The sun hung low over the sleepy town of Cresthaven, casting golden streaks across the

cobblestone streets. In a cramped little house on the edge of town, Walenciusz the Cat

lounged on a threadbare rug, his amber eyes narrowed to slits. His fur, a patchwork of

midnight black and storm-cloud gray, bristled with indignation. His owner, old man

Percival, was droning on again—something about “proper feline manners” and “no

scratching the furniture.” Walenciusz flicked his tail. Enough was enough.

Percival adjusted his prized tophat, a gaudy thing with a feather that bobbed like a

taunting finger. “You’ll behave yourself today, won’t you, Wally?” he muttered, oblivious

to the storm brewing in his feline companion.

Walenciusz’s whiskers twitched. Wally? The insult was the final straw. With a yowl that

could wake a dragon, he launched himself at Percival. Claws flashed, teeth glinted, and

in the ensuing chaos, the old man flailed like a windmill in a hurricane. “Gah! You blasted

Stolen story; please report.

beast!” Percival yelped, tumbling backward over a stool. The tophat spun through the air

like a toppled crown, landing with a soft thud at Walenciusz’s paws.

Victory. Walenciusz swiped the hat with a triumphant paw, placing it jauntily atop his

head. The feather drooped over one eye, giving him the rakish air of a rogue. Percival,

sprawled on the floor, clutched his scratched arm and sputtered, “You’ll regret this, you

mangy—!” But Walenciusz was already gone, streaking through the open window with

the grace of a thief escaping a heist.

The streets of Cresthaven greeted him like a playground. The tophat wobbled as he

bounded over a crate of apples, sending a fruit peddler into a shouting fit. “Oi! Whose cat

is that?!” Walenciusz didn’t care. The wind ruffled his fur, the feather danced, and for the

first time in ages, he felt alive. No more stale biscuits or Percival’s lectures. This was

freedom—tophat and all.

He skidded to a stop at the town square, where a crowd buzzed around a makeshift

stage. A bard strummed a lute, singing of grand adventures—slaying goblins, raiding

dungeons, the usual fare. Walenciusz tilted his head, the tophat casting a shadow over

his smirk. Adventures, huh? He could do that. Better than some lute-plucking fool,

anyway.

A shadow loomed behind him. “Well, well,” came a gruff voice. “A cat in a hat? You lost,

little fella?” Walenciusz turned to see a burly man in a patched cloak, a sword slung over

his shoulder. The man grinned, showing a gap where a tooth should’ve been. “Name’s

Gorrick. I reckon you’re no ordinary moggy.”

Walenciusz puffed out his chest, the tophat tilting defiantly. Ordinary? Him? Never again.

With a flick of his tail, he leapt onto a barrel, then to a rooftop, leaving Gorrick blinking

below. The town sprawled before him—shops, alleys, secrets waiting to be clawed open.

“New adventures, huh?” he thought, whiskers quivering with glee. “Let’s see what this

place has got!”

And with that, Walenciusz the Cat—thief of tophats and breaker of rules—set off into the

dusk, ready to carve his name into Cresthaven’s chaos. One scratch at a time.