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Post by Dingoleap on Jul 1, 2017 1:45:48 GMT -5
- - Stormkit - - “Do you know what it means to be afraid? Truly afraid? So afraid that for the first time in your life, you think about abandoning your clan?” Morningmist’s eyes shone with a strange intensity.
“No.” Ravenkit whispered, enraptured, edging closer to the storyteller, her amber eyes huge and bright against her dark fur.
“I would never abandon my clan, even if I was afraid!” Pikekit lashed his tail, working his tiny claws into the mossy floor of the den, pelt spiked.
“Perhaps you would think differently if your hunting patrol was suddenly surrounded by bloodthirsty RiftClan warriors!” Morningmist’s eyes widened. “They ambushed us in the Dead Forest and backed us into a small ravine, the four of us, one an apprentice, against seven of them.”
“Were you really considering running away?” Stormkit leaned forward. He could see it, vivid and real, in his minds eye. He could easily imagine it; the unsuspecting patrol, the waiting RiftClan warriors, the ravine that trapped his clanmates… he could almost taste their fear, lingering on his tongue.
“The thought crossed my mind,” the pale elder admitted, “but I knew I wouldn’t get far – they’d claw my pelt off for sure – and I knew that my clanmates needed me. If we stood together, we stood a chance. We knew the sunhigh patrol couldn’t be far behind, not after Redstar had ordered extra patrols, so our plan was to just hold on…”
The kits shuffled closer, drawn in by the promise of a story. Morningmist was famed for her tales. Her words spun entire worlds, her stories conjured long-dead heroes and mythical battles between the clans, long before even Redstar had been named leader.
Summer had broken over the mountains in a golden haze, carpeting the mountains in wildflowers and luring prey from their burrows. The last of the snows had melted; the river was angry and overfull, tumbling down the mountainside in a churning wall of water. Overhead, the raucous birds flew, squabbling over nuts and flowers while the clan cats stalked below, each a finely tuned weapon of destruction.
Rabbits ruled the dusk, their tails bright in the fading light. Mice scurried through the undergrowth. The nights were no longer silent – the forests shed their winter cloaks and owls winged low to the ground, searching for prey. Returning border patrols spoke of trout breeding in the river and wild horses in the next valley.
Life had returned to the mountains and lured the clan from its’ camp.
“It was Stoneface who saved us, and, if I’m not mistaken, it was how he earned his warrior name.” Stormkit turned his attention back to Morningmist as the pale tortoiseshell continued. “He started screeching as loud as he could, louder than an owl, even! He had this wild, manic look in his eyes. As you could imagine, we were terribly confused, but the RiftClan cats were even more so.”
“They must have thought he was crazy!” Stormkit breathed, resting his chin on his forepaws. “What did he do then?”
“He went absolutely silent.” Across the den, Skyfeather paused her grooming, amber eyes shining. “I’ll never forget it. He was quieter than death itself. He locked eyes with the enemy patrol leader and slunk straight towards them. I’m not sure what they were thinking – probably that all our apprentices were going mad – but they backed off quick.”
“Stoneface bought us something we desperately needed,” Morningmist continued enthusiastically. “Time. He distracted the RiftClan cats long enough for the sunhigh patrol to arrive, and we were able to chase them off.”
“The next gathering, Stoneface was quite the hero amongst the young warriors of the other clans.” Skyfeather chuckled, amused by the events despite the seasons that had passed. “Its no wonder Redstar gave him his name in honour of his intuition!”
“Well, the next time I meet RiftClan warriors, I’ll screech as loud as I can and frighten them away!” Pikekit puffed his narrow chest out.
“So will I!” Stormkit leaped to his paws and dropped into a hunter’s crouch. “I’ll be the best screecher in RangeClan!”
The elders let out twin purrs of amusement.
“Of course you will be.” Skyfeather offered a bright smile. “Run along and play now, practice that screeching of yours.” She chased them from the den, playfulness lending swiftness to her paws.
---
Heat danced across the high, blue sky. Somewhere, insects sang, revelling in the sudden warmth. Stormkit arched his back in a luxurious stretch, enjoying feeling the sun on his face, the wind in his fur. Pikekit tumbled out beside him, the inexperience of youth making his paws uncertain. The tabby kit climbed to his feet and shook the dust from his pelt.
“That was a good story!” He chirped. “I can’t wait to be apprenticed – I want to see the Dead Forest! It sounds exciting!”
“It sounds horrible.” Ravenkit sniffed. “You know, they say that there has been so much blood spilled there, that nothing grows anymore.”
“That’s just a story!” Pikekit’s objection rang out across the camp. “You’re just scared!”
“Am not!”
“Am too!”
“Hey!” Stormkit wove his way between them. “Please don’t start fighting again, or Ashfall will tell us off again!”
One mention of the cranky silver elder scared his companions into silence. Ravenkit glanced over her shoulder, anxiety edging it’s way into her amber gaze. Slowly, the trio edged away from the elders’ den, into the golden haze of the clearing. The clan curved around them like a river, their antics incooperated into the rhythm of daily life. The dawn patrol returned, shaking leaf litter from their pelts, making polite small-talk with the departing hunting patrol. Apprentices, keen to impress, forged ahead, their mentors trailing behind.
Somewhere, a raven called.
“Do you wanna play a game?” Pikekit dropped into a crouch and began to move forward in a clumsy, lopsided stalk.
“What about ‘RiftClan Invasion’? You can be Redstar this time.” Stormkit mirrored the tabby’s pose, wriggling his hindquarters as he prepared to pounce.
Ravenkit wrinkled her nose in disgust. “No thank you. I’ve had enough of RiftClan for one day. I’m going to go and see if Raintail needs help sorting her herbs.”
“Suit yourself.” Pikekit shrugged, a fluid role of his shoulders beneath his short pelt.
The rules of the game were simple. Stormkit charged across the camp, darting from shadow to shadow as he searched for a hiding place. He had become the hunted. Pikekit crouched in the centre of the camp, forepaws folded over his muzzle, eyes screwed shut against the sun. The pose was almost ritualistic, adopted every time they played at Pikekit’s insistence – the brown tabby was convinced Stormkit cheated.
“One…”
“Two…”
“Three…”
He skidded to a halt in the shade of the warriors’ den, paused to assess his options. He could hide inside, amongst the mossy nests and risk the wrath of dozing warriors, or continue on. He glanced over his shoulder, amber gaze scanning the clearing. Pikekit’s spotted pelt was barely visible, hidden by the grass. He chewed his whiskers nervously, wasting precious seconds as he thought. No, the shallow cave wouldn’t do. Better to keep going, he decided, and search for something better.
“Four…”
“Five…”
“Six…”
The tortoiseshell tom shouldered his way through the twisted grass that crowded the shadowed corners of the camp, searching for a hiding place. The thick wall of vegetation was almost impenetrable, designed to keep danger out and kits safely enclosed within. Redstar ordered the boundary checked at the start of every moon, obsessively strengthening it with dead branches and thorned foliage.
