The Heist at the Chocolate Factory.

      Thoren Sable had never been one for disguises, not even to make a robbery plan more effective. His dark fur was like midnight itself, his long grey hair always fell over his face in unruly strands, and his piercing yellow eyes made it almost impossible for him to go unnoticed. However, he used his traits as an advantage to slip away like a ghost, leaving behind only the memory of that fleeting yellow colour moving among the shadows, as if he were more of an illusion than a real being.

      His physique has always helped him as well: tall and thin, with an agile body, but with the strength and toughness that years of surviving in the alleys and docks of Neopia had given him. He could easily take on Neopets with greater strength as he moved with quiet confidence, and being able to hear almost the thoughts of his rivals, he could find the weak point in any enemy to defeat them with ease.

      He was a creature who preferred silence to chatter, who listened rather than boasted. When he spoke, his voice was deep and firm, the kind that commanded respect without raising his tone. But that night, Thoren wore another skin. A skin that his companions might consider an “easy target.”

      Wrapped in an elegant and refined tailor-made Neovian suit, a dark velvet coat brushed his legs with every step. His boots, polished to a shine, tapped the cobblestones with a refined and deliberate rhythm, and a white tie with gold trim was carefully tied around his neck. He looked less like a shadow of the underworld and more like a forgotten nobleman, someone whose name belonged in the polished halls of Old Neovia, frozen in time.

      He had even rehearsed a story in case any curious or unwary guest decided to strike up a conversation with him, which he could fall back on if questions arose. That night, he was not the silent thief Thoren Sable, but a distant heir to an ancient family of bakers, Alexander Stalebread, a lineage linked to the famous Crumpetmonger, who now worked with the Gourmet Club as one of their “pastry assistants.”

      “What a pathetic name and title,” he thought, but he knew that no nobles would even question it. Nobles rarely cared about the truth behind titles, only the sheen of silk and the glitter of gold. The young thief knew that just by having the golden envelope, no one would question him, because possessing one of those could only mean one thing: a disgusting, absurd, and excessive amount of money in The National Neopian Bank Account. Moreover, Thoren recognised that his facade through the Gourmet Club was easy for anyone to accept, as the Gourmet Club was an eccentric society where the billionaire elites of Neopia tasted the most wonderful, surprising, and decadent delicacies imaginable.

      That's why it was easy to ignore him under his disguise, because anyone who attended knew that this select group of Neopians could hire assistants for simple tasks with their money, even just to stand out or to flaunt power

      Feet ahead, the ornamented gates of the Chocolate Factory stood like the doors to a fortress. They rose taller than any mansion, gilded edges glinting under torchlight. Flanking them stood two guards: a Grarrl and a Skeith, both so broad they looked as though they had been carved from stone. Their scales were shining with a strange gloss, as if dipped in cocoa, and their armour glimmered like hardened sugar glass. Their very presence was a warning: they were there to eliminate any threat to the event.

      Thoren kept walking and stopped calmly in front of the guards to present the Golden Envelope. After a quick greeting nod, the Skeith took it with his thick claws, held it up to the light, and even sniffed it, before giving a silent second nod. The Grarrl raised the gate with a heavy creak.

      “I am in.” Thoren thought while stepping into the factory’s front yard. The moment his boots crossed the threshold, it felt like entering another world.

      The outside of the factory, plain and industrial, melted away before him. Inside arose a vision of brutal splendour. Tall stone pillars supporting arched ceilings crisscrossed with copper pipes. Those pipes hissed softly, carrying the lifeblood of the machines beyond. The floor thrummed faintly underfoot as if the entire building pulsed like a living creature. The air was thick with the scent of cocoa, sweet and overwhelming, but beneath the sweetness lurked something colder, metallic and sharp.

      Thoren’s yellow eyes narrowed. This was no simple factory. The Chocolate Factory was a fortress disguised as a dream. “I can hear things that clearly aren't chocolate-making machines,” he said to himself with a smile that indicated he was ready to find the treasure. As he advanced, he saw a big corridor that appeared to open into a vast chamber. And suddenly, sound filled the air: music, laughter, the clinking of crystal glasses. The Annual Chocolate Ball had finally begun.

