The sun had just set as the thief darted through the labyrinth like alleys of the Night Market, dodging searching eyes as he slipped from street to street. He had narrowly avoided the town guards twice already, but he was sure if he could make it two.. no three more streets, he would be in the clear.
As he neared the alley’s end, he pressed himself behind the back of a vendor’s stall, lungs burning, hands gripping the stolen prize. He forced himself to stay quiet, to still his breath, but something gnawed at him - an ominous presence. The feeling had followed him ever since the artifact heist, lurking at the edges of his senses. He had ignored it, convincing himself it was mere paranoia. But now, as he slumped against the wall, the dread closed in, thick and suffocating and wholly possible to ignore.
The scent of burning catnip slowly wafts through the air, pungent and heady, curling through the narrow alleys of the Night Market like an unseen predator. A figure slowly came into the thief's view, prowling down the street, and that source of this dread now had a form. The flickering ember in this man's small hand held bowl casts a dim, hypnotic glow against his painted face, the light dancing in his golden eyes. He inhales the smoldering catnip's fumes deeply, allowing the sacred smoke to weave through his lungs, his mind, his soul. It empowers him with the aspects of an apex predator, right down to their tracking senses. The thief knew he was in trouble - they had sent a catmancer to catch him.
As the sacred smoke thickened, the spirits arrived. Dark shapes slinked from the shadows, their glowing gold eyes blinking into existence. Their forms shifted between mist and darkness, neither truly here nor fully absent. They prowled along the market stalls, their tails flicking, ears twitching, sniffing the air. Listening. Waiting.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
The thief pressed himself harder against the wall, his breath fast and shallow now, but his own shadow betrayed him as it peeks around around the stall thanks to this traitorous moonlight. One of the spirits noticed. It turned its head slowly, head low with eyes locked onto the silhouette of a hidden man. Its lips peeled back, revealing jagged, spectral teeth. The thief had run. He had hidden. He had believed himself clever.
But no one escapes a catmancer.
The catmancer tilts his head, listening to his spiritual familiar, his smile slowly stretches, knowing the game is up. When he laughed, it was not in sounds the thief understood, but in something older, something lower - the guttural cadence of a growl, the vibrating purr of amusement laced with warning. The spirits echoed him, a chorus of spectral hisses and low, hungry yowls filling the alley.
The thief gripped their stolen trinket tighter. A feeble gesture, as the hunt is over.
The catmancer exhales, the last of the sacred smoke billowing from his lungs. His voice is smooth now, measured. "The chase is up, friend. It is time to surrender."
A pause. The thief’s fingers twitched, unsure of his next action.
A pair of glowing eyes appeared behind the thief. Then another. And another. Slowly stalking him, their forms just barely visible against the rising moon's light. Soft paws that make no sound on stone, but the thief felt them still.
Approaching, surrounding, trapping, watching, waiting.
The catmancer stepped forward, slow, deliberate, unshakable in the certainty of his spellcraft. “Make this easy,” he murmured, his tone carrying the weight of inevitability. "or I’ll let them do what comes naturally - bat you around, drag you into the dark, and eventually, maybe, mercy kill you when they’re bored of playing."
The thief gulped. Somewhere near his feet, something growled.
And he did not run.
He knew better.
