The streets of Cresthaven twisted like a labyrinth as Walenciusz and Gorrick made their

  way to the old mill district, the crumpled map fluttering in Gorrick’s meaty fist. The air

  grew thick with the scent of damp wood and moss as they approached a crooked

  building wedged between two sagging warehouses. A sign creaked above the door:

  Myrtha’s Emporium of Oddities. Jars of glowing liquid lined the windows, and a stuffed

  raven perched on the sill, its glass eyes glinting ominously.

  “Best shop in town for weird stuff,” Gorrick said with a grunt, pushing the door open. A

  bell jingled, and Walenciusz strutted in behind him, the tophat still perched jauntily on his

  head. Inside, the shop was a treasure trove of chaos—shelves groaned under the weight

  of dusty tomes, rusted swords, and vials of bubbling potions. A wizened woman with a

  tangle of silver hair—Myrtha, presumably—peered at them from behind a counter

  cluttered with bones and crystals.

  “Well, ain’t this a sight,” she croaked, eyeing Walenciusz. “A cat in a hat and a brute with

  a blade. What’s yer poison?”

  Gorrick grinned his gap-toothed grin. “We’re huntin’ the Philosopher’s Stone. Need

  gear—good stuff. And somethin’ for my partner here.” He jerked a thumb at Walenciusz,

  who flicked his tail expectantly.

  Myrtha cackled, hobbling to a shelf. “Got just the thing.” She plucked a vial of emerald-

  green liquid labeled Herb of Tongues and handed it to Walenciusz. “Drink up, puss.

  Makes ya talk like us lot—and might stretch ya out a bit, too.” Walenciusz lapped it down,

  the taste sharp and earthy. A tingle raced through his paws, and then—pop!—his bones

  creaked, his fur rippled, and he shot up to the size of a gangly teenager, standing on two

  legs. His voice, when it came, was a raspy drawl. “Well, ain’t that a kick in the whiskers?”

  Gorrick roared with laughter as Myrtha tossed Walenciusz a patched cloak, a pair of

  trousers, and a leather vest. “Can’t have ya struttin’ ‘round half-naked,” she said. The

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  tophat stayed, of course—it was non-negotiable. Next, they stocked up: a dagger with a

  wicked curve for Walenciusz, a tome of basic spells (Fire Spark and Wind Gust caught

  his eye), and a sack of potions—health, speed, and something Myrtha called Glow Juice

  that she swore would come in handy. Gorrick hefted a crossbow and a bandolier of bolts,

  muttering about “bloody trolls.”

  Then Gorrick unsheathed his own weapon—a longsword that shimmered with an

  otherworldly light. “This here’s Excalibur,” he said, holding it aloft. “Forged in a lake of

  starlight by a lady what knew her craft. Pulled it from a stone meself, back when I was a

  fool with dreams bigger’n my head. Cuts through darkness like butter—literal darkness,

  mind ya. Shadows flee from it, and evil quakes.” Walenciusz’s eyes widened. Gorrick’s

  swordmaster swagger wasn’t just talk—this blade was the real deal.

  They paid Myrtha with a pouch of coins Gorrick had “liberated” from a bandit a week

  back, and stepped into the night, Walenciusz adjusting his new clothes and marveling at

  his humanish paws.

  Meanwhile, across town, Percival’s world was a blur of rage and shadow. Blindness had

  sharpened his ears, and he stumbled through Cresthaven’s alleys, cane tapping

  furiously. “That cat’ll pay,” he snarled to no one. His hunt had begun the moment he’d

  dragged himself off the floor, but now he needed direction. Fate—or spite—led him to a

  shack draped in ivy, where an oracle witch named Veyra dwelled. Her voice was a rasp,

  like wind through dead leaves, as she greeted him. “Lost yer sight, old man? And yer

  pride, too, I reckon.”

  “I want that cat,” Percival spat. “Walenciusz. Took my hat, my eyes—everything.”

  Veyra’s laugh was a dry cackle. She stirred a cauldron, the steam curling into shapes—a

  stone, a glow, a feline silhouette. “The Philosopher’s Stone,” she whispered. “That’s what

  ya need. It’ll heal yer eyes, give ya power over that beast. Lies near the old mill, guarded

  fierce. Find it, and he’s yours.” Percival’s lips twisted into a grim smile. With the stone,

  he’d see again—and Walenciusz would grovel. He thanked the witch with a muttered

  oath and set off, cane clicking with purpose.

  Back with Walenciusz and Gorrick, the duo decided to celebrate their haul. They

  swaggered into The Rusty Tankard, a rowdy inn where the ale flowed like a river and the

  air stank of sweat and smoke. Walenciusz, still getting used to his new voice, ordered a

  pint with a cocky, “Make it quick, human!” The barmaid blinked but complied. Gorrick

  matched him mug for mug, regaling the room with tales of Excalibur’s triumphs—

  slashing shadow-beasts in the Black Mire, felling a wraith-king in the Frostveins.

  Walenciusz, buzzed and bold, tried casting Fire Spark from his spellbook, singeing a

  table and earning a cheer.

  But the night soured fast. A hulking man with a scar across his nose—Bran, a local

  thug—slammed his tankard down, glaring at a slight girl in a corner. “Alice owes me

  coin!” he bellowed. “Her da’s debts don’t vanish ‘cause he’s dead!” Alice, a wiry lass with

  tangled blonde hair, clutched a broom like a spear. “I told ya, I ain’t got it! Leave me be!”

  Walenciusz, three pints deep, bristled. “Oi, ugly,” he called, voice slurring. “Pick on

  someone yer own size—like me.” Gorrick groaned but stood, Excalibur gleaming faintly.

  Bran sneered, cracking his knuckles. “A cat and a braggart? I’ll squash ya both.”

  The bar erupted. Fists flew, chairs splintered, and Walenciusz hurled a sloppy Wind Gust

  that sent Bran’s goons crashing into the bar. Gorrick danced with Excalibur, its blade a

  blur of light, parrying knives and fists with masterful grace. Alice darted through the

  chaos, swinging her broom like a warhammer. Tankards shattered, and the innkeeper

  wailed about damages.

  Then, a shadow loomed in the doorway. Percival, cane in hand, his blind eyes somehow

  piercing the din. His voice cut through the brawl like a blade. “Walenciusz!”

  The cat froze, tophat askew, dagger mid-swing. Gorrick cursed, Excalibur raised. Alice

  gasped, broom trembling. Bran grinned, sensing an advantage. The room teetered on

  the edge of something bigger—something darker—as Percival’s hand tightened on his

  cane, and a faint, eerie glow pulsed from his pocket.

  What had the witch given him?