6. Milkor

6

MILKOR

T he scent of wildflowers and resilience clinging to Meetha teases my senses, an intoxicating blend. Humans usually don't intrigue me, but Meetha is an exception. Her fiery defiance draws me in—surprising and alluring.

I watch her move about the kitchen, the subtle lift of her chin when her father addresses her—a silent challenge that I'm eager to see her fulfill.

The stew simmers gently, its aroma mingling with hers, creating a scent that's uniquely hers. I find myself reluctant to move away. Clearing my bowl is just an excuse to remain in her orbit. She glances up, her eyes meeting mine, and there's a knowing glint suggesting she sees through my ruse.

I'm drawn to the sway of her hips, each step a testament to the untamed sensuality she wears like a second skin. Her fingers stir the pot with a rhythm that echoes in my chest, a drumbeat my demonic heart unwittingly follows.

Every move she makes is a dance for me, though she seems blissfully unaware of its effect. The curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the cascade of her hair—it's as if she's spun from desire, a siren's call to any creature with a pulse.

She's young, untouched by time, and unaware of the power she wields over everyone—especially me. At her age, naivety is a shield, but not for Meetha. She's unlike any other.

She catches me watching, and for a moment, the world stands still. Her dark, fathomless eyes hold mine, a flicker of awareness surprising me. Could she be more astute than I presumed?

The moment shatters as Jarvil's heavy footsteps echo through the dwelling. Disappointment curls in my gut, an unwelcome serpentine twinge. I've faced countless enemies, yet none unsettle me like this crude human.

Meetha's gaze darts from mine to her father, her fiery defiance dimming as she dons her mask of a dutiful daughter, a transformation I recognize all too well.

"That took longer than usual," she murmurs, her voice low, a hint of derision lacing her words.

I smirk, the corners of my mouth turning up in rare amusement. Whatever this is, we're both players now, and I'm intent on savoring every moment.

"Milkor, you're with me tonight. We're gambling with the boys." Jarvil's eagerness strikes me as quaint.

I raise an eyebrow, a silent query. Jarvil's eyes tighten, misinterpreting my pause as hesitance. "Is that an order?" I inquire, my tone a blend of depth and amusement.

He grunts, a crude affirmation. "You're in my employ now, elf. You go where I go."

I nod, my grace hiding my true self. "As you wish." An evening with Jarvil is distasteful, yet it furthers my goal. The ring binding me is a chain I plan to shatter, even if it means enduring a human diversion.

Meetha watches the exchange with wary eyes, flickering between her father and me.

We step out into the night; the cool air contrasts sharply with the stuffy confines of Jarvil's dwelling. The streets of Darkholm vibrate with sounds of nightlife—voices, clinking glasses, raucous laughter.

Jarvil strides ahead, his heavy footsteps echoing. I fall into step beside him, my elven grace stark against his lumbering gait. The Ring of the Deceiver glints on his finger, reflecting light from the magical lanterns.

"You'll see, Milkor. There's no thrill quite like it. The dice, the cards...it's in my blood."

I nod, feigning interest. "I'm sure it's...exhilarating."

As we weave through Darkholm's nighttime splendor, I observe the architecture—a patchwork of its tumultuous past. Squat dwarven stone buildings huddle next to wooden ones, while occasional elven arches punctuate the rugged human settlement.

We pass street performers, their music haunting. For a moment, I'm transported back to a time before my fall. I suppress the memory, focusing on the task at hand.

"There it is," Jarvil announces, pointing ahead. "The Rusty Dagger. Best gambling den in Darkholm, if you ask me."

The tavern is uninviting, its weathered facade speaking of neglect. A sign hangs above the door, depicting a dagger dripping with what I assume is blood.

"Charming," I mutter.

Jarvil pushes open the door, and noise and stench wash over us—sweat, spilled ale, and cheap tobacco.

The clatter of dice and hushed conversations fill the smoky room. Jarvil's face splits into a grin. "Welcome to paradise, Milkor. Let's see if that elven luck of yours is good for something, eh?"

I nod, my eyes scanning the room, assessing threats and opportunities. The night is young, and the game is about to begin—in more ways than one.

We find an empty table, and Jarvil dives into the game. I stand beside him, arms crossed, a silent sentinel amidst the chaos. The humans are oblivious to the true nature of the creature among them, their eyes clouded by greed.

The clatter of dice hits the table like a hailstorm, sharp against the tavern's roar. Jarvil's eyes light up, his grin widening as the pile of coins grows.

"Seven!" the croupier calls, and Jarvil whoops in triumph.

