Lissey’s Reckoning

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.

Years back, she'd known him—an ordinary cat then, all sinew and spite, prowling Percival's cramped house on the town's edge. Lissey lived next door, a stray who'd charmed Old Widow Maren into scraps and a shed to sleep in. She'd watch Walenciusz through the cracked window, his amber eyes glinting as he dodged Percival's broom or nipped at his heels. The fights were brutal—Percival's shouts, the crash of chairs, blood staining the floorboards when Walenciusz's claws met flesh. Once, she'd seen him limp out, a gash over his ear, only to sneak back later and shred Percival's best coat. "Stubborn fool," she'd hissed from her perch, but she admired his fire. They'd tussled too—playful scraps over fish heads—until the night he stole that tophat and vanished, leaving blood and a broken window behind. 

Now, Cresthaven whispered his name—Walenciusz, the rogue who'd toppled Percival, shattered the Philosopher's Stone, and strode off with a sword-swinging brute and a witchy lass. Lissey's whiskers twitched. She'd been there, lapping milk at The Rusty Tankard'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 Wind Gust 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." 

But chaos called her too. Lissey wasn't just a rooftop idler. Widow Maren, an herbalist with a sharp tongue, had taught her more than survival—how to mash nettles into salves, whisper charms into trinkets. Around her neck hung a copper pendant, spiral-etched, buzzing when trouble loomed. She'd once faced a pack of feral dogs, pendant flaring as she yowled a stun charm Maren swore could freeze a bull—long enough to snatch a fishmonger's catch and vanish. "Righteousness claws its own path," she'd purr, a creed born of street grit and stubborn pride. 

Days after the mill's tale spread—Percival's demise, the Stone's end—Lissey felt it. Her pendant thrummed, tugging her toward the hills. "He's too big to ignore now," she growled, picturing that tophat bobbing into fame. She packed lean: a satchel of dried herbs (healing balm, pepper dust for blinding foes), her pendant, and a glass shard she'd sharpened into a "justice dagger." With a last glance at Cresthaven's chimneys, she leapt down, paws striking the road with intent. 

The journey gnawed at her—mud clogging her pads, crows jeering from bare branches—but Lissey pushed on, pendant guiding like a lodestone. She scattered a bandit scout with a flung pepper dust cloud, his oaths lost as she melted into the undergrowth. Dusk fell as the old mill rose ahead, a rotting shell under a bruised sky, its wheel stilled. Troll blood soaked the dirt, the air humming with faded power. Lissey's ears sharpened—something lingered. 

She slipped inside, glass blade glinting in the gloom. The basement stretched dark and damp, Stone shards glinting faintly amid rubble. "Walenciusz, you reckless idiot," she muttered, nosing a troll claw. Then—a shimmer. Golden motes swirled from the shadows, coalescing into the Keeper, its black form sleek, eyes molten gold. 

"Well, well," it purred, voice a low quake. "Another seeker. You've his scent—his fire." Lissey bristled, pendant flaring. "I'm no one's shadow," she snapped. "I knew him before he was, well… this.

What're you, his ghost?" The Keeper chuckled, circling her. "His guide—once. The Stone's Keeper, freed by his claw. You chase justice, yes? Like he chases chaos?" Its gaze pierced her, unblinking. "You're late to the fight, but not the tale." 

Lissey's tail lashed. "I don't need your riddles—" But the Keeper lunged, a spectral paw pressing her pendant. Light erupted—her bones creaked, fur rippled, and she shot upright, a hybrid like Walenciusz, paws morphing to clawed hands. Her voice emerged, a husky snarl: "What in the blazes—?" 

"Wait—you know my name?" she barked, but the Keeper dissolved, its final purr echoing: "Justice finds its claws." Alone, Lissey flexed her new form—taller, stronger, pendant glowing brighter. She adjusted her satchel, glass blade now a proper dagger in her grip, and smirked. "Walenciusz, wait for me!" 

The mill faded behind as she turned toward the hills, the trio's trail faint but alive. Cresthaven was now history—her story had just begun.