“Seven…”
“Eight…”
“Nine…”
Mousedung! He was running out of time. He continued on, forging his way along the boundary. The pale tree that sheltered the apprentices’ den came into sight. Perfect! He hauled himself up, balancing precariously on the outstretched limb, settled in a forked branch, ready to ambush any who walked below.
“Ten!” Pikekit yowled, leaping to his paws in a burst of sudden energy. Stormkit stilled, forced his breathing to slow.
Pikekit stretched, balancing precariously on the tips of his paws, head swivelling, owl-like, attempting to see the entire camp at once. The tabby’s eyes narrowed, nose twitching. He moved suddenly, darting across the clearing in a single lightening movement. He twisted, veering around Icewhisker’s paws as the silver tabby crossed the campsite.
“Woah, Pikekit!” The deputy purred, amusement lighting his pale eyes. “What’s got you in such a hurry?”
The tabby kit straightened impatiently, eager to continue the game, proud to be addressed by the warrior. “I’m searching for Stormkit! We’re playing warriors! He’s invaded the camp! I have to stop him before it’s too late!”
The silver tom opened his mouth to respond, a good-natured smile on his muzzle. “Thank StarClan we have such fierce warriors to defend us. Off you go, then. I think I smelled invaders over by the apprentices den…”
Stormkit tensed his muscles as Pikekit stared in his direction.
Heavy paws scraped stone. Icewhisker glanced over his shoulder as Redstar emerged from his den, eyes tired. Stormkit watched curiously as the leader surveyed the camp, staring out over the clearing without seeing anything. His shoulders were slumped; there were times, Stormkit thought, when his father seemed to carry the weight of the mountains on his shoulders.
The tortoiseshell kit watched as Redstar picked his way down the stone, his usual sure-pawed precision curiously absent. The leader’s movements were slow, haggard, as if he were far older than his seasons. He glanced over his shoulder and just for a moment, his amber eyes were filled with fear.
Worry wormed its way into Stormkit’s belly.
Clan leaders weren’t supposed to worry. Warriors weren’t supposed to worry. Redstar had instilled it in him, over and over again; a warrior trusts his clanmates to protect him, because they know he would protect them, with his life, if he needs to.
He didn’t like it when Redstar worried.
“Icewhisker, has the boundary been strengthened this moon?”
Stormkit dragged his attention back to Pikekit as the tabby slunk across the clearing. The tortoiseshell tom bared his teeth as his playmate edged closer. Pikekit sniffed, jaws open to taste the air, struggling to identify Stormkit’s scent amongst the tangled aromas of the apprentices’ den. He was right; it was a good place to hide.
Closer, and closer still. Hesitation slowed Pikekit’s paws as the tabby peered into the deep shadows.
Stormkit let out a screech and leaped. Surprise flashed across his friend’s face, barely there and fleeting, before Pikekit leaped back and stretched up to meet him.
“RiftClan warriors, attack!” Stormkit cannoned into Pikekit’s exposed belly, his weight sending them both crashing to the ground.
“You’ll never take the camp!” Pikekit kicked upwards, driving the air from Stormkit’s lungs.
They fell to the side, batting at one another with moss-soft paws, tails lashing. Stormkit crouched then propelled himself forward, paws outstretched, imitating the apprentices. Pikekit dodged, veering to one side and sped off across the clearing, calling for reinforcements as Stormkit charged after him, pelt spiked.
Redstar watched, something like resignation scrawled across his broad face.
---
- - The Overlord - - Night fell slowly, the dusk gradually darkening the sky. Clouds, burned pink and orange, clustered around the horizon. The sun, a ball of liquid flame, sat between the mountain peaks.
Somewhere beyond the mountain peaks, where the snow still lingered and the earth fell away, a grey tom shouldered his way through the shadows. His followers hesitated, each on edge, waiting for his command.
The elite and the favoured lounged against the cool, sandy walls of the gorge, eyes narrowed in the low light.
Night was for hunting, and they were ready to hunt.
The scarred tom watched as the moon began to rise, a twisted smile on his ruined face. The season had been hard, the harsh weather decimating his followers in ways the clan cats never could. The time had come to seek replacements.
He scanned his ranks of subordinates, orange eyes choosing the fiercest, the strongest, the swiftest to follow him to the mountains, where fate awaited them. They exited the gorge in almost perfect silence, each one a wraithlike in the darkness, almost totally invisible.
The Overlord was on the move.
It was time for Redstar to uphold their deal. 《 chapter two - - Stormkit - - Stormkit woke to silence. A heavy, oppressive, uncharacteristic silence. It lingered in every corner, muffling every sound.
Stormkit woke alone. No, not alone; Ravenkit was sprawled close by, one paw tucked over her nose, snuffling softly in her sleep. Pikekit curled beside him, posture so tight it was almost painful. Stormkit stepped cautiously out of the nest and stretched, some insistent instinct warning him not to make a sound.
Where was Riverstep?
Where was his mother?
Moss rustled has Ravenkit stirred woken by his absence. She narrowed her eyes and looked around, trying to puzzle out their mother’s absence. “What’s going on?” his sister stepped delicately over the moss towards him.
“Shhhhh!” Stomrkit hissed, agitated. A sharp sense of wrongness permeated the air. “Something’s wrong. Keep your voice down.”
Ravenkit opened her mouth, then closed it again, unable to find the worlds. Annoyance darkened her amber gaze. “What do you mean ‘something’s wrong’?” Stormkit thanked his lucky stars that she remembered to whisper.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but something’s not right. Can’t you feel it?”
“I think you’re being paranoid.” Ravenkit barged past him and started towards the entrance, tail kinked high over her back. She moved with an easy confidence, trusting her judgement.
Stormkit hesitated, torn between loyalties to his sister, and the tiny voice demanding that he stay put. He glanced over his shoulder to where Pikekit dozed, unaware that he was alone. His sister forged ahead, unfazed by the silence. He groaned and dragged himself over to Pikekit’s nest. He rested his paws on his friend’s tabby flank and shook him roughly. “Come on, Ravenkit needs backup.”
Pikekit uncurled and blinked, movements sluggish. “What’s she doing?” Stormkit could hear the fuzzy confusion in his voice.
“Something mouse-brained. Come on!” He paced anxiously towards the entrance.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Pikekit tumbled from his nest and stretched his forepaws forward, spine arched in a luxurious stretch.
“Come on!” The frustration he tried to contain spilled over. “She could be in danger, Pikekit!”
“In the middle of the camp? What could possibly be out there? A rabid mouse? Invading RiftClan warriors?” Pikekit twitched his whiskers, amused.
Stormkit groaned. “Just come on!”
His pelt began to prickle as they neared the entrance. Pikekit settled into an uneasy silence, ears strained forward as he struggled to piece together what was going on. Still, no sounds rang out from the clearing.
Discomfort settled in Stormkit’s chest as he realised that they were the loudest things in the camp. Even Ravenkit, out of sight, had fallen silent. He hesitated at the shadowed entrance; sunlight spilled across the floor, yet he could not bear to step into it.
Do you know what it means to be afraid?
Every fibre of his being screamed at him to turn back, but Ravenkit… Ravenkit was out there. His sister was out there.