      The grand hall was truly breathtaking. Chandeliers sculpted from sugar crystals spilled warm light across the room, their glow bouncing off polished marble floors. Gilded tables bent under the weight of pastries and towers of chocolate fountains. A Neovian quartet played violins and cellos near the corner, their music wrapping the crowd in a blanket of elegance. Nobles in silks and velvet masks floated across the room, their voices rising and falling in excited conversation.

      Thoren moved forward, mingling with the crowd. He even took the opportunity to have a glass of Sparkling Neopie Cider and while flashing his attempt at a charming smile in the direction of a few of the attendees. For a moment, he took his role seriously and seemed to enjoy the charms that the Annual Chocolate Ball and all of its high-class luxury had to offer.

      “Now I understand why they go so crazy for money,” Thoren said to himself, trying not to feel the pang of disgust and guilt for giving himself over so easily to his character. He should not lose sight of his original mission, as for now that was laughably not himself.

      Thoren then kept his stride smooth, keeping his stance measured and composed. His mask as the Neovian heir never faltered. While the nobles saw a fellow guest, his eyes were busy reading the room, studying every detail that passed him by.

      Suddenly, Thoren's furtive, thieving instinct kicked in as if all the pretensions, elegance, and decorations surrounding him began to crumble one by one as he began to recognise the hidden traps that appeared before him. These all revealed a reminder of a harsh reality: He was completely surrounded by dangers and dangerous people, all of whom were tasked with secretly guarding the carefree Neopian elite who were there indulging in the pleasures of the grand ball without bringing attention to the elaborate orchestration that was cultivated behind the scenes.

      The flowers decorating the walls, sugar roses sculpted so delicately they looked real, hid cameras in their centres. Guards dressed as gentlemen and ladies of high society stood with glasses in hand, yet their posture was too stiff, and their eyes were scanning too carefully. Their hands hovered close to weapons hidden beneath lace gloves or velvet cuffs. Even the panels in some walls were suspicious, their seams too precise, as though waiting for the right moment to open and reveal traps.

      Thoren’s chest rose slowly while his mind was recording every detail. Every guest, every guard, every exit. And then the crowd hushed.

      At the far staircase, she appeared. Mira, the Space Faerie, glided her way down the steps. Her hair shimmered with the faint glow of distant stars; her presence so radiant it silenced the music for a heartbeat. Every noble turned toward her, admiration seemingly painted across their faces.

      Even he couldn't help but feel great admiration for this wonderful faerie. A being that is only seen in legends, at least to average Neopets such as he, just a few feet away from him. “I know that fairies boast of being elegant and dazzling beings, but none have the poise and purity of this one. It truly is not of this world…” the young Kougra thought.

      Thoren’s eyes sharpened. If she were there, then the rumours were true. The Royal Purple Asteroid was real. And it was there, inside these walls. He turned away before anyone could see the thought in his gaze. Quietly, he moved along the edge of the crowd, letting conversations wash over him as he slithered past to avoid any stray eyes that sought to linger too long.

      “Did you hear the Emperor family imported their finest sugar from Shenkuu this year?” a Lenny whispered behind a jewelled fan.

      “The Space Faerie herself! Can you imagine?” a Skeith in a feathered mask gasped.

      Thoren did not pause. His ears caught every word, but his steps carried him toward the far side of the room. He was searching for more than gossip. And then he saw it.

     A faint seam carved into the stone wall, half-hidden by a heavy tapestry woven with sugared silk. At first glance, it was a decoration. But to eyes trained like Thoren’s, it was something else: a passage. A door meant not for guests, but for those who wished to remain unseen.

      His heartbeat quickened, though his face revealed nothing. As the quartet’s music swelled and the nobles raised their glasses high in cheer for a toast, Thoren’s yellow eyes narrowed. He had found it. The path toward the Chocolate Treasure Vault was hidden in plain sight. And he was already halfway there.

To be continued…