I smirk, my gaze fixed on the ring on Jarvil's grubby finger. To the untrained eye, it's a gaudy trinket, but to me, it pulses with otherworldly energy. The Ring of the Deceiver lives up to its name with every roll.

Jarvil leans back, scooping up his winnings. "Seems like Lady Luck's fancies me tonight," he chuckles, glancing my way. "Eh, Milkor? You're my good luck charm."

I grunt in response. If only he knew the true source of his 'luck.'

A burly man across the table slams his fist down, rattling glasses. "No one's that lucky," he slurs, pointing at Jarvil. "You're cheating."

The accusation hangs thick in the smoky air. I tense, ready to intervene. The last thing I need is for Jarvil to lose the ring in a brawl.

But Jarvil's laughter booms, defusing the tension. "Me? Cheat? I'm offended, friend." He gestures toward me. "It's all thanks to my elven servant here. He's got a knack for numbers."

The man's bloodshot eyes swivel to me, suspicion etched in his face. "Is that so?"

I nod, maintaining my stoic facade. Let them think what they will. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here for the ring, and nothing else matters.

"Another round!" Jarvil declares, scooping up the dice.

As he shakes them in his fist, I observe the subtle glow from the ring. To my demonic senses, it's as clear as day. The magic pulses in rhythm with Jarvil's heartbeat, influencing the fall of the dice.

The dice tumble, coming to rest with a tantalizing rattle. "Nine!" the croupier announces, and another cheer erupts from Jarvil.

More coins change hands, sliding toward my temporary master. It's almost too easy. Why does he bother with such petty deceptions when the ring's power could grant him so much more?

Humans have always been predictable in their greed, clinging to the familiar even when greater power waits. It's what makes them easy to manipulate.

"Your luck can't hold forever," growls another player, eyes narrowed.

Jarvil merely grins, the ring glinting as he reaches for the dice. "Care to bet on that?"

As the game continues, I find my thoughts drifting. How long must I endure this charade? How many more nights of petty gambling before I can claim the ring?

The dice roll again, snapping me back to attention. Patience, I remind myself. The time will come. For now, I must play my part—the silent, stoic servant to a man unaware of the true power he holds.

"Milkor," Jarvil's voice cuts through my reverie. "Fetch us another round. This calls for a celebration!"

I nod, moving toward the bar. My eyes never leave the ring. Soon, I promise myself. Soon, its power will be mine, and this tedious game will end.

The tavern's clamor fades as my thoughts drift, unbidden, to Jarvil's daughter, Meetha. Her image from earlier invades my mind, unsettling me. Usually, humans spark as much interest for me as mayflies do for their fleeting lives, but Meetha stirs a curiosity that challenges my indifference.

I can't shake the image of her—defiance in her dark eyes, the grace of her movements. It's not just her beauty but something deeper, a spark of potential that sets her apart from others.

This fascination unsettles me. I'm a demon, yet I find myself perturbed by a mere human girl. It's not lust as I've known it before; it's a curiosity, a pull toward something I don't understand, and that gnaws at me.

Jarvil's hearty laugh jolts me from my contemplation. I need air, space to clear my head. Rising from the table, the wooden legs scraping against the dirt floor, I lean in to whisper to Jarvil, "I'll be back. Nature calls."

He nods, too caught up in his game to pay me much mind. As I weave through the crowd, heat presses in on all sides, and I yearn for the cool solitude outside.

Once outside, I slip into the shadows, away from prying eyes. The alley behind the tavern reeks of refuse and rain. I lean against the rough wooden wall, my breath shallow as I try to make sense of these alien feelings.

This interest in a human is disturbing—unprecedented and inconvenient. I need to focus on my mission and can't afford to be distracted by a girl, no matter how intriguing.

With eyes shut, I attempt to dismiss Meetha from my thoughts, but her fiery gaze and knowing smirk haunt me. It's not desire, but deep curiosity—an inexplicable draw to something I've never known.

Imagining her standing before me, her defiance melting into desire, I can almost feel her body against mine, her lips against my skin. The thought ignites my long-suppressed urges.

My breath hitches as I stroke myself, imagining it's her hand on me. The thought of her innocence drives me over the edge. I spill into the darkness, feeling a release and a surrender to the desires that plague me. Is this obsession a symptom of my cursed state, yearning for something pure amid darkness?

I take deep breaths, forcing my thoughts back to the task at hand. The ring, the gambling—these matter, not some inexplicable draw to a human who will be dust in an instant.

Casting one last look at the starless heavens, I pull myself together and head back to the tavern. To the game and the ring, for now. This pull toward Meetha must not derail my schemes. I am a demon; I do not fall prey to the transient charm of human existence.