The Heist at the Chocolate Factory.

          The fog around Meridell hung low when Thoren and Jaxon reached the hills where the Briartree estate loomed. The castle was larger than either of them had imagined, its towers jagged against the night sky, windows glowing faintly as if secrets themselves lit the halls. For hours before nightfall, the brothers had stalked the perimeter, studying the guards and waiting for a gap in the patrols.

          Jaxon crouched in the tall grass, his gaze sharp. “Old lords such as Briartree live fat and sloppy, but this one is careful. Too careful.”

          Thoren narrowed his eyes. “That only proves what we already know. He has something to hide.”

          It was close to midnight when Thoren whispered, “On the east side of the property, the guards take five minutes to move from the northwest tower to the southwest tower. That’s our best chance to get in. There’s a glass window we can force through.”

          Jaxon gave a quick nod. “Then we have a plan, brother.”

          When the moment arrived, they slipped across the grounds, hugging the shadows until the patrol shifted. Moving swiftly uphill toward the west side of the castle, they secured the ropes amongst the stone facing and successfully scaled the tower. Jaxon, with a sharp twist of his claws, broke the glass window on the second floor in near silence. In an instant, the two slid inside.

          They landed in a storage room filled with oddities. Dust and damp clung to the air, mixing with the scent of paper and paint. Past that, every corridor was lined with wealth: portraits of past Briartrees, velvet carpets, chandeliers with crystals sharper than ice. Yet it was not the finery that unsettled them, it was the oppressive silence.

     “Thoren…” Jaxon stopped cold and muttered when pushed open a carved oak door.

          The chamber beyond was lined with paintings. Not noble ancestors, but Petpets. Each framed with meticulous care, their bright eyes staring lifelessly from the canvas.

          Thoren’s fur prickled. “This is the first time I’ve seen some of these species. Do you know them, Jaxon?”

          “No. I don’t think so.” Jaxon shook his head.

          Beneath every portrait a date gleamed in gold letters. They were not the dates of discovery, but of consumption. Alongside each was a note: “tasty,” “umami,” “sweet,” “unpalatable.”

          Jaxon’s fur bristled. “They’re trophies,” he whispered. “Every one of them was consumed. I’ve smuggled rotten goods across oceans, but this… this is beyond foul. To devour rare creatures just to taste them, and then to record it like a casual note… these Briartrees are monsters.”

          Both brothers felt sickened. The room stretched larger than they expected, walls filled with grotesque mementos, yet there was no crystal capsule in sight.

           “I’ll take the left side, you take the right,” Jaxon instructed.

          Thoren followed the right passage, letting instinct guide him. He noticed a half-hidden door behind a cabinet, and with some effort, he forced it open and slipped into a private chamber. There, resting on a marble pedestal, was the crystal capsule. His heart jolted. It was the same container that once held the Royal Purple Asteroid, the very capsule the Quiggle had locked away during the Chocolate Ball.

          He seized it with both hands. Heavy and cold. Turning back toward Jaxon, he retraced his steps through the gallery of Petpet portraits, only to halt when voices broke the silence.

          Jaxon stood in the middle of the room, retreating slowly, his eyes fixed ahead. Then a voice rang out. Smooth, mocking, yet fierce. “Well, well, well. The little Kougra thief returns to admire his failure. And now, he brings his big brother to help him. Are you truly so useless, Thoren Sable?”

          Thoren whipped around. That despicable Quiggle stood in the doorway, once again dressed as a butler, his posture dripping with disdain. Beside him strode Lord Briartree, his fine coat concealing nothing of the gleaming replica of King Skarl’s sword clutched in his hands.

          Thoren spat, “How did you manage to sneak in so silently, Quiggle? I didn’t hear a single step from you or that Tuskaninny master of yours.”

          Briartree’s deep voice answered with cruel amusement. “Let me speak, Mr. Butler. You see, Thoren, when you have more neopoints than you could ever spend, you buy the best. Speed potions. Invisibility. Strength. With enough money, nothing is impossible. Even an old Tuskaninny like me can move unseen, just as my servant does. But enough talk. We will deal with you both now.”

