Page 1 of The Tricksters Deception

Prologue

In the shadowed realm of Elfkind, where magic weaves through bloodlines like an ancient tapestry, there exists a breed of beings whose existence is whispered with trepidation, their names spoken in hushed tones around flickering hearth fires. They are the Tricksters, born of enchantment and entwined with a dark legacy that trails them like a malevolent specter.

These elusive beings, kin to elves yet bearing the ominous stamp of their cursed birth, are shrouded in an aura of calamity. From the cradle, they are cradled by the cruel hands of destiny, and the echoes of their tormented childhoods reverberate through the ages.

In the mysterious dance of magic, Tricksters are the discordant notes, disrupting the harmonious melody of elven existence. To trust one is to gamble with fate itself, for they are heralds of ill fortune, cursed to be agents of chaos in the realms they tread.

In the heart of elven society, where purity is venerated, and harmony is the soul's refrain, the Trickster stands as an ominous enigma—a living paradox destined to be both reviled and feared.

What secrets lie beneath the surface of the Trickster's mask, and what twisted destiny awaits those who dare to unveil the mysteries that shadow their elusive kind?

Chapter one

Get ready for a true story—believe me, I'm not one to spin tales. This is the story of how I met my end.

Let's go back to the beginning.

Day One

Iwas always running late. No matter how hard I tried to stick to a routine, something always went wrong. This particular day was no exception. The subway stalled for twelve agonizing minutes, leaving me staring at the grimy tiles of the station walls as the train sat motionless in the tunnel. When we finally emerged into the daylight, chaos took hold. My scarf, a deep burgundy wool knit, got caught in the escalator’s teeth, yanking me off balance and sending me sprawling onto the cold, unforgiving metal steps.

By the time I freed myself, my palms were scraped, and my nerves were frayed. To top it off, no taxis would stop for me. The cabs, yellow blurs against the snow-dusted streets, zoomed by as if I were invisible. With no other option, I had to sprint, my breath puffing out in desperate clouds as I navigated through the slush-covered sidewalks.

I thought becoming an adult would break this habit of constant tardiness, but no such luck. My hope for a punctual life was shattered the moment I skidded to a halt outside the doctor’s office. The brick façade, once a comforting sight, now seemed to mock me. Snowflakes, delicate and pristine, began to fall, sticking to my hair and eyelashes, melting into icy droplets on my flushed cheeks.

Breathless, I pushed open the heavy glass door, only to be greeted by the cool, indifferent voice of the receptionist. “I’m sorry, we gave away your spot. You’ll need to reschedule.”

The disappointment hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared at the receptionist for a moment, unable to believe that all my frantic effort had been for nothing. The waiting room, with its sterile white walls and uncomfortable plastic chairs, felt like the last place on earth I wanted to be. The ticking clock on the wall only added to my frustration.

With a sigh, I turned and walked back out into the snow, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft click. My journey into the unpredictable fate that awaited me had only just begun.

No longer in a rush, I decided to wander instead. The snow, despite my usual aversion to the cold, had a strange way of calming me. I watched as the city moved around me—people hurried by, their faces hidden behind scarves and hoods, while cars sloshed through the slush on the streets. The usual clamor of the city seemed muffled by the thick blanket of snow that was beginning to coat everything.

I turned onto 2nd Avenue, my footsteps leaving uneven prints behind me. The convenience store’s neon sign flickered in the early evening light, casting a pale glow on the sidewalk. I ducked inside, the warm air and the smell of freshly brewed coffee greeting me like an old friend. After grabbing two sandwiches and two bottles of water, I made my way back outside and headed toward the Pulitzer Fountain, my usual meeting spot with Shelia.

Shelia was already at the fountain when I arrived, huddled on the stone bench with her thin, weathered coat wrapped tightly around her frail body. She was an older woman, with a slight hunch that made her seem even smaller than she was. Her hair, a tangled mess of tattered gray strands, framed a face that had seen far too much hardship. But it was her eyes that always caught me—the mismatched pair of gray despair and green emerald that seemed to hold a thousand untold stories.

As I approached, I noticed the way people glanced at her, their eyes filled with a mix of pity and judgment. They hurried by, eager to put distance between themselves and the reminder of life’s cruelties. But Shelia never let it bother her. She had a resilience that I admired, even envied.

“Hey, Shelia,” I called out, giving her a warm smile as I handed her one of the sandwiches. “It’s turkey today. I know it’s your favorite.”

She looked up, her eyes softening as she accepted the food with trembling hands. “Thank you, love. You’re too kind,” she murmured, her voice raspy but sincere.

We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft crunch of snow underfoot as people passed by. The Pulitzer Fountain, usually a lively spot during the day, was now quiet, the water frozen in mid-flow, creating an icy sculpture that glistened in the evening light. The park surrounding it was dusted with snow, the trees bare and the benches lined with a thin layer of white. It felt peaceful, almost serene, despite the cold biting at my cheeks.

Shelia took a bite of her sandwich and then, almost unexpectedly, she spoke. “I’ve been thinking about my son lately,” she said, her voice breaking the stillness. “He was such a cheeky little boy, always up to some mischief. But he had a good heart. Always helped anyone who needed it.”

I turned to her, surprised by the openness. Shelia rarely talked about her past. “Where is he now?” I asked gently.

She shook her head, her gray eyes clouding with sorrow. “I don’t know. I lost touch with him some time ago. I’m sure he thinks I abandoned him, that I didn’t care.” Her voice trembled, and for a moment, I thought she might cry, but she quickly regained her composure. “But I think of him every day. I just hope he’s out there somewhere, safe.”

“I’m sure he knows you didn’t abandon him, Shelia. Kids have a way of understanding more than we give them credit for,” I said, trying to offer some comfort.

She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I like to think so. But it’s hard, you know, not knowing.”

I nodded, feeling a deep connection to her words. “I get it. I grew up in an orphanage. Never knew if I had any family out there. You learn to find family in other places, with other people.”

Shelia looked at me then, really looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time. “You’ve got a good heart, too,” she said softly. “Just like my boy.”

---