Maeve swung the doors open to the Noble Dove.

She was in a bad mood. The guild had given her that job full-well knowing that the owlbears had just had their fledgelings for the season. “Herd the creatures away from the mining site,” her ass, as though it was as simple as telling them nicely to shoo. Did they even know anything about owlbear nesting?

…Probably. Maeve walked over to the bar, sullen. Since she’d joined, all of the jobs available to her rank seemed to be the most annoying ones. “Sewer rat infestation,” “giant spiders in the wine cellar,” “move a stubborn mule.”

But, the guild gave her coin. She placed a few copper pieces on the counter as the barkeep brought her a tankard of ale, and she was grateful that the Dove was bustling so that she did not have to make small talk.

Part of the issue was that she didn’t fit the stereotype of a lithe, elven girl. She was far more trained with a dagger and sleight of hand than with magic, from years of sneaking around her mage parents. She knew her way around the arcane, but never had a knack for it herself. It had caused her some strife, but she made due.

‘Besides,’ she remembered saying once, in a particularly confident mood, ‘Magic leaves a trace, and I don’t.’

Perhaps all youngsters were that cocky before they left home.

She sipped at her ale and turned to the lively, loud room around her.

Musicians in the corner fighting to be heard over the din. A table of patchwork-equipped adventurers celebrating. A tiefling couple sitting far too close to each other. A card game with… a neat little pile of gold stacked in the middle of the table.

That caught her eye.

There was an elven man in leather armor on one side of the table, and his opponent was a human woman in fancy-looking garb, even wearing a necklace inlaid with sapphires.

The woman looked smug -- she had a sizable pile of coin on her side of the table, while the man had just a few pieces of silver. His face looked relaxed and confident at first glance, but a lingering eye saw creases of stress.

She watched them each take the last card for their hand, and the man gave a little sigh. The woman’s grin just broadened, and she put two gold pieces onto the middle of the table. He matched it. Next they were each allowed to swap one card out for a new one from the deck, but the game seemed to have stalled -- they were talking.

Curious, she walked to sit at an empty table more on the woman’s side, and with careful glances, Maeve caught a glimpse of her hand. Unfortunately for the man across from her, it was quite good, and she could swap her only low card out for something hopefully better.

The man flashed a smile and exchanged one of his own cards. The woman did the same, but --

She put back one of her high cards, and pulled what turned out to be a low card in return.

…What? Why? Why did she do that?

Her eyes darted to the woman’s face -- was it a mistake? Did she notice? But she looked exactly the same, laughing, haughty, as though nothing had changed.

There was no bet after the card swap in this game, so each of them revealed their hands.

The elven man’s cards beat hers. The woman paused for a moment, lips parting in surprise, but then she gave a little laugh, and allowed the man to take the pot. His face was smoothed of its prior nerves, and in place of it was the slightly crinkled eyes of someone who had just completed a successful hustle.

Maeve looked down at her drink and tried to piece together what she’d just seen. She’d done her fair share of hustles -- and been hustled herself -- but this didn’t follow the playbook of anything she knew. She didn’t see either of them using quickhandedness with hidden cards. She reached out her senses and tried to see if there was any linger of the arcane, and she found nothing. That would have been stupid of him to do anyways, because the subject of a spell inevitably snaps out of it at some point, and often in a rage, if they had been manipulated.

Was the woman hustling him? Were they about to play another hand?

But Maeve looked and she was getting up, letting her long fingers drag against the table, saying something to the man while giving an unmistakable, flirtatious shift of her hips.

…What the fuck?

The man grinned and waved as she walked away.

…Maeve’s parents had joked sometimes that she must be part catfolk, because her curiosity often got her into trouble. She could feel the urgentness of it, and her quickly-emptied tankard wasn’t helping.

She got up and walked over. The elven man looked at her as she approached -- he was putting his coin away and gathering up the cards.

“Can I help you?” he asked, and his voice was disarmingly friendly -- but Maeve got the impression that he already knew what she was coming over for.