Truly afraid?
He summoned every ounce of courage he possessed and stepped into the light.
- - -
Ravenkit stood, barely a tail-length away from the den, her dark fur on end, radiating fear-scent. Stormkit froze, Pikekit pressed against his side.
The camp was full of strangers.
They wove through the shadows, inexplicable things of darkness, and mingled with his clanmates as if they belonged there, as if they had always been there. They were scrawny, hungry, their movements razor-sharp and precise. The Rangeclan warriors sat, unmoving, suddenly subordinate.
Stormkit’s mouth went dry. The pads of his paws began to itch.
He had to run.
He would not run.
The strangers turned their starved gazes towards them, eyes bright with a frightening possibility.
The largest lounged on top of the Leader’s Rock. Something similar to boredom was scrawled across his mangled face. Redstar crouched at the bottom of the stone, hunched over like something broken. The Rangeclan leader was muttering, eyes downcast. Nightmark pressed herself against her mate’s side, pelt spiked, iron muscles tensed to spring.
Their presence stirred the clan to action. Nightmask’s head snapped up. Her eyes stretched wide. Go back, the tension in her shoulders seemed to beg. Go back.
Too late.
The grey invader stood, a languid ease to his movements. The boredom sharpened to a dangerous interest. “Well, well, well… what have you been hiding from me, Redstar?”
“Nothing.” The tortoiseshell leader found his voice. “I didn’t see waking the clan’s kit’s worthwhile.”
“I requested every cat be present, fleabag.” The stranger’s gaze didn’t leave them. Ravenkit whimpered and pressed herself against his side, trying to loose herself within his shadow. Stormkit’s heart kicked madly in his chest. He found some small scrap of courage, lurking deep within his soul, and straightened up. He was determined to be unafraid.
His resolve began to shrink as the grey tom leaped from his perch, his movements sharp and predatory. The clan parted before him like grass before the wind. Ravenkit shuffled backwards, her breathing panicked.
A warrior is not afraid. He trusts his clan to protect him.
A warrior is not afraid. He trusts his clan-
A warrior is not afraid-
A warrior-
A heavy paw shot out and pinned him to the dusty ground. “Such courage,” he mused quietly. “Such courage indeed…” There was a terrifying intelligence to his gaze. Stormkit tried to shrink, tried to press himself to the ground, tried to disappear.
Pikekit remained beside him, teeth bared in the beginnings of a snarl.
His captor’s analysis stretched into eternity. Stormkit wondered what he saw. It was easy, all to easy, to recognise him as Redstar’s son. They shared the same mottled pelt, the same fierce amber eyes. Elders whispered that, one day, they would share the same broad, muscular build.
“Enough.” Nightmask’s voice was sharper than the winter winds. “Leave them alone. They are not part of this.”
The dark she-cat stood alone in the middle of the camp. Restless, the clan shifted, unsure, perhaps, of what was about to take place.
“There are no exemptions to this.” The grey cat straightened. Stormkit scrambled backwards as he was released. Ravenkit and Pikekit crowded around him, desperately trying to offer him some semblance of comfort. Stormkit shook them off, eyes glued to the clearing before him.
“Do you not remember the terms of our agreement?” The grey cat spoke quietly, evenly. There was no need for him to raise his voice; the way he carried himself demanded attention. “Do you not remember Redstar’s words? Anything,” he drawled, “And anything means, well, anything.”
Hostility crackled like lightning. The very air seemed heavy and tense, as if it was waiting for something. Confusion threatened to overwhelm him. What agreement?
“You won’t take my son.”
The scarred tom fell silent as Redstar found his voice. Stormkit watched as his father rose shakily to his paws. There was a kind of iron strength hidden in the depths of his misty gaze that the rest of his body didn’t show. In that moment, Stomrkit glimpsed his father as the stories depicted him – a strong, confident young warrior, confident of his clan and his place in it, rather than the shambling wreck he’d become.
The stranger moved like lightning. He spun on one paw, claws outstretched. He cannoned into Redstar, his aim brutal and flawless. The red tabby let out a screech and rolled backwards as silver claws flashed across his throat.
In that heartbeat, the world exploded. The clan, shocked to action, swarmed forward, teeth bared, pelts spiked. Fear became anger. In a heartbeat, they regained lost courage. In a heartbeat, they were ready to fight.
“Oh, Redstar.” The stranger stood, perfectly poised, in the centre of the clearing. Blood pooled between his splayed toes. Redstar struggled to his paws, his throat opened in a single, deadly manoeuvre. “You don’t seem to remember that you don’t have a choice.”
The invaders began to move, slowly at first, barely noticed, then storm-sudden, taking up aggressive positions. A stalemate. Gridlocked, the clan waited for something, anything, to happen.
Before him, Redstar heaved and coughed up a mouthful of blood, sheer determination keeping his broken body upright.
Raintail moved first, her eyes on the stranger, silently daring him to challenge her. The Medicine Cat reached Redstar unscathed and pressed a broad paw to the tear in his throat.
Nightmask’s eyes burned bright with barely concealed fury.
“We have to go.” Pikekit hissed.
Stormkit nodded in silent agreement. He didn’t trust himself to speak. To open his mouth was to let all the fear and anger spill out, and instinct warned him, pleaded with him, not to antagonise the cat that stood before them.
“I was so sure we covered this the last time I was here.” The grey tom sighed. “I didn’t count on having to re-teach this lesson. Heed the warning you leader did not – get in my way again, and I will not be so forgiving.”
A cold horror leeched into Stormkit’s bones. Last time? There was a last time?
“What does he mean ‘last time’?” Ravenkit spoke his thoughts aloud.
They pressed together as the stranger turned his attention to them, cowering before him like mice before a hawk. Fear scent, thick as midwinter snow, throbbed like something tangible, something alive.
“Consider your debt paid.” His voice rumbled deep in his throat. One paw was outstretched. Stormkit wailed as barbed claws hooked into his pelt.
“No! Please, no! Nightmask! Help me!” His mother made no move towards him, anguish and fear battling in her gaze as he screamed himself hoarse. Beside her stone figure, Redstar convulsed, either dying or already dead.
“I can’t.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “This is the price we have to pay for peace.”
Something froze, something snapped, deep inside Stormkit’s chest as the camp erupted into chaos, his clanmates raising lost voices in protest.
“Stormkit!” Pikekit wriggled free from the tangle of limbs and tails, Ravenkit on his heels.
“Pikekit! Don’t let them take me!” Stormkit twisted in the strangers grip, struggling to break free.
The grey tom ignored the storm of wailing, howling warriors, his followers holding the clan back with ease. Nightmask crouched by her mate’s body, eyes downcast, jaws open in a soundless, anguished wail. Stormkit twisted savagely, trying to escape the stranger’s iron hold. Pikekit scrambled after them, weaving in between the battling cats, desperately trying to keep up.
“Stormkit!” Ravenkit had fallen behind, but her plaintive wails still reached Stormkit’s tender ears. “Stormkit, come back!”