          Briartree chuckled, raising the sword. Its polished edge caught the light like fire. “You were nothing but a pawn, Thoren. I never thought you would survive that night. Mr. Butler swore he finally got you; he never misses. What did you do, crawl back from the other world with dirt in your fur? If not for the spies I’ve bought inside the Thieves’ Guild, I wouldn’t have known a ragged, injured Kougra was sniffing for answers. And now, you involved your brother too.”

          Thoren’s anger flared. “So, what was all of it? Just tell me, coward.”

          “Our society has always desired the Chocolate Factory,” Briartree said smugly. “It was only a matter of time. But that stubborn Kiko wouldn’t sell. So, we needed a distraction. And that distraction… was you.”

          “So, it’s true then. You both belong to the Crimson Fork Society.” Thoren steadied his breath, fury hardening his voice.

          “Sharp as ever. But it's too late.” The Quiggle smirked and bowed mockingly.

          Thoren’s eyes flicked to Briartree’s sword, trying to buy more time while thinking about what to do in that dangerous situation: “How do you have that? It belongs to King Skarl.”

          “Belongs?” Briartree sneered. “You still don’t understand. With enough wealth, the world bends. Craftsmen will make you anything, even a near-perfect replica of a legendary weapon. And when I say ‘near,’ I mean it carries its own power. A power that serves me.” He thrust the sword toward the Quiggle.

          “Enough chatter. Slay them both, Mr Butler. Tonight, I want these Kougras gone for good.”

          The Quiggle lunged, speed blurring across the marble floor. Thoren and Jaxon barely blocked the first strike, claws scraping against steel. They were forced back blow after blow with the strength of Briartree’s sword giving their enemy an edge.

          Thoren gritted his teeth, recalling the Quiggle’s terrifying swiftness at the Haunted Woods: Too fast. But then he remembered the ointments he had bought in Neovia. They were infamous for two things: their unbearable smell and their thick, sticky texture. An idea sparked in his head while his eyes darted to the polished floor beneath them

          He ripped a jar free and hurled it across the tiles where the Quiggle dashed. The ointment splattered, spreading goo like sludge, making the floor screech beneath his boots. For the first time, his footing failed. The Quiggle skidded, staggering.

           “Now!” Thoren shouted.

          Jaxon grabbed a heavy candlestick from the wall and hurled it with force. It smashed into the Quiggle’s side, knocking him off balance. Thoren pounced, claws sinking into his foe, pinning him to the ground. Together, the brothers beat him unconscious, the replica sword clattering free.

          Thoren snarled down at him. “Money can buy your potions, Quiggle, but not the skill to win a fight.”

          Briartree had already turned to flee, but the Kougra brothers cornered him in the great hall just in time. Thoren lifted the crystal capsule high. “You can’t run from this. It proves everything.”

          “You fools! You don’t know who you are crossing. When he finds out… you will wish this were your end tonight.” Briartree shouted with sweat dripping down his face.”

     “Who is he?” Jaxon kicked him hard in the stomach.

          Before Briartree could answer, Jaxon caught movement. A gargoyle statue flickered, its eyes glowing red. Not stone, but a hidden device, a camera.

          “Someone’s been watching,” Jaxon growled to Thoren.

          Suddenly, a thunder of marching boots filled the castle. Soldiers stormed the corridors, drawn by the signal. Thoren and Jaxon looked down at the capsule. It felt strangely light. With dread, they opened it. Empty. The Royal Purple Asteroid was gone.

          “Where is it?” Thoren snarled nervously, trying to get information from Briartree and escape.

          Briartree let out a bitter laugh. “I will never say.” His body sagged, and he collapsed unconscious at their feet.

          Jaxon rifled through his coat and yanked out a thick leather wallet. “This will have to do.” He glanced at Thoren. “You run. I’ll hold them here.”

          Thoren’s claws clenched, but the soldiers were closing in fast. He nodded once. “Don’t take too long, brother.”

          Jaxon smirked grimly. “Don’t you worry, little brother. I’ve cheated my end more times than I can count. Go.”

          And so, while Jaxon turned to face the advancing guards, Thoren fled into the night, clutching Lord Briartree’s stolen wallet. His heart pounded not only from the chase but from the certainty that inside its contents lay a clue. A clue to where the Royal Purple Asteroid had gone, and to the shadowy master who even Briartree feared.

     To be continued…