“I couldn’t help but notice the thrill of the game you were playing with that woman,” she said, hoping the double entendre made it clear that she was onto his hustle -- even if she didn’t fully understand it.

“Ah, were you hoping for some cards?” He placed the deck on the table and indicated to the empty chair across from him. “I did recently come into some coin, and I’m in a good mood.”

“Well,” Maeve said, taking a seat, “I am low on coin, and in a bad mood. But I am interested in playing, as long as we stick to silver and copper.”

The man smiled at her. “Fine with me. Perhaps you’ll win a bit and feel better.”

She smiled at that, but despite her experience with gambling, she felt unease.

“I’m Maeve,” she offered. “Who do I have the pleasure of playing against today?”

“Castian,” he said, and extended a hand, which she shook. “And the pleasure is all mine.”

Castian dealt them each their first card and Maeve focused very hard with both her eyes and her senses to detect anything untoward.

“You can relax, Maeve,” he said with a chuckle, and it made her stiffen a little -- was she too obvious? “We are both elves -- wouldn’t you sense if I was cheating with magic?”

“I --” Again, her blood was the first thing about her. “Well, my parents were skilled at magecraft, so, yes, but I myself am actually more skilled around sleight of hand.”

“So I should be worried, then.” Castian’s eyes glittered with amusement, and he made a little show of guarding his card.

Maeve laughed a little at that, despite herself, and felt a bit less guarded. “I have no intention of playing unfairly. I came over here because I was curious about how you won against that woman.”

“I got lucky,” Castian said, smiling. “Perhaps she was too cocky?”

It didn’t sit right with her, but she was paying attention now. They each made their first bet -- one silver apiece. Maeve’s first card was low, and she wanted to play safe.

“I gamble a lot, actually,” Castian said. “It’s one of my favorite pastimes. Do you play much?”

“I used to,” Maeve admitted. The next card was in her favor, and she raised a silver -- playing very straight. “Especially before I had a way to get much coin.”

“Ah, so you like it for the winnings, then.”

Well, that was partially true. Gambling back home had also taught her a lot about how to read people, how to manipulate them.

“No?” Castian looked curious. He’d read her expression -- he had apparently gotten skilled at that, too.

“I think I also enjoy what it teaches me about people,” Maeve said, carefully.

He smiled at that. “I like that, as well.”

Next card -- a mediocre one. She had one high, one medium, and one low. Another silver. Castian was matching her cautious bets.

“Personally,” he said, lowering his voice, “I love the risk of it.”

His tone caught her off guard. “...So, do you often play with hefty sums?”

“The amount doesn’t matter as much to me,” he said. “Although that can add a thrill. I just feel as though one wagers more than coin on a game of cards. There is more at stake.”

“How do you mean?” Maeve asked.

“We wager our intellect,” Castian said. “We wager our emotions. We wager our beliefs. You and I each consider ourselves skilled gamblers, do we not? So each choice we make, we put that on the line, because only one of us will win. The more we win, the more we believe in ourselves as cunning and capable. Your sour mood could be reversed if you succeed, and my good mood could spoil.”

She was taken aback by his statement. He was… right, of course. But what a strange perspective to have. Now that he’d shared it with her, she felt her heart beat faster, as though she felt the weight of that risk added to the small pile of coin on the table.

The last card, a high one. Feeling bolder, feeling like she wanted to test him, she put in two silver. He raised his eyebrows and matched it.

“Although, personally,” he said, “I think there is even excitement in losing a well-matched game. I think of wagers as the price to pay for a thrill.”

His voice deepened in tone, and there was something about it that gave her a thrill of apprehension.

They each swapped a card, Maeve carefully putting her low card in and getting… a medium one back.

Not a bad hand at all… No betting after the swap, so, her pulse increasing, they each revealed, and…

…She’d beaten him. She let out a breath, allowed herself a little relieved grin.

“Ah, well done!” Castian said, smiling. “There, is your mood a little better?”

It was. And Castian still seemed as cheerful as ever.

“Another hand?” he asked, retrieving the cards.