The grey tom summoned his forces with a single twitch of his tail. They released their prisoners and stepped back, flooded out of the camp entrance like a living river, moving in perfect obedience.
They left the shelter of the RangeClan camp behind, following the well-worn mountain trails. The leader turned and began to forge a path through the thick mountain grass. Stormkit twisted, desperate to catch one last glimpse of his home before it faded. The tortoiseshell kit stretched his eyes wide, trying to take in all the sights, all the scents, trying to imprint each blade of grass, each pale green leaf in his mind.
Behind them, the followers trailed. Some, he noted, were exceptionally well muscled, their shoulders broad and their pelts scarred. There was something fierce, something frightening lurking in the depths of their clear gazes. Most, however, seemed downcast, their eyes fixed on the ground beneath their paws. Their pelts were ragged and banded with fresh scars. Stormkit could count their ribs through their fur.
A shiver crawled down his spine, colder than the midwinter winds.
His last glimpse of the mountains crowded the horizon. He could picture his clanmates, tucked safely in their stone embrace. He could picture his sister, his best friend, his mother mourning his loss. He could picture Icewhisker, already planning a rescue. He could picture his father, bleeding and broken and still.
“They’ll come,” he whispered, desperate to convince himself. “My Clan will come for me.”
Night fell.
The moon rose.
No-one came.
》Chapter Three - - Stormkit - - Some small part of him marvelled at the wideness of the world. It unfolded before him, a myriad of muted colours. Dawn broke, the sun slowly chasing the darkness from the sky.
Still they walked, until the softness of the mountains fell away and the world became a labyrinth of jagged rocky outcrops and plunging chasms. Stormkit stared out through hazy eyes, exhausted by the journey, yet unable to sleep. The scarred tom kept a tight hold on the scruff of his neck, despite Stormkit’s insistence that he was perfectly capable of walking. His captor, however, didn’t seem to care.
They’d left clan territory behind shortly after midnight. The patrol had turned deeper into the mountains, following the RiftClan border. Stormkit had stared out over the harsh, unforgiving plains of RiftClan land and had wondered how on earth they survived out there, with no trees for cover and little prey to hunt. No wonder the skinny, elusive cats were so desperate to invade his own territory. He’d wondered, at first, if his captors were RiftClan cats, but no. They’d skirted around the edge of the marked territory and forged deeper into the unknown.
Now, the rising sun chased the last of the shadows from the mountains. The procession of cats followed a narrow path, winding down into the bowels of the earth. Stormkit sucked in a sharp breath as the passage narrowed, the rocky sides scraping at his pelt. Darkness pressed down as the passage became a tunnel.
New panic crowded him, jostling against old fear. No, no, no, anywhere but underground…
He couldn’t breathe, could no longer draw enough air into his lungs to sustain his frantic body.
“Eathy, kit,” his captor mutters, words obscured by a mouthful of fur. “It openth thoon.”
His words fell on deaf ears. Stormkit arched his spine, struggling to reach the ground. His toes scraped rock, then nothing, then rock again. He could see no end to the tunnel, just an infinite darkness that stretched before him. He’d be trapped underground forever, never again to see the sky or smell the wind. His world would be nothing but darkness…
“Thtop moving!” His captor shook him violently, stunning him into a frozen stupor.
The sudden, angry movement was so different to the calm façade the scarred tom had presented earlier that the sudden change was darkly terrifying. A thousand different thoughts raced through Stormkit’s mind, as if a flock of birds had taken flight. The now-familiar fear left a sour taste in his mouth.
The tortoiseshell hadn’t noticed the procession had stopped until they pressed forward again. He didn’t dare react, and instead hung limply from his captor’s jaws, trying to suppress the claustrophobic panic that dragged at his tired limbs.
Finally, finally, the tunnel widened. Stormkit narrowed his eyes as the pale morning light flooded the tiny space. Slowly, almost dramatically, his captor stepped out into the light.
The passage spat them out onto a wide ledge, the underpaw grass beaten into a crude track. Several tail-lengths below, a high and narrow valley opened up, the granite walls dotted with shallow caves. At one end, the valley rose in an impenetrable, unclimbable wall. A tiny spring welled from a fissure and meandered for a tail-length before vanishing back underground. The other end of the valley doglegged sharply, disappearing out of sight.
Stormkit stared, eyes wide, struggling to take in the hidden world before him. Slowly, cats crept into his line of vision, low to the ground and afraid, staring almost reverently at the returning patrol.
The scarred tom abruptly dropped Stormkit, trapping the tortoiseshell kit beneath his broad forepaws. He straightened, eyes narrowed and predatory. His tail twitched once, dismissing his following. Most cats, Stormkit noticed, slunk towards the spring, where a dusky charcoal she-cat had appeared. Others headed straight for what appeared to be a fresh-kill pile, resting in the shade of a cracked boulder.
“Stone. Perch.” The grey tom snarled. It took Stormkit a moment to realise that they were names.
Evidently, he didn’t need to shout to make himself heard, despite the vast expanse of the gorge. A grey she-cat, prim and proper despite the healing wound on her shoulder, trotted neatly towards them, a heavyset blue tom trailing behind.
“Yes, sir?” The she-cat lowered her gaze respectfully, but cold fire burned in her gaze. Her voice was midwinter-cold.
“Here.” One grey paw pushed Stormkit’s battered body towards her. “You shall be in charge of his orientation. See he knows his way around. His training will start under the next full moon.” With that, the scarred tom straightened, stretched each muscular leg in turn, then started down the track to the valley floor.
The she-cat’s fiery gaze tracked each deliberate move until he rounded the doglegged bend and disappeared. The moment he disappeared, she relaxed, a tired sigh escaping her. “Are you all right, little one?”
Stormkit could hear the stony tone of her voice, cleverly hidden behind an obedient mask. He couldn’t bring himself to speak; his tongue felt thick and clumsy, weighed down by all the things he hadn’t said. Instead, he nodded slowly, his movements robotic.
“Perch,” the blue-grey tom muttered. “We have an audience.”
The she-cat, Perch, turned, her pale green eyes narrowed. Unable to resist, Stormkit followed her gaze. She stared fiercely, determinedly, at a narrow outcrop jutting from the opposite wall. Stormkit narrowed his eyes, desperate to see what they saw.
There.
A tabby cat, almost invisible in his stillness despite his bright, copper pelt, sat rigid and unmoving. Despite the distance between them, Stormkit got the unnerving sense that the tabby was staring.
Perch laid her tail over his shoulders, breaking the reverie. “Come,” she said diplomatically. “We’ll find you a place to sleep.” The she-cat fell into step beside her companion, leading the way down to the valley floor below. “Do you have a name?” Her voice was somehow both gentle and insistent.
It reminded him, almost, of Nightmask calmly informing him that if he owned up now, he wouldn’t get in as much trouble.
A sudden pang of homesickness twisted through his stomach.
“Stormkit.” The word scratched against his dry throat.
“What clan?” The blue tom murmured.
“RangeClan.”
The she-cat sighed. Stormkit realised, suddenly, that he could hear his own longing reflected there. “Well, as of now, you will be known as Storm. The Overlord doesn’t let us keep our clan names.”
