A Kiss of Deception (Worlds of Protheka)

8. Meetha

8

MEETHA

K orrine lies crumpled on the floor, her radiant eyes now vacant, staring off into nothing. That grace, once fluid and mesmerizing, is replaced by a grotesque stillness. Blood pools beneath her, staining the floor with the grim finality of her demise.

A sudden noise startles me—a rat scurrying across the floor, its tail dragging through the blood. I lurch forward, kicking at it instinctively. The creature squeals and darts away, leaving tiny red footprints in its wake. The sight makes my stomach heave.

In Protheka, life is a fragile thread, easily snapped by the whims of those in power. My mother's thread, once vibrant and full of hope, now lies severed at my feet. The weight of this truth threatens to crush me.

I blink rapidly, struggling to clear my vision as memories surge—her dreams of being a healer, of using her empathy to help others. But in Protheka, dreams are luxuries few can afford. I knew the risks of her life as a flesh entertainer; I knew it could end like this, yet seeing her robbed of her essence devastates me.

Suddenly, a memory flickers—a hushed conversation with Jarvil just days ago, his rough voice filled with a smoldering anger. "This is how it works, Meetha. Sacrifice is necessary. Our survival depends on it." His words echo in my mind, a haunting reminder of the reality we live in, where life can be traded like currency.

And then another memory—my mother's voice, soft but determined: "In this world, Meetha, even love can be a weapon. Be careful who you trust." Her words, once cryptic, now ring with painful clarity. Trust, I realize, is as rare and precious as magic in our cruel reality.

I swallow hard against the scream clawing at my throat. The taste of bile is acrid, tainting my tongue. Death has always haunted our doorsteps, especially in her line of work. But nothing prepared me for this—my mother, a shadow of herself, lying cold and alone.

My breath accelerates, each inhale sharp and ragged. The room tilts, spinning around me. Familiar artifacts mock me—the faded tapestries, the rickety chair, the cracked mirror—unchanged yet irrevocably altered by this moment.

A wooden box catches my eye, the one that holds every coin she saved, each hard-earned through nights of degradation. Its presence feels like a taunt, a painful reminder of plans for a different life. I lunge for it, my fingers closing around its edges. With a scream of anguish, I hurl it against the wall. It shatters, coins spilling across the floor like droplets of blood.

Then, a shadow stirs, pulling my gaze. Milkor stands there, an otherworldly calm around him, surveying the scene with chilling indifference. His silver eyes, void of warmth, send shivers down my spine. He's not just an elf—there's something darker, something primal swirling beneath his surface.

My stomach churns. Bile rises. The room spins faster.

"Why are you doing this?" My whisper barely pierces the silence, laden with accusation.

His gaze locks onto mine. For a heartbeat, something flickers in his expression. My skin crawls. My breath catches.

"There is a new power in your father," he says, the smooth detachment of his voice sending ice through my veins.

New power? The words echo, hollow. Empty. My mind reels, struggling to piece together his cryptic words amidst the chaos. Blood pounds in my ears. Why would my father's power matter, especially when it meant this? In Protheka, power is a ravenous beast, consuming everything in its path—even family.

My throat constricts. Words claw their way out. "Did Jarvil tell you to kill her?" The question is sharp, spilling from me like venom. The truth is monstrous, unfathomable.

Milkor's head inclines. A nod so slight, yet crippling. "Yes." His voice is as cold as the stones under her lifeless form.

Rage ignites within me. Burns through the shock. I lunge at Milkor, my fists pounding against his chest. "You monster!" I scream, the words tearing from my throat. "How could you? She was trying to build a better life for us!"

Milkor doesn't flinch. His hands grip my wrists, effortlessly restraining me. His expression remains unreadable. A mask of stone. "It was merely a transaction," he states matter-of-factly, as though he's discussing the weather.

Transaction. The word stings. Echoes. Mocks. A cruel reminder of our world's harsh realities. Korrine's life snuffed out for what? I wrench myself from his grip, stumbling backward. Every shattered dream crashes over me like a wave. In Protheka, lives are commodities, traded and discarded at will by those who hold the reins of power.

In that moment, I see something shift in Milkor—an inkling of conflict beneath his detached exterior. For a fleeting moment, his eyes flicker with something human, a ghost of remorse perhaps, but it vanishes, leaving only the cold void behind.

I stand there, trembling—caught between my mother's lifeless form and Milkor's eerie presence. My gaze darts around the room, searching for a weapon, an escape, anything. I vow silently that her dreams will not die with her. No matter the price, I will escape this nightmare. In a world where power corrupts and betrayal is currency, I'll forge my own path—even if it means burning everything else to the ground.