“Of course,” Maeve said. Although she felt more drawn in than she expected, she hadn’t forgotten her goal, and most hustles she knew started with purposefully losing the first game.

First card, high. Castian’s turn to bet first. He put in two silver.

She matched it. “Does a higher bet imply that there is more… reputation on the line?” she asked.

“Yes,” Castian affirmed. “But only relative to the starting bet. Double the pot… double the risk. Double the high. Have you noticed it?”

Maeve had never felt a gambler’s high before. She had always been too calculating, too focused. But she couldn’t deny something thrumming through her now, making her feel heady, eager for the next card and bet.

“It feels good, right?” Castian smiled. “This is why people get addicted to gambling. The risk, being at that precipice, that potential for the perfectly unique feeling of intense win or loss.”

Next card, high. Castian put in three silver. Maeve did not want to stop.

“It’s a misconception that addicts keep coming back because they feel like they could win again,” Castian continued, and Maeve knew he was dominating the conversation with his strange words but the anticipation was making her impatient for more of the game. “The reality is that addicts are addicted to losing, too. There’s nothing quite like that feeling, that you could tarnish your name, what others think of you, what you think of yourself with one bad decision.”

His words felt heavy compared to the lightness in her body, and the air felt thick. The rawness of the reality, the suspense was going straight to her head. She flicked her eyes down to the deck.

Next card, medium. Four silver. Maeve felt herself shift in her chair, sitting up, more attentive.

“Attraction to risk is what makes us people,” Castian said, and his voice had lowered, so she leaned forward, just a touch. “This risk of gambling is actually quite safe, isn’t it? Compared to how we risk our lives in our jobs. How we risk our hearts and minds in intimacy.”

His mention of intimacy made a little warmth bloom inside of her, reminding her of past broken hearts, but the heat of desire.

Last card, low.

“And in gambling,” Castian said, “we control the amount that we risk.”

He put five silver in the middle of the table, now a sizeable pile.

Maeve fumbled to put her own in.

“But some of us…” He exchanged his card, slowly, making eye contact with her. “...want to up the ante, and court danger, because it gives us a sweeter taste of the thrill.”

She stared at her cards. High, high, medium, low. She could feel the gravity of her next decision, the way that she controlled her fate, but also the call of the void, the gnawing strength of the desire to put herself at the mercy of the game.

There was a hot little knot inside her stomach.

With shaky breaths and trembling fingers, she exchanged one of her high cards.

The card she got in return… She flipped it over slowly, savoring the moment of the unknown turning to known, the reveal of her personal, private gamble…

Low.

It felt crushing and real, like it gripped her chest and held her, the sight of it forcing her to confront her bad decision. Instant gratification. Like her mind was trapped in that moment, clear and silent, eyes wide.

Castian laid his cards on the table.

He’d won.

Maeve gasped and remembered herself, remembered what she had intended to do.

“...How did you do that?” Maeve whispered. “How did you make me…”

“Isn’t it nice to lose, once in a while?” he murmured, staring right at her.

Again she felt that tingle of warmth. She remembered that they were in a noisy tavern, but the bustle still seemed dim and distant.

“Are you enchanting me? Are these cards enchanted?” She focused her attention on the deck, but already knew there was nothing to feel.

“You would know if I was controlling you with enchantments,” Castian said, slowly. “We are elves. It’s in our blood to be able to know that magic.”

Despite her thick-feeling tongue and the strange haziness over her, Maeve frowned.

“Just --” she stammered. “Just because I’m -- an elf… I… Everyone always…”

No, wait. This wasn’t what she was here for, to complain about everyone’s assumptions about her race --

“It is frustrating when people presume things about us,” Castian said, and his words were soft, but his face was stern, as though he was talking to a child. “But our heritage with magic is something we can’t escape, even if we wanted to.”

She needed to get back on him about his tricks, she needed to stop getting upset --

“Maybe I wouldn’t even know if you were enchanting me!” she said, and it came out petulant. “Maybe I’m enchanted right now and I’m a failed elf and I can’t sense it! Maybe you knew --”

“Maeve,” Castian said, and his voice had turned darker, his eyes had turned darker towards her. “You would know.”

