4. Milkor

4

MILKOR

T he gangplank creaks under our feet as we disembark. Jarvil stumbles. I grab his arm, steadying him with a strength that belies my slender Elven form.

"Easy there," I mutter. "Wouldn't want you face-planting before we even reach solid ground."

Jarvil grunts, shrugging off my grip. "I'm fine. Just need to get my land legs back."

The docks bustle with activity. Sailors haul crates, merchants hawk wares, and the air reeks of fish and sweat. It's a far cry from the realms I once called home, but there's a raw energy here that stirs something primal within me.

"So," I say, matching Jarvil's loping stride as we weave through the crowd. "Home sweet home, eh?"

He snorts, a grin breaking the surface for a moment. "Sweet ain't exactly the word I'd use. But I've got coin now, so yeah, home."

"And the wife? Bet she'll be thrilled to see you."

His smirk falters, shadows flickering over his features. "Korrine? She better be. No more shakin' her ass for coin. Not with what I've scored today."

I arch an eyebrow, intrigued. "That bothers you? Her work?"

"Course it does," he snaps, irritation rippling through his words. The hard edge to his voice carries a tone I recognize—control masked as concern. "A man don't want his woman spreadin' her legs for other blokes."

I study him, noting the way his fingers tap against the worn hilt of his dagger, as if to secure his hold over her, over their circumstances.

"Even if it kept food on the table?"

Jarvil's tempered facade cracks, annoyance flooding his features. "You think I like it? I worked my ass off so she wouldn't have to do that!"

There's an almost desperate need to justify himself, a reflex born from the resentments of his past.

His voice raises a hair, and I can sense the mounting pressure beneath it. Just beneath his harsh words lies a wounded boy—a man shaped by years of deprivation, by a life in which he felt powerless. His early struggles forged him into a controller, yet the control he exerts comes not from strength, but from a desperate fear of losing the last fragments of what he perceives as his legacy.

I keep my tone light to mask the weight of this revelation. "Just asking. Different customs where I'm from."

But this only seems to provoke him further. "You don't get it. She's mine. She was supposed to help me build something real. Not… this shit." He waves his hand around, showing the rundown surroundings that mirror how their marriage has fallen apart.

"I thought once we settled down, she'd want?—"

"Want what?" I interject, curiosity piquing. "To trade one prison for another?"

Jarvil's scowl deepens, but there's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a brief reckoning of the truth he can't fully face. Years of chasing a dream that feels more like a con when confronted by the reality before him; a wife so weary, bearing scars that tell of battles lost in the shadows of their home.

"What if she had her own ambitions? What then, Jarvil? Would you crush them, too?"

He grunts, and we continue walking. As we plunge deeper into the city, the buoyant energy of the docks gives way to a staler atmosphere. The crowd thins, replaced by the shadows of dilapidated buildings leaning in, their faces grimy and uninviting.

The air grows heavier, the stench of refuse and unwashed bodies suffocating as we slow our pace. "Charming neighborhood," I say, trying to lift the mood, but it barely registers with him.

As we approach the tenement, Jarvil's expression darkens further. The joy of the day's haul drains from his features, replaced by a mix of embarrassment and irritation.

"Home sweet home," he mutters bitterly, a frown settling on his lips as he surveys the peeling walls and broken shutters.

The door creaks open, revealing a dim, musty interior steeped in shadows. Jarvil steps inside, his shoulders taut, a stark contrast to the man who had walked with pride moments ago.

"You comin' in or what?"

I hesitate, weighing my options. The ring's power pulses, a siren song I can't ignore. But there's something else, a whiff of… potential. It's faint, almost undetectable, but unmistakable to my demonic senses.

"After you," I say, flashing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Jarvil grunts, disappearing into the gloom. I follow, my Elven form gliding silently across the threshold.

The stench of fear hits me before I even see her. Korrine stands frozen in the dim hallway, eyes wide and trembling like a deer caught in a hunter's sights. Her gaze flicks between Jarvil and me, like a cornered animal searching for escape.

"J-Jarvil? You're back?" Her voice quavers, panic threading through her words. "Who's that with you?"

Jarvil's face twists into a snarl, the sound cutting through her vulnerability. "Shut your trap, woman. Can't a man bring home a guest without you squawkin' like a startled hen?"

As his words land, I observe silently, cataloging every detail. Korrine flinches at the verbal lash, a ghost of something darker flashing in her eyes—a memory of a blow, a shouted curse, a fear too familiar. The bruises peeking out from beneath her worn sleeve tell tales of silent suffering, echoes of battles waged long before this moment. The surrounding air is thick with the weight of her resignation, an oppressive cloak she wears as protection against a world that seems determined to break her.

"This here's Milkor," Jarvil grunts, jerking a thumb in my direction. "Elven servant I picked up. Gonna be stayin' with us for a bit."

Korrine's eyes meet mine, searching for something—I can't tell what. Hope? Or perhaps just the instinct to find another way to survive. I offer a placid smile, the very picture of subservience, while inside, my demonic essence roils with anticipation. Such delicious fear, such exquisite suffering. It would be so easy to reach out, to twist that fragile psyche until it shatters…

But no. Patience. The ring pulses and sings its siren song, a reminder of my true purpose.

"P-pleased to meet you," Korrine stammers, dipping into a clumsy curtsy, her movements devoid of confidence. She performs the act as if it's ingrained in her—an automatic response honed through years of conditioning.

"The pleasure is mine, good lady," I murmur, bowing slightly, my silver eyes never leaving hers. I drink in the confusion that flickers across her face at my cultured tones. In that fleeting moment, I glimpse her inner turmoil—a struggle forged in pain, an unwillingness to fight against the tide of an existence that has taught her that submission is survival.

A new voice cuts through the tension, sharp and unexpected. "Why would a dark elf bother serving you?"

My head snaps toward the source. A young human female stands in a doorway I hadn't noticed before, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. How did I miss her presence? My senses must be duller than I thought in this cursed form.

Jarvil's face flushes an ugly red. "You watch your mouth, girl! Didn't I teach you to respect your elders?"

"Earn respect," she shoots back defiantly, her chin jutting out.

I study her, intrigued. Where Korrine radiates fear, this one blazes with rebellion. It's… refreshing. A spark of life in this den of misery.

But Jarvil's face contorts with rage, his meaty hand shooting out to grab Korrine's wrist. The sight fuels an ember of excitement within me. She whimpers, a dismal sound that sends a delicious shiver down my spine.

"You," he snarls at his wife, "bedroom. Now." His gaze swings to his daughter, venom dripping from every word. "And you, girl. One more word outta that smart mouth and you'll regret it."

With a forceful tug, he drags Korrine towards a door at the end of the cramped hallway. Her eyes widen with terror, and though her feet stumble in protest, there's no resistance—smart woman, indeed. The door slams behind them, a finality that reverberates in the stillness left behind.

I turn to the girl, curiosity piquing as a sheen of confusion crosses her face. "Well now, that was quite the family reunion."

She glares at me, defiance radiating off her in waves, but her eyes dart back to the closed door, tension coiling her tight like a rattlesnake.

A muffled cry echoes from the bedroom, piercing the heavy atmosphere like a knife. The girl's face twists in disgust, but beneath it, there's a flicker of something else—resignation? No… guilt?

I lean closer, heightening the intensity of the moment. "Just think, every sound that comes from within those walls is a reminder of what it means to be powerless. Wouldn't you agree?"

Her expression hardens, but it's clear: the horrors unfolding on the other side grip her heart with the chill of despair.