The Overlord. How fitting, he mused, that the scarred tom didn’t have a name, only a title.
They crossed the gorge quickly. Perch, with her shifty, determined gaze, seemed unwilling to remain in the open a heartbeat longer than necessary. The haunted gazes of the battered followers watched them go; Stormkit stared, eyes wide. The cats were bony, mangy things, unkempt and uncared for, with haunted eyes and matted pelts, so unlike the sleek and well-groomed Clanmates Stormkit had left behind.
“Here.” Perch ducked into a narrow chasm. It widened a moment later, revealing a crooked cave. Four nests, made of carefully woven grass and lined with moss, shared the cramped space. Perch made her way to the closest nest and sat, her tail curled neatly around her paws. “We’re safer inside, away from prying eyes.”
The blue-grey tom settled in the furthest corner, his movements stiff with disapproval. “Shouldn’t be here.” He muttered. It was impossible to say whom he was talking about.
“Don’t mind him,” Perch sounded uncomfortable. “It’s been a bad moon.”
The blue tom huffed and turned away.
“I’m Perch.” She ruffled her fur, as if to drive away the chilly mood. “My brother’s name is Stone. We were like you, once.”
“New?” Stormkit found his voice.
“Clan cats.” Stone growled.
Perch sighed and cast a wistful glance at her littermate. The sense of raw longing permeated the air. Stormkit shifted uncomfortably, suddenly uncertain of his place. He got the unmistakable sense of tension, as unfamiliar as it was confronting. He’d bickered with Ravenkit and scuffled with Pikekit, but they’d never fought. Not like the scene before him, with the sense of distance so profound, so sad he wondered how they could stand to be together.
Impulsively, he straightened. “What clan?”
Grass rustled as Stone shifted to stare over his shoulder. Perch sighed, a small smile on her face. “We were from SlopeClan,” she reminisced. “My mentor, Snowfall, was the deputy, although I’ve heard she’s the leader now. Stone’s mentor was named Wrenflight…” She trailed off, eyes misting.
“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Stone snapped. “Get on with his orientation, Perch.”
The she-cat stared levelly at her brother. Her silence stretched the moment into five moments. Ten moments. Twenty moments. At last, she slouched, defeated, and beckoned Stormkit closer.
The valley, he learned, had been nicknamed ‘the gorge’ by its inhabitants, and it was a place of rules and danger. Step carefully, Perch warned, because the Elite Guard were always watching, ready to report every movement to the Overlord in exchange for privilege and favours. Keep your head down, keep moving forward, swear your loyalty at every opportunity. It was a dysfunctional clan, with regular hunting patrols and training sessions, but a brutality the clans had long ago left behind.
“We do ok,” Perch explained. “We do what the Overlord asks of us, and we pray to StarClan that he doesn’t take an interest in us.”
She was, it seemed, of the opinion that being favoured by the Overlord was a fate worse than death. Than exile. Than the Place of No Stars.
Perch, having decided her job was done, rolled her injured shoulder, wincing as the muscles pulled. She twisted and ran her tongue over the matted fur. The wound seemed raw, scabbed at the edges. Stormkit tracked her movements, wondering if they had a medicine cat to tend their wounds. His thoughts flicked to the tabby she-cat, patiently waiting by the spring.
“What happened to your shoulder?” He couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer.
“It was a punishment.” Stone interrupted, voice bitter.
“For what?” Stormkit edged closer.
Perch uncoiled from her grooming pose, a playful wickedness returning to her grin. “Civil disobedience.”
For the first time since the previous morning, since the Overlord had sunk his claws into Redstar’s throat and Nightmask had stood idly by, a small smile tugged at Stormkit’s muzzle.
- - -
His first day in the Gorge, Stormkit reasoned, was more or less what he’d expected his first day as a Clan apprentice would have been like. Stone, shoulders hunched and tail dragging, was a reluctant tour guide. The ground was rough underpaw; mostly gravel, he noticed, with occasional tufts of scrubby frost-hard grass.
“Things are simple round here,” Stone’s voice was cold. “Do what you’re told. Do it quickly. Don’t be mousebrained like my sister.”
Stormkit nodded, quietly. Stone’s hostility was palpable, its origins impossible to identify.
Is he mad at Perch? For her ‘civil disobedience’?
“Most of us here are just underlings. Those with higher ranks, who hold the Overlord’s favour, live round there,” Stone gestured with his tail around the dogleg bend. “More sunlight down there. More water. We have to make to with the narrower, darker end, but we’ve got the spring, and the caves for shelter.”
Another nod. They paused, tail-lengths away from the claustrophobic entrance tunnel. Earlier, Stormkit had watched as Perch, in the company of a broad silver tom and several other scrawny cats disappeared into the darkness, the day’s scheduled hunting patrol. Now, a tortoiseshell she-cat sat beside the tunnel, eyes narrowed and tracking the movements of the Gorge’s inhabitants. He stepped back, suddenly uncomfortable, as her muddy brown gaze locked onto his.
“Keep moving, twig.” She bared her crooked teeth. She wore the scars of past fights like grisly trophies. She rose slowly to her paws, deliberate and threatening. Pale sunlight glinted off unsheathed claws.
Stormkit stepped back, alarm dancing along his spine, searching for Stone. The grey tom had vanished, moving forward without realising his young charge had stalled.
“I said, keep moving.” The she-cat spat venom.
Fear, its taste now familiar, rose in Stormkit’s throat. He backed up, his pelt spiked. Still the she-cat advanced, unrelenting and fierce.
“Stone!” Terror turned his voice ragged.
A dark shadow fell across his face as Stone stepped in front of him, ears flattened in a silent plea for mercy. “Please, Lightning. He’s only just arrived.” Stone’s voice was barely above a whisper.
The she-cat paused, something haughty and unreasonable swimming in the depths of her honeyed gaze. She stilled and schooled her features, the anger hidden behind a mask of stony disinterest. “Keep your charge moving, Stone.” She instructed.
The grey tom, despite his timidness, did not move until the tortoiseshell she-cat spun tightly and stalked back to her post. The season seemed to change before Stone turned to stare down at Stormkit, his face tight with fury. “Move.” He hissed.
Stormkit jolted forward, heart kicking in his chest like a frightened rabbit. Stone continued to stalk forward, anger making his movements precise. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, afraid that Stone would lash out. The grey tom was silent for a long, painful moment before he spoke again.
“Rule number two,” Stone glared down at his young charge. “Don’t stare at the Elite. They don’t like it.”
The cold fury in the guard’s eyes flashed briefly in Stormkit’s mind. “What’s rule number one?”
“Do exactly what they say, when they say. Maybe then you’ll have a chance of staying alive.”
They arrived at the narrow end of the Gorge, where the spring bubbled up from beneath the ground. A jagged granite boulder cast pitiful shade, with several cats jostling half-heartedly for a position in the shadows. Gazes, each devoid of hope, flashed from beneath the outcrop. A dark grey she-cat, her pelt banded with smudgy stripes, strode purposefully between the spring and another shallow cave, pale scraps of greenery gripped in her jaws. Stormkit stilled as the faint scent of healing herbs washed over him, plunging him into his memories.
