The streets of Cresthaven buzzed with morning clamor—vendors hawking bread, carts rattling over cobblestones, and the faint tang of ale lingering from the night’s revels. Atop a sagging rooftop, Lissey perched, her sleek tortoiseshell fur catching the sun’s first rays. Her emerald eyes, sharp as cut jade, scanned the town she’d never left—not like Walenciusz, that scruffy gray tom who’d clawed his way to legend. Her tail flicked, stirring a memory as old as the scars beneath her pelt.


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    ’s hearth, when it started—Percival storming in, blind eyes glowing, that eerie light pulsing from his pocket... She’d seen Walenciusz, upright and raspy, hurl a  at Bran’s goons, Gorrick’s blade dance, and Alice’s broom crack skulls. Milk forgotten, she’d bolted to the rafters, tail bristling as Percival vowed revenge. “Same old Walenciusz,” she’d muttered, “stirring chaos like a storm.”


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