The air in The Rusty Tankard thickened with tension as Percival stood in the doorway, his blind eyes glinting with an unnatural sheen. The faint glow from his pocket pulsed like a heartbeat, casting eerie flickers across the splintered floor. Walenciusz, tophat askew and dagger still raised, felt his fur bristle—not from the ale, but from a cold prickle of dread. Gorrick shifted Excalibur to a ready stance, its starlight blade humming faintly, while Alice gripped her broom tighter, her knuckles white.
“Who’s this old coot?” Bran sneered, wiping blood from his scarred nose. He lumbered toward Percival, fists clenched, sensing an easy target. But before he could swing, Percival raised a trembling hand, and the glow in his pocket flared—a sharp, emerald flash that stung the eyes. Bran stumbled back, clutching his face with a howl. “What sorcery’s this?!”
“Walenciusz,” Percival rasped, his voice a venomous thread weaving through the chaos. “You think you can run from me? From this?” He tapped his cane once, twice, and the glow pulsed again, sharper now, like a warning shot. Walenciusz’s ears flattened. Whatever Veyra had given the old man, it wasn’t just spite—it was power, raw and untested.
Gorrick stepped forward, Excalibur casting a pool of light that pushed the emerald glow back. “Back off, gramps,” he growled. “Cat’s with me now. You got a grudge, take it up with steel—not tricks.” The sword’s radiance seemed to steady Walenciusz, who shook off his buzz and snarled, “Yeah, Percival. I ain’t your pet no more.”
Percival’s lips curled into a bitter grimace, but the odds weren’t in his favor—not yet. Bran and his goons were still reeling, the innkeeper was shouting for the town guard, and the trio before him bristled with defiance. The cane clicked once more against the floor, and he muttered, “This ain’t over, you wretched beast. I’ll have my reckoning.” With a final glare from his sightless eyes, he turned and hobbled into the night, the glow fading as he retreated down the alley.
The bar exhaled. Bran, still blinking away spots, spat on the floor and lumbered off with his cronies, muttering about “freak cats and cursed swords.” The innkeeper wailed over his broken tables, but Walenciusz, Gorrick, and Alice ignored him, gathering in a corner. Alice’s sharp blue eyes darted between them. “Who was that?”
“My old owner,” Walenciusz grumbled, adjusting his tophat. “Gone sour as week-old milk. Thinks he can drag me back to his miserable house.”
Gorrick sheathed Excalibur, its light dimming. “He’s got somethin’ nasty up his sleeve, mark my words. We’d best move quick—get to that Philosopher’s Stone before he does.” He glanced at Alice, who’d proven her mettle with that broom. “You in, lass? You swing like you’ve got fire in ya.”
Alice hesitated, then nodded, brushing tangled hair from her face. “Bran’ll be back for me anyway. Might as well chase somethin’ worth a damn. What’s this stone you’re after?”
“Power,” Walenciusz said, his raspy drawl edged with glee. “Legend says it’s near the old mill. Could make us untouchable—or blow Cresthaven sky-high. Either way, I want it.”
“Peace or chaos,” Gorrick added, clapping her on the shoulder. “Your pick. But we’re headed there now, before that blind bastard catches up.”
Alice smirked, hefting her broom like a soldier’s rifle. “Chaos sounds more fun.”
With the night deepening and the town guard’s distant whistles echoing, the trio slipped out of The Rusty Tankard. Walenciusz led the way, his tophat bobbing with each step, his new cloak fluttering like a rogue’s banner. Gorrick’s heavy boots thudded beside him, Excalibur’s hilt glinting under his cloak, while Alice followed, broom over her shoulder and a spark in her eye.
The old mill loomed on the horizon, its sagging silhouette black against the moon. Somewhere within—or beneath—lay the Philosopher’s Stone, guarded by who-knew-what. Walenciusz’s claws flexed, Gorrick’s grip tightened on his sword, and Alice’s stride quickened. Percival was out there, scheming, but for now, the hunt was theirs—and they’d claw their way to it together.