The Heist at the Chocolate Factory.

    Thoren’s steps were uneven as he crossed the forest path back from Neovia. His chest still ached where the blade had pierced him, and though he carried a pouch filled with ointments and bitter-smelling medicines, he knew they would not work miracles.

    Every heartbeat was a painful reminder of how close he had come to a certain end. The fog that evening pressed thick against his fur, heavy as a wall, and the shadows stretched too long, as though the world itself was guarding secrets just beyond reach.

    “I need to keep going… there’s too much I don’t know, and I must find out,” he muttered, walking tiredly, irritation edging his voice. Thoren was angry. Angry at The Butler, angry at the failed heist, angry at being used. Yet beneath that anger lay a persistent mystery gnawing at him, refusing to let him rest.

    Everything that had happened the previous night felt like an unfinished puzzle. Nothing completely matched, everything felt out of place. And every step he took away from Neovia dragged him deeper into a story that he had not chosen but could no longer abandon.

    He knew well enough that medicine alone would not heal his wounds, not the ones buried in his soul. So he decided on one more effort to clear his mind. He needed information, and he knew exactly where to start. On his way through town, he had slowed in front of the Neovian Printing Press. The building was dimly lit, its windows stacked with dusty papers. Curiosity drove him inside.

    “Hey, can you help me with something?” Thoren asked the Pteri clerk at the counter. She looked him over, frowning at his frail posture.

    “This isn’t the medicine shop,” she replied dryly. “Or are you looking for a book on home remedies perhaps?”

    “No,” Thoren answered, lowering his voice. “I want to know if you have any books or old newspaper entries about a particular group: The Gourmet Club. What do you have on them?”

    Her feathers ruffled slightly. “Are you searching for some gourmet dish that could be good for your health?”

    “I’m more interested in their history,” Thoren said firmly, ignoring the clerk’s concern about his health.

    The Pteri gave him a confused look, then studied him more closely. Finally, she let out a long sigh. “Not common for someone to ask about them. Usually, it’s new money types who want to join, trying to figure out how to get in. Did you know you need proof of eating at least 1,259 gourmet dishes? That’s not just food, that’s wealth. A fortune, really. But… sit down. I’ll see what I can find.”

    She disappeared into the back and returned with a small stack of books and newspaper scraps. Most of it was surface level, but one piece stood out: a worn, independent magazine, almost forgotten. The pages smelled of mildew, the ink nearly gone, but the words were still sharp.

    It spoke of an unnamed Petpet species discovered near Mystery Island. The researcher who wrote the article claimed that some members of the Gourmet Club had hunted them, not as collectors, but as predators. The article promised a continuation, but it never came. That issue had been the last.

    “Hey,” Thoren said, tapping the page, “do you have the follow-up to this article?”

    The Pteri leaned over, then shook her head. “Mmm, that’s from [i]Species of Neopia[/i]. It was an anthropology magazine about new discoveries. The journalist, a Tonu named Henry Haeckel, disappeared. My father was a big fan of the magazine, and I remember him saying the publishing house caught fire. Burned to the ground. Haeckel never showed up again. It is still a mystery how he disappeared after that fire.”

    Thoren thanked the Pteri for the information, but as he walked away, he muttered to himself, “This is too much of a coincidence… getting involved with the Gourmet Club feels more like stepping into a futile trap than a chance to join some elite circle of gluttons.”

    The weight of unease pushed him faster. If he wanted deeper answers, there was only one place to find them. The Thieves’ Guild.

    That thought stayed with him as he made his way through the fog. If the Gourmet Club had been ruthless enough to silence journalists, what did they want now with the Chocolate Factory, and with the Royal Purple Asteroid?

    The entrance to the guild lay hidden beneath rotting banners and a stone-carved door. Thoren pushed it open, stepping into a dim hallway. Dice clattered in the distance, mugs clinked, whispers spread in corners. He moved with caution. Yet before he could approach anyone, a sharp voice froze him.

    “What are you doing in public, Thoren?”