How’s Ravenkit? Longing pierced his heart with unforgiving claws. Does she still follow Raintail everywhere?
Unshed tears prickled at the corners of his eyes.
I miss you, Ravenkit…
Please don’t forget about me. I haven’t forgotten about you…
- - -
- - Nightmask - - By the time the moon waned and plunged the sky into darkness, Redstar had forgotten the terms of the deal. All he knew was that everything his clanmates had once praised him for had been viciously ripped away by a grey tom with a scarred face and predatory eyes.
By the time the moon waned, Nightmask knew that the cat she loved, the leader she admired, wasn’t coming back.
“I’m worried about the clan.” Icewhisker didn’t look at her. Instead, the silver tabby kept his gaze fixed on the camp below them.
Nightmask rose carefully to her paws, stretched each leg in turn. “And I’m worried about my family.”
The worn-smooth outcrop that sheltered the leaders den offered an excellent vantage point. The deputy narrowed his eyes, unimpressed with her answer. Nightmask began to pick her way along the outcrop, slowly easing down to the clearing. She hesitated by the mouth of the leader’s den; Redstar hadn’t emerged in almost two days, relying on Nightmask and Icewhisker to run the clan.
The calm, collected leader had vanished alongside his son.
“We can’t continue down this path, Nightmask!” Icewhisker rose to his paws. “Don’t avoid the issues at paw!”
“I’m not ignoring them!” Her pelt bristled. “I’m trusting you to handle them!”
Behind her, Icewhsiker snorted, then leaped easily from his perch, calling for a hunting patrol. Despite her feigned ignorance, worry gnawed at Nightmask’s paws. The clan tiptoed around her, afraid of making too much noise. Fear-scent rose from them like smoke.
Fear that the grey tom and his followers would return.
Fear that the surrounding clans would learn of their vulnerable, leaderless state.
Her clan was unsettled as it was.
The night-dark she-cat stormed across the campsite towards the shadowed corner that sheltered Raintail and her patients. She hesitated beneath the arching scrub that shielded the entrance, took a moment to compose herself, to smooth her ruffled fur and mask her unease. She heaved a tired breath, then stepped into the shade.
Soft voices drifted down the scrub tunnel. Raintail’s patient tone drifted through the air. “Good, Ravenkit. Very good. Now, use your paw to scoop the poultice onto the bark. Good work.”
The tunnel opened into a small clearing, sheltered on one side by a twisted tree, surrounded by low scrub. Raintail crouched before the tree, supervising Ravenkit as she mixed herbs with deft paws. In the days since her brother had been taken, Ravenkit had withdrawn. It had taken Raintail, nudging her to her paws and insisting that she needed help, to break the mask she’d donned.
A smile tugged at the corners of Nightmask’s muzzle. “Raintail.” She murmured quietly.
Two pairs of eyes, one amber and one blue, snapped up her meet her. The medicine cat straightened, whiskers twitching. “What can I do for you, Nightmask?”
The black she-cat glanced warily at her daughter, who stood intently by the grey she-cats’ paws. Raintail followed her gaze, blinking in understanding. “Ravenkit, why don’t you deliver that to Skyfeather. She might need help applying it.”
“Ok!” Ravenkit grasped the scrap of bark, loaded with herbs, between her jaws. She staggered backwards, dragging her load, brow furrowed in concentration. Raintail purred in amusement as she vanished into the tunnel.
“She’s quite the little helper.” Nightmask smiled faintly.
Raintail made a vague noise of agreement, then turned to face the black she-cat. “What is it that you need?”
Nightmask sighed. “I’m worried about Redstar.” She confessed.
The medicine cat’s shoulder’s slumped. She turned and disappeared into the scrub, analysing her herb store. “His wounds are healed, Nightmask,” she called. “There is nothing more I can do for him. It’s his mind that’s festering, not a physical ailment. Any healing must come from within now.”
“That’s exactly what I was afraid of…” Nightmask trailed off. “I don’t know how to help him. He’s shut me out. He’s shut everyone out.”
“He feels like he’s failed, as a leader and a father.” Raintail re-emerged, a dried flower clasped between her teeth. “It’s shattered his confidence. Here,” she placed the flower – a brilliant flash of purple against the pale floor of the clearing – at Nightmask’s paws. “Have him eat this. Lavender should calm his nerves. Help him sleep.”
It was, Nightmask supposed, better than nothing. She thanked the grey she-cat, then bend to pick up the flower. It tasted like a summer day, heavy with the sent of wildflowers. Her trek across the camp seemed to take longer than it ever had.
Overhead, the ravens circled and screamed. - - Stormkit - - “Duck! Roll! Forepaw swipe! No, you crow-brain! I said forepaw swipe, not slash.” Thorn bristled, already furious. “Get up, you useless scrap of fur.”Chest heaving, Stormkit hauled himself to his paws. Exhaustion dragged at his paws, knocked him off his balance at every turn. Across the training circle, a golden tabby she-cat shot him a sympathetic glance. Twice his age with the size and bulk of any self-respecting Rangeclan warrior, Harvest was one of the most formidable of the Overlord’s subordinates. Others whispered that it was only a matter of time before she was awarded the rank of Elite – if only her superiors could break the pesky moral compass she guarded so fiercely. Fighting back the pain, Stormkit pressed each paw to the ground in turn. Pain flared, then subsided to a dull ache. Nothing broken. Yet. He turned to face his opponent, slowly, as if he could drag each moment into eternity, then nodded. Harvest nodded back, and dropped into a crouch. Stormkit mirrored her movements and tried to block out Thorn’s screaming. The signal to begin was given. Harvest leaped, claws outstretched, already dark with blood. No code protected those who trained in the Gorge, and each moonrise sent Stormkit to his den with some new wound to nurse. He vaguely recognised Thorn, telling him to move. He threw himself to one side, tucking his battered body into a tight corkscrew turn. Harvest’s paw clipped one ear, but left him unscathed. The heavy she-cat skidded to a halt, regained her balance quickly and turned nimbly on one forepaw. She didn’t give Stormkit a chance to analyse her movements before she pounced again, diving low, aiming for his paws. “Get behind her!” Thorn paced along the edge of the arena, dark brown fur bristling. Exhaustion warred with the desperate need to survive. Stormkit rose, balancing precariously on his hind paws to slash at his foe’s unprotected eyes. She batted him away with one tufted forepaw. She might have been stronger, broader, but Stormkit was lightning on his paws. It was easy to whirl around her, to sink his teeth into her tail. He had no hope of jerking her off-balance, but he clung, as stubborn as a burr, and bit down hard. Harvest ground her teeth, but did not cry out. Pain gained no sympathy here. Claws hooked into Stormkit’s pelt and flung him away, as if he were nothing more than moss. He thrust his legs downward, trying to find the ground before it found him. He collided, painfully. Shockwaves raced up his legs, but did not overbalance him. “Get back in there.” Thorn growled. Stormkit half-nodded and began to slink forward, muscles screaming in protest. A new moon – the third since his arrival, a lifetime ago – sat on the horizon like an ungainly bird of prey. Night training was the Overlord’s newest obsession. All subordinates were subjected to rigorous evening exercises. The sparring matches always drew a crowd, the older cats clustering along the edge of the