Page 1 of A Kiss of Deception

1

JARVIL

In the halls of the deceased dark elf’s manor, the sound of footsteps reverberates. Two figures sneak through the shadows, their loot bags full, but one of them focuses on a singular mission: a ring. Legend says it can compel anyone to do your bidding, and that power is exactly what Jarvil needs. His life has been a series of disappointments, and hope is slipping through his fingers.

Tonight changes everything, he thinks to himself.

They reach the study, and Jarvil’s partner, Garrick, nods at the display case. Jarvil smashes it, the glass shattering onto the floor. The ring glints on a velvet pedestal, and he snatches it up. The moment he has possession of it, he feels like he’s being pulled down by a heavy weight.

“What’s the plan, Jarvil?” Garrick whispers, scanning the room with cautious eyes.

Jarvil slips the ring onto his finger, and a strange power courses through him. “We sell the stuff to the highest bidder. Get enough gold to live the life I deserve.”

Garrick raises an eyebrow. “You think that’ll make you happy?”

Jarvil sneers and says, “I’ll be set for life. No more scrounging, no more feeling like a failed farmer.”

“What about your wife? Your kid?” Garrick presses on, voice steady.

Jarvil snorts. “She’s a whore, only good for spreading her legs. And that kid... it’s a girl. Useless. I wanted a son, not some weak little thing that’ll only bring me shame.”

Garrick’s expression is unreadable, but Jarvil senses disapproval.

“Let's get out of here,” he says, tucking the ring into his pouch and carefully placing it in his pocket. “Before someone finds out we’re the ones who took it.”

Garrick nods, and they slip back into the shadows, the ring’s weight heavy in Jarvil’s pocket. Yet, for the first time in years, he feels a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something better.

Once out of the manor’s purview, Jarvil leads Garrick through the winding alleys of Protheka’s underbelly, their bags clinking with stolen goods as they navigate the dark, damp passages. The air reeks of decay and rot, a reflection of the city’s seedy dark side where only the desperate and the fallen dwell. Years of crawling through these streets have taught Jarvil how to scavenge from the shadows, and tonight feels like a jackpot—that damn ring should help bring him in a small fortune.

“What do you think, Garrick?” he whispers, eyes darting around corners, checking for unwanted company. “Should we try the Red Stallion, or maybe the Black Boar?”

Garrick’s voice is low, even in the quiet. “The Red Stallion’s got connections to the orcs. We might get a better price from them, but there’s risk involved. The Black Boar’s safer, but we’ll get less gold.”

Jarvil rubs his chin, weighing the options. The orcs are unpredictable, yet they’re also desperate for anything that givesthem an edge against the dark elves. If they can sweet-talk them into a deal, they might walk away with a small fortune. The Black Boar is a safer bet—the proprietor has connections to some of the more unsavory elements of Protheka’s society.

“I think we take our chances with the orcs,” Jarvil decides, a thrill of excitement running through him. “We can always fall back on the Boar if things get hairy.”

Garrick nods, his face a mask of neutrality. “You’re the boss, Jarvil.”

Jarvil flashes him a grin, the weight of the ring in his pocket bolstering a confidence he hasn’t felt in years. “Tonight, we drink and celebrate. Tomorrow, we make our own luck.”

As they turn a corner, the glow of torches from the Red Stallion spills out onto the street, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Jarvil straightens his shoulders, a sense of anticipation building in his chest. He puts the ring on his finger. It’s time to make their fortune.

Jarvil stridesinto the Red Stallion, his boots thudding on the worn floorboards. The air is thick with murmurs and clinking tankards.

Whispers and stares follow them, the patrons’ eyes drawn to Jarvil’s rough, unshaven face and the scars that etch his cheeks. He has earned his reputation as a thief, and it precedes him like a dark cloud.

Garrick’s eyes dart around the room, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He is always on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Jarvil gives him a sharp nod, a silent reminder to keep his wits about him.

The barkeep, a gruff, burly man with a thick beard, looks up from polishing a mug. His gaze lingers on Jarvil, a calculating glint in his eye. Jarvil has done business with him before, and he knows the man is not one to be trifled with. A hint of a smile plays on Jarvil’s lips as he makes his way to the bar, Garrick falling into step beside him.

“What can I get you, Jarvil?” the barkeep asks, his deep voice a low rumble.

“A glass of your finest whiskey,” Jarvil replies, his voice low and even. “And information. I’m looking for a buyer.”

The barkeep’s eyebrow raises, a slow, deliberate movement. “What kind of goods are you peddling?”

Jarvil leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Something that’ll make your eyes water.”

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