    He spun around, claws ready. From the shadows emerged a tall Kougra with fur black as soot, shoulders broad, eyes sharp as knives. Recognition hit him instantly.

“Brother,” Thoren whispered.

    Before him stood Jaxon Sable, the Midnight Smuggler of the Thieves’ Guild, and Thoren’s elder brother.

    Jaxon didn’t come closer at first. He studied Thoren with a long, hard stare before stepping forward. “I knew it was you,” he said, voice low but cutting. “When I heard about a tall, slim, shadow-furred Kougra at the Ball, I knew it had to be you. I wanted to see if you were foolish enough to show up here, parading your crime like a trophy. You were the thief that night. I can smell it on you. You reek of dirt, fireworks… and a bury.”

    Thoren’s breath caught. He wanted to defend himself, but the words stuck. Jaxon cut him off anyway. He gestured sharply to the door. “Not here. Too many ears. Your hideout. You’re going to explain everything.” Thoren followed without protest, though unease twisted in his stomach. His brother’s sudden appearance felt anything but accidental.

    Back at his cave, Thoren collapsed against the wall, pressing his side. Jaxon stayed standing, arms crossed, silent. He waited.

    Thoren began slowly, then the words poured out. He spoke of the invitation from the Quiggle butler, the labyrinth beneath the Chocolate Factory, the guards already knocked out, the cameras destroyed, the explosions, Lord Briartree’s presence in the garden, the Space Faerie’s pursuit, the wound that nearly killed him, and the strange dust that had glowed when the Faerie’s hand saved him.

    The story filled the cave, broken only by Jaxon’s occasional remarks.

    “So you trusted that Quiggle?” Jaxon muttered once, shaking his head.

    “You think I had a choice?” Thoren snapped back. “The whole thing was set up.”

    Later Jaxon cut in again, voice like ice. “And you lived only because of a handful of chocolate dust. Strange luck. Too strange.”

    When Thoren finally finished, the cave had grown darker, and his throat was dry. Silence lingered until Jaxon stepped closer. His face betrayed nothing.

    “So the Gourmet Club,” he said at last, as if the words tasted bitter.

    “Yes,” Thoren answered. His claws pressed into the dirt. “At the Printing Press, I found an old magazine. It told of a rare Petpet near Mystery Island. The writer said members of the Club hunted it for food. Then the magazine ended. No more issues. The publishing house burned down. The journalist vanished. Not a trace left.”

    Jaxon’s eyes narrowed. “That matches the whispers I’ve heard since last night. There’s a group who call themselves the Crimson Fork Society. They’re not collectors, not connoisseurs. They’re worse. Gluttonous. Cruel. Evil. If they think you taste good, they will hunt you. They’ll eat endangered petpets, sacred creatures, anything. To them, consuming something rare is proof of power. After the chaos of the Ball, the name started spreading again. I’ve heard it before, from a blabbering custard Blumaroo begging the Faeries for help in Faerieland. The next day he was gone. I figured they got him.”

    He leaned in, voice firm. “Do you see? This is no coincidence. The Royal Purple Asteroid was not just a treasure. It was a target. And that Quiggle you fought? I assume he was part of their hirelings. With the money they have, paying a mercenary is nothing.” His words cut deeper than any blade.

    Jaxon straightened. “You mentioned a Tuskaninny. Lord Briartree.”

    Thoren nodded. “Yes. He was named in the reports. He saw everything that night, standing outside like he was waiting for it. Then, after the chaos, he offered William Truffle money. Not only to repair the factory, but to completely acquire it. It’s too neat to be a chance.”

    A grim smile tugged at Jaxon’s mouth. “Then that is where we go, to pay Lord Briartree a visit. I know that name. His family keeps a castle near Meridell. If the Crimson Fork hides behind the Gourmet Club, the truth awaits there.”

    Thoren forced himself to his feet, clutching his side. He refused to look weak. “Then we go together.”

    Jaxon gave a short nod. “To Meridell.”

    The fog outside had thickened. The two brothers stepped out of the cave; their silhouettes swallowed by the night. The road ahead was dangerous, but their destination was set: the castle of Lord Briartree.