“How do you know?” she challenged.

Castian paused for a moment, and then a smile, more twisted than his charming grins, lifted his lips.

“I will wager with you for it,” he said, slowly, and for the first time, though she had been on edge with this man, she felt the sharpness of fear.

And juxtaposed against it was the bubbling, rising tide of anticipation and risk.

“...What did you do to me…” she whispered.

Castian leaned back in his chair, still smiling, still locking his eyes onto hers.

“I simply talked to you,” he said, and before she could protest, “But I am better at talking to people than anyone you’ve ever met.”

“But you are a mage,” she said. Castian seemed to think about it.

“I dabble,” he said. “But I tend to prefer more… subtlety.”

“‘Magic leaves a trace…’” Maeve muttered. Her head was still spinning.

“My methods leave a trace as well,” Castian said. She looked up at him.

“But…”

“Not something that can be detected by magic,” he said, low. “But something about your mind and your behavior will be forever changed. I’ve given you a memory of the thrill. I’ve loosened your inhibitions, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

She stared at him.

His eyes glinted. “I’ll see you again, Maeve. An addict always comes back, greedy for the knowledge of whether or not they’ll win or lose.”

He began gathering his cards and his coin, moving to get up.

“You won’t,” she protested, but her throat was dry.

He stood above her at the table and gave her a long, studious look.

Very suddenly, he raised his hand and her instincts sensed the sharp intake of arcane energy, her eyes saw the blue-white glow of enchantment magic engulf his palm that would be invisible to others -- he moved his hand towards her --

Her dagger was on the left side of her belt, she knew the muscle memory to magically protect her will, she had the reflexes to quickly stand and defend herself --

All of her practiced skill lay stagnant within her for that split second as the desire to know true magical control engulfed her, all of the questions it would answer for her, all of the risk she would take by being puppeted by a stranger, and she was just still in that moment, gasping.

As quickly as it had arisen, the magical energy faded, and Castian withdrew his hand with a confident, triumphant grin on his face, laced with danger.

“It’s too late, for you,” he whispered.

And he walked away, out of the tavern.

--

Maeve lay on the stiff mattress in her room at the inn, staring up at the dark ceiling.

She did not want to see him again. The memory of their game flashed through her head, his cruel grin, the loss that she had facilitated herself.

She had never been under enchantment magic before, but she knew well that the enspelled subjects talked afterwards as though they felt like they were a different person.

Spells -- most spells -- end. But Maeve knew and felt that the person who sabotaged herself in a gamble was entirely her.

That was terrifying. But the little tingling feeling inside of her, the one that still had not left, was buzzing with the excitement of it.

‘I will wager with you for it.’

The details of the wager were never stated, and Maeve could only imagine what Castian was thinking. But she knew instinctively what was already on the line for her: her pride, her free will, her unwillingness to accept that she may be, in fact, just an elf, that her blood did -- even in a small way -- define her.

Castian had said that gamblers were actually hungry for knowledge, and she hated that he seemed to be right. Her curious nature left her at a disadvantage, in this.

She did not want to see him again.

--

“Look at that,” Grant called out, smiling unkindly towards her, lopsided and toothy against his green skin. “Our little strong fighter Maeve is back. How did the owlbear job go, Maeve?”

“I relocated the owlbears,” she recited, and grinding out the last part: “...as well as their fledgelings.”

She had the talon scratches down her arm to prove it, thankfully hidden from the guild by her hide bracers and armor.

“Well done!” The half-orc chuckled. The nearby guild members laughed along with him.

“Grant,” said another half-orc man next to him, reproachfully, “if you keep teasing our new members, we’ll develop a bad reputation.”

“Thank you, Haggr,” Maeve said, her face softening. “But I can handle these jobs.”

Haggr nodded. “We are short on work today, Maeve, but there is one still available.”

She walked over to the jobs board and saw the post for it.

GARDEN SLUGS

Infestation! Larger-than-usual slugs are nesting in my nightshades! Remove them at once!

