of others. I can almost see it - a world where I'm strong, where I'm free.

But with that vision comes doubt. Can I trust this power? Can I trust myself with it? The weight of my recent actions presses down on me, the memory of violence still fresh in my mind.

"It's done," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Milkor nods, his silver eyes never leaving my hand. "You've taken your first step into a larger world, Meetha." His voice is low, almost reverent. "How does it feel?"

I pause, considering. "I... I don't know. Powerful. Terrified. Alive."

A smile plays at the corners of Milkor's mouth. "Good. Those feelings will serve you well." He takes a step closer, his hand outstretched. "Now, as we agreed..."

I look at Milkor, his outstretched hand a silent demand. In his eyes, I see a hunger that mirrors the one I feel growing inside me. It's a stark reminder that in this world, alliances are as fragile as trust.

The ring seems to grow warmer in my hand, as if sensing my indecision. Its power calls to me, a siren song of strength and independence. But is it truly mine to claim? Or am I just exchanging one form of control for another?

My fingers twitch, almost of their own accord. I could give it to him, fulfill our agreement. It would be… noble. But the thought of relinquishing this power, this chance at true freedom, makes something deep inside me rebel.

"Meetha," Milkor says, his tone a mixture of warning and encouragement. "After everything we've been through, everything I've done for you... You understand the importance of this, don't you?"

In this moment, standing amidst the aftermath of death and betrayal, I realize that I'm at a crossroads. The path I choose now will define not just my future, but who I am at my core. Am I still Meetha, the scared, powerless girl I've always been? Or am I ready to become something more, something stronger?

The seconds stretch like hours as I wrestle with my decision. Finally, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come.

"Give me the ring, Meetha," Milkor says, his voice low and commanding. He extends his hand, palm up, expectant.

My heart races. This is the moment of truth. We had an agreement, didn't we? But the weight of the ring in my hand, the pulse of its magic... it calls to me.

"No."