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The rooftops of Cresthaven gleamed under the moon’s pale glow as Walenciusz perched atop a
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chimney, his stolen tophat tilted at a daring angle. The feather swayed in the breeze, a banner of
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his newfound liberty. Below, the town thrummed with life—drunkards stumbled from taverns, and
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a stray dog howled at shadows. Walenciusz’s ears twitched as heavy boots clomped up the alley.
Gorrick again.
“Oi, cat!” the burly man called, squinting up at the rooftop. “You gonna sit there preening all night,
or you got somethin’ to prove?” His gap-toothed grin flashed in the moonlight, and Walenciusz
couldn’t help but feel a flicker of... what? Respect? Annoyance? Whatever it was, it tugged at him
like a burr in his fur.
With a dramatic leap, Walenciusz landed on a crate beside Gorrick, the tophat wobbling but
staying put. Gorrick chuckled, scratching his scruffy beard. “Got spirit, I’ll give ya that. Ever hear
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
of the Philosopher’s Stone?” Walenciusz tilted his head, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Gorrick
leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “Legend says it’s hidden ‘round these
parts. A gem what brings world peace—or blows it all to bits, dependin’ who’s holdin’ it. Fancy a
hunt?”
World peace? Walenciusz didn’t care much for that—he’d rather claw his way to a good nap
spot—but the glint in Gorrick’s eye promised chaos, treasure, and maybe a decent fight. Good
enough. He flicked his tail in agreement, and Gorrick clapped a hand on his knee. “That’s the
spirit! Partners, then. You sniff out trouble, I’ll bash it.”
Meanwhile, back in the cramped house on the town’s edge, old man Percival sat in darkness.
The fierce battle with Walenciusz had left him blind, his eyes scratched and useless. He clutched
a splintered chair, his hands trembling as he muttered to the empty room. “That blasted cat...
took my hat, my sight, my dignity!” His voice cracked, bitter as stale ale. “Thinks he’s off to be
some grand adventurer, does he? Ungrateful wretch. If I could see, I’d drag him back by the tail
and lock him in the cellar ‘til he begged forgiveness!”
Percival’s sightless gaze drifted to the window Walenciusz had escaped through. He didn’t know
about the Philosopher’s Stone, but he felt a gnawing dread—like the world was tilting out of his
grasp, and that cursed cat was at the center of it. “Mark my words,” he hissed, “he’ll bring ruin to
us all.”
Back in the alley, Walenciusz and Gorrick were already on the move. Gorrick pulled a crumpled
map from his cloak, pointing at a scribbled mark near the old mill. “Stone’s s’posed to be there.
Guarded by somethin’ nasty, no doubt—goblins, maybe, or a troll with a bad temper.”
Walenciusz’s claws flexed, eager for a scrap. The tophat bobbed as he strutted beside Gorrick, a
rogue and his unlikely partner stalking through the night.
The Philosopher’s Stone glittered in Walenciusz’s mind—not for peace, but for power, for
freedom, for a tale worth yowling about. Cresthaven wouldn’t know what hit it.