Reward: 5 gold

Maeve sighed, and tore the parchment off of the board.

--

She was originally not going to go back to the Noble Dove for her usual after-work drink in case Castian was there, but it was the inn that she had booked for the next week, and she desperately needed the washroom to get the slime and guts off of her.

The slugs had been, in fact, ‘larger-than-usual.’

After she was clean, she could go to one of the other places in town.

Again she entered the tavern, glum. But to her surprise, a quick glance did not reveal Castian to be sitting at any of the tables, nor at the bar.

Oh. Well, lucky, then.

Still, she made a beeline for the washroom, quickly removing her dirty gear and filling one of the basins with hot water, descending into it with a little sigh.

--

After she had washed up, she descended back down the stairs, intending to scope out the bar and leave at the first sight of him, no questions asked.

He was sitting at the same table he had been at yesterday, alone with his deck of cards.

She stopped abruptly, causing one of the gnome barmaids to knock into her, apologizing but clearly annoyed.

Castian looked up and met her eyes, and smirked.

Walk away. Leave. Ignore him. Walk out the door.

She strode over to his table.

“What’s the wager?” she demanded.

“Ah, Maeve,” Castian said, jovial. “You’ve been thinking about me.”

“I won’t let you use your… silver tongue with me anymore,” she said.

“But then I would not be able to talk at all,” he replied smoothly, grinning.

“Then, stop talking!”

“No.” He flashed her a steely gaze.

She did not have a retort to that.

…Rather, she should not be shooting snide comments at him like a child.

Maeve cleared her throat and repeated her question, with less bite. “What’s the wager?”

Castian grinned and looked thoughtful. “I am sure you have considered what you are already risking, yourself.”

She cast her eyes down, and her heart pounded.

“But that’s not enough, is it?”

Her gaze flicked up to him in shock at his brashness.

“I…”

“You want your blood to thunder with it.” He spoke low and privately. “You know the risks you face but you want it to be unmistakably clear. Something that you can’t ignore, if you lose.”

Maeve was stunned in silence.

“I will make you kiss me,” he whispered.

Fury and shock swam in her. “You… lecher!” she hissed.

He laughed. “Perhaps a bit. But wouldn’t I ask for something more, if I was truly as depraved as you think?”

Maeve blushed, hotly.

“Just a kiss,” he pressed, smiling. “While you are enchanted. A memory that you can’t erase.”

In her mind, she pictured herself, glassy eyes, admitting defeat in a monotone voice, leaning over with soft lips. She was flooded with the emotions of it, the shame, the potential helplessness. Stronger than any feeling she’d had before.

“What…” Maeve wet her dry lips. “What do I get if I win?”

“Disappointment,” Castian murmured.

She felt the trap of his words close around her, the sort of despair of being caught. She was breathing heavily, muscles tensed. Her mind was fuzzy, like it had been while they played cards.

“Will you play?” he asked. “Or will you forever wonder what the outcome might have been?”

It was cruel.

“...I’ll play,” she said, softly.

Castian’s mouth curved upwards, in triumph.

“Follow me outside,” he said.

--

He led her to the alleyway next to the Dove. It was dark, and the streets were quiet compared to the bustle of the tavern.

“I’m going to control you now, Maeve,” he said.

She sucked in a breath.

Castian raised his hand like he had in the tavern, and once again she saw the magic gather through her arcane-sensitive eyes.

She should leave. She should stop. She didn’t know what he was going to do with her. He could steal from her. He could make her do things for him. He could fuck her. She was giving up her will, without resistance.

But all she could do was stare dumbly, paralyzed with nerves and boiling-hot excitement, watching his glowing hand approach her.

Castian’s face was stoic and serious, but so attentive to her, as though he was reading her mind through her eyes.

His hand made contact with her forehead, and she felt the spell sink into her brain, and she knew, instantly, that she’d lost the wager.

The enchantment surrounded her mind, pooling into her with a gentle pressure and tingle. Her body relaxed against her will, subdued. It felt as though her thoughts were going limp, quieting, stilling with the firm and perfect knowledge that she was no longer in control.

It felt immeasurably good. She knew what was happening to her. She knew the magic was taking hold. But she felt utterly powerless, as though something was vibrating her nerves, numbing her will, blunting her.

Maeve knew she was gasping, but she had no way to stop it.

“Silly girl,” came Castian’s voice, and her body was forcibly attuned to the sound of it, echoing inside of her like the most important sound in the world. “It feels good, doesn’t it? Answer me.”

“Yes,” she felt herself say, and her voice was breathy and distant. And the moment she spoke she felt the way that her body had simply obeyed, the arcane power tingling her lips and the muscles in her face and throat.

“You know already that you’ve lost,” Castian murmured. “But are you prepared to truly face that, to admit your shame in this?”

He did not tell her to respond, so she was silent and still, like a doll.

“Tell the truth,” Castian ordered. “Do you recognize that you are being enchanted?”

“Yes,” she said, and the reality hit her like a horrible drug, that she had put herself in a bad situation, one that she knew she was going to lose, one that she hoped she would lose, one that would force her to confront her stubbornness, parts of her self-image and identity, all compromised, helpless in the face of it --

“And doesn’t that feel good.” Castian’s voice was dark, low, dangerous. “You feel this good because you’re sensitive to magecraft, and you can feel the whole of the spell.”

Maeve’s body flooded with chemicals, magic, and pleasure, waves of it all crashing through her from her toes to the tips of her pointed ears.

“You’re just an elf girl,” he said. “You’re not special. You may have your own skills, but you are not allowed to pettily run away from your heritage. Your lack of skill with the arcane does not make you exceptional.”

Memories flashed through her mind, of not fitting in with her elven friends, of poor performances in the Academy.

“You may be quick with your hands, but you are just weak-willed.”

Her mind shuddered with the assault on her psyche, held immobile by that pumping magic, feeling the permanency of his words, how she could never lie to herself again about this. She felt brittle, like a delicate object being tested on its strength.

“Kiss me, you stupid elf girl.”

Maeve wanted to cry out, to say, ‘wait!’ or ‘help!’ But she was completely docile, her own desires being smothered by the velvet control engulfing her as her body leaned forward, as her arms threw themselves over his shoulders, as her chin tilted up.

Castian leaned down and brought his lips to meet hers, a gentle, hot, open-mouthed slide.

Maeve had kissed men and women alike, but there was nothing that could compare to this, to feeling her body become obediently intimate, conquered not by force but by her own folly and by the keenness of another. His lips and tongue felt sexual and raw, wet, opening her up. Heat was pooling in her stomach, between her legs and she was moaning into the kiss, completely uninhibited. She was melting, her body was melting, her mind and lips were melting. Nothing had ever felt so perfect.

After just a few moments he pulled back and held her a foot away from him so she was just staring blankly at his face, watching it go in and out of focus.

“I knew that we would be here,” he murmured. “Kissing. I knew you would be a perfect prize from the moment that you walked to me. You were so suspicious, and so naive. But I knew that you would want this as badly as you do right now.”

His harsh words no longer turned her from him. She was too trapped in the spell and trapped in his silver-tongued talking. It was just more tumbling downwards into the surrender of her loss, and she was addicted to it. Maeve wanted to kiss him again, but her body was frozen in blind obedience.

Castian studied her for a long moment, and then abruptly took a step back, raised his hand, and released the spell.

Maeve gasped as her mind and vision cleared instantly. Her body still burned with desire, with the memory, standing there, starkly against the dark alley.

“N-no,” she whimpered, and timidly reached a hand out, just slightly.

“We agreed on a kiss,” he said, smiling maliciously.

Maeve was trying to process, trying to catch her breath.

“You…” she whispered, and then raised her voice. “You win! You win! I -- Please, I…”

…I want it…

Castian laughed. “Addicts always come back,” he said, winking. “Let’s play again sometime, Maeve.”

And he left her there, stunned, as he walked out towards the street.

--