arena, placing verbal bets on their favourites, commenting on training strategies, hissing at moments of uncalled-for brutality. The tortoiseshell limped forward, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Snakeeyes’ unsettling copper eyes met his. The copper tabby perched, eerily still, on a protruding pine root, a grim officiator. Stormkit and Harvest realigned themselves, gladiators in the ring. He rolled his shoulders back, trying to ease the ache from his stiff muscles. Some small part of him wondered how different RangeClan’s apprentice training was. He expected that clan apprentices didn’t spend every training session fighting for their lives. The Overlord wasn’t big on holding back. In a world where only the strong can survive, he’d said once, the weak must die.And so, the training sessions became a culling. Another bout began. Each blow, each spin, each block was slower than it should have been. Thorn raged silently, a furious hurricane barely concealed within his bones. The brown tabby rapped out commands - Storm’s failure to make them efficient added fuel to the fire. Harvest reared up, one forepaw raised, ready to maim. Stormkit froze, his muscles locking like ice. He pressed himself to the ground, and wondered how much it would hurt. The anguish in Harvest’s gaze was painful to look at. “Stop.” Snakeeyes spoke calmly, his tone barely above a whisper. Despite the noise of the clearing, the silence was immediate. Harvest dropped back onto all four paws and stepped back, her curled ears flattened respectfully, but no hope flickered to life in Stormkit’s chest. Perhaps it had been decided that he wouldn’t die in battle. Perhaps they’d lie him before the Overlord and wait for the reaper to pass judgement. Perhaps they’d turn him loose and force him deeper into the barren wasteland of the unpopulated lands and let him slowly starve. Rumour said that the Overlord had a hundred ways of killing those he decided to dispose of. Stormkit licked his lips nervously, eyes down, as Snakeeyes sidled over, muscles moving smoothly beneath his short, copper fur. He was one of the few cats in the Gorge who was well-fed, and one of the few whose roll was a complete mystery. Often, late at night, Stormkit caught sight of some sharp longing lingering in the depths of his fathomless gaze. Thorn’s tail twitched in silent annoyance at the interruption. For a long moment, silence reigned. Snakeeyes made everyone uncomfortable, his silence even more so. At last, Thorn opened his mouth. “What is the meaning of this?” Snakeeyes waited a long heartbeat before responding. “You are dismissed.” Thorn’s jaw dropped open. “E-excuse me?” Snakeeyes blinked slowly. “Storm has been reassigned. I will be handling his training from now on.” Stormkit stared. Snakeeyes never mentored a subordinate. He preferred to remain above the politics of the Gorge, drifting around as a spy and enforcer. A new kind of fear wormed its way into Stormkit’s belly. What could Snakeeyes want with him? The copper tabby stepped past Thorn. His gaze slid over Stormkit’s battered form, silently judging. Across the clearing, Harvest shot a questioning glace to her own mentor, who shrugged, equally confused. “Did you not hear me, Thorn?” Snakeeyes didn’t have to raise his voice; every word was spoken with undeniable authority. “You are dismissed.” The clearing held its breath as each spectator waited to see how the brown tabby would react. Thorn forced his bristling pelt to lie flat and gave a strained smile. “Very well. The pipsqueak’s all yours.” The crowd parted like water as he turned and stalked away. Stormkit watched, eyes wide, as he disappeared into the forest of stone that sheltered the clearing. Once he was out of sight, Snakeeyes turned to face the crowd. “This fight is over. Harvest, you may rest before joining the morning hunting patrol. Creek and Brownsnake will spar.” The named cats nodded in acknowledgement and stepped forward, sinking into crouches. Harvest gave him a weary smile before stepping away. “Come.” Snakeeyes began to walk. Stormkit forced his tired legs to follow. In the moments he’d been standing still, his muscles had stiffened, and screamed in protest at each movement. Snakeeyes led him away from the clearing, deeper into the mountain crags. The jagged outcrops pressed close together, almost claustrophobic. A long-dead tree loomed ahead, a lone sentinel marking the furthest subordinates were allowed to stray without supervision. Snakeeyes crossed the border without hesitation, glancing over his shoulder to ensure Stormkit was following. The little tortoiseshell scrambled in his wake, desperate to keep up. The punishment for falling behind was painful, the effects lingering for days. Soon, the landscape flattened out. The ragged outcrops that sheltered the Gorge gave way to a flat plateau before sharply dropping away. Wind ghosted over Stormkit’s pelt, bringing far-off scents of rock and prey and snow. He turned slowly, wanting to absorb every last detail. His companion crossed the plateau, following a curving path to a time-worn stone. One powerful leap carried him to its peak. His shorter legs hampered Stormkit’s climb, but he hauled himself upwards, paw over paw, until he was seated beside the copper tabby. He forced his breathing to even out, determined not to show any more weakness. “Have I done something wrong?” Normally, he feared asking questions, but he could no longer hold his tongue. The Elite tabby countered with another question. “What do you see?” Confused, Stormkit followed his gaze off the edge off the edge of the world. Far below, the landscape unfolded, marred by mountains and dappled with forests. He knew that the grasses would be golden, the pale trees ringbarked, the stone dappled with lichen. He could see for days. It was like peering back in time, his journey to the Gorge happening in reverse. In the centre of the horizon, the tallest of the mountains rose proudly, nobly, its height unchallenged. Homesickness, achingly familiar, seized him. “I see Clan territories.” A single nod of approval was given. “I’m told you refuse to let go of your past.” A curious mix of shame dragged at Stormkit’s paws. For three moons, he’d clung stubbornly to his given name, refusing to respond to the name the Gorge had forced upon him. His mother had named him Stormkit, and he would always be Stormkit. Storm, whoever he was, was a product of the Gorge. The tortoiseshell refused to acknowledge him. “Blatant disobedience will get you killed.” Still, Snakeeyes didn’t look at him, keeping his gaze trained on the midnight scene below. Stormkit wanted to raise his gaze to the stars, to beg his ancestors for comfort, but some part of him sensed the sky was empty. The stars were just stars here. Snakeeyes words conjured memories of his arrival, of Perch and her scars, punished for her solitary rebellion. The grey she-cat had been absent from the evening’s training, confined to the healer’s den while her torn flesh attempted to heal. Her latest crime had been refusing to bow her head in respect when the Overlord passed. “I don’t want to die, sir.” Against the vastness of the world, Stormkit sounded small. “None of us do. And yet, you refuse to play the game.” It was the most Stormkit had ever heard him say. “The… game?” “Survival.” “Oh.” Stormkit dropped his gaze to his paws. They seemed lost in shadow, part of the mountains beneath him. A tuft of Harvest’s fur was caught between his claws. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, Storm,” Snakeeyes continued. “But we do it to keep ourselves alive. I can’t tell you what to do. You have to find a balance, between what you’re willing to sacrifice and how desperately you want to stay alive. If the answer is nothing, I cannot help you, and you will be put to death.” “Oh.” The night’s chill seemed to settle inside his chest. A choice, an impossible choice, had been neatly presented, as it had been presented to Redstar seasons and seasons ago. He rose one forepaw, uncurled his claws and began to strip the fur from between his toes. He stretched each moment into a thousand, turning Snakeeyes’ words over and over, trying to make sense of it all. They worried at his mind, tearing at the loose threads of his thoughts. Snakeeyes was right. It was a game, and it was simple; survive at all costs. “Why did you stop the fight?” He asked quietly. “Why not just let them kill me?” “The Overlord has a plan. He is nearly ready to execute it.” “I don’t understand what that has to do with me.” The tortoiseshell scuffed his paws sullenly. Snakeeyes clipped his ear with one forepaw. “No more questions. Concentrate on your training. Make your choice. Decide.” Without another word, he leaped down, frostbitten grass crunching beneath his paws as he landed. He settled in the shadows, patiently waiting for Stormkit to join him. The tortoiseshell sighed and turned his gaze back to the distant Clan territories. The Warrior’s Code, he recalled, advocated honesty. Honesty and loyalty and righteousness. The Warrior’s Code had once kept him safe. Now, he realised with a sick and dreadful certainty, that out here it would get him killed. There was no place for honour in the Gorge, no place for righteousness. The Gorge bred soldiers, survivors, but not warriors. Never warriors. How can I be Stormkit without the Warrior’s Code? He flung his thoughts out over the empty mountains. You stopped being Stormkit the moment your clanmates abandoned you, the mountains shot back. He shifted slightly, trying to unstick his pads from the stone. Live. The thought sat uncomfortably at the back of his mind. No matter what the cost. He rose slowly, all too aware of the injuries his body had already sustained. He leaped, stumbling as he landed, before quickly righting himself. Snakeeyes acknowledged his sudden presence with a single nod. The copper tabby climbed fluidly to his paws and began to walk, heading back towards the shadows of the Gorge. Storm, almost nameless, followed along, and was left with nothing but the distinct sense of an ending. - - - -
- - Ravenkit - - “Redstar?” Icewhisker hovered, impatient, at the entrance to the leaders’ den. He could make out Redstar’s vague shape, huddled amongst the moss and shadows. The RangeClan leader didn’t move, nor did he acknowledge the deputy’s presence. “Redstar.” The silver tabby’s tail twitched. Still, the sharpness of his voice warranted no response. He curled and uncurled his claws, frustrated. Redstar’s absence from clan life had grown more and more noticeable; the red tabby rarely left the safety of his den, preferring to stat secluded within the complex labyrinth of his mind. Still, Icewhisker tried, day after day, to coax his old friend out into the light. Please, Redstar, you have to come out, before-“He’s not coming out, is he?” Ravenkit stood, pelt freshly groomed, her voice heavy with resignation. Icewhisker sighed. “No, Ravenkit. I don’t think he is.” The young she-cat’s shoulders slumped. “It… it’s ok.” She sighed. Icewhisker could taste her disappointment; despite her misgivings there was some part of her, some small, stubborn part, that believed her father would break his lonesome vigil for her. Ravenkit sighed, then straightened. “It doesn’t matter… does it?” “Ordinarily, I would say no, but only a StarClan-blessed leader of the Clans can grant new ranks,” Icewhisker laid his tail across her shoulders. “I could perform the ceremony, but StarClan would not recognise your new position. I’m sorry.” Ravenkit nodded once. “I’d best tell Pikekit.” There was something broken in her voice, some sad reflection of her spirit. She turned away from the leader’s den and padded back towards the main camp, her tail dragging low through the dust. Pikekit was waiting, sitting by the jagged outcrop of granite the clan had gathered beneath. The sun beat down, but no offered warmth. The frosts had been unkind, chasing prey to their burrows far too early and turning the grasses brown. The brown tabby saw her coming and flattened his ears. She shook her head, an unspoken response to his unanswered question. “I suppose it was too much to hope for.” He flexed his claws, desperate to keep his emotions under control. Fury threatened to spill over. It was all he could do to stay composed, like a true warrior apprentice. Apprentice’s didn’t sulk when something didn’t go their way. Ravenkit sat down and curled her tail around her paws. “Icewhisker said that only a ‘StarClan-blessed leader’ could perform the ceremony.” Pikekit chewed his whiskers. His gaze, pale as midwinter grass, snapped up, scanning the clearing before them. The clan had gathered and sat anxiously before the meeting rock, chattering quietly amongst themselves. He spotted his mother, sitting proudly and nervously beside his father, with Nightmask just beyond them, deep in conversation with Raintail. Raintail…“Does it have to be a leader?” “What?” Ravenkit tilted her head to one side. “Does it have to be Redstar?” He gestured with his tail towards where Raintail sat. “A medicine cat is Starclan-blessed, and we could argue that they do lead the clan… or help lead it, anyway.” A slow smile spread across Ravenkit’s face. “Pikekit! You’re brilliant!” The pair exchanged grins, excitement slowly brightening their gazes. Ravenkit skittered across the camp, kicking dust over her newly-groomed pelt. Pikekit straightened, and dared to hope. Ravenkit skidded to a halt before the medicine cat, ignoring her mother’s protests at her filthy pelt. Raintail listened, considered, then nodded hesitantly. Yes! Pikekit’s heart soared. He rose to his paws, bowing his head respectfully as the medicine cat ambled over. “Don’t get too excited yet, Pikekit.” Raintail warned. “Let me confer with Icewhisker. If he agrees, we will perform the ceremony.” The pair of kits waited anxiously as the grey she-cat conferred with the silver deputy. The conversation seemed to take forever before they reached a decision. Raintail leaped easily onto the jagged outcrop, while Icewhisker settled at its base, beside the pair of kits. Ravenkit beamed, her excitement palpable. Raintail smiled back. “Cats of RangeClan!” her voice rang out over the encampment. The clan quietened, then turned expectant faces towards her. “As of today, our kits have reached their sixth moon, and are ready to begin their apprentice training. While Redstar’s… illness… has prevented him from joining us today, I have conferred with Icewhisker, and with StarClan as my witness, I will perform the ceremony.” Uneasy whispers spread through the camp like wildfire. Ravenkit winced against the uncertain, almost fearful glances that were shot her way. “Only a StarClan-blessed leader can perform the ceremony!” Stoneface’s voice, shrill with worry, was the loudest. “Without Redstar, StarClan will not recognise the appointment!” Raintail shifted, agitated. “Any StarClan-blessed leader may perform the ceremony, and the Mountain Clans have always been governed by both leader and medicine cat,” the grey she-cat scanned the clearing below her, desperate to calm the anxious warriors. Their fear was well founded, but without their support, she was lost. “If there are no objections…” Stoneface opened his mouth, then closed it again, his words lost. He shared an uneasy glance with his companions. “Icewhisker and Raintail have led us well these past moons,” his littermate, Mossfire, reasoned. “We have no reason to doubt them.” At last, the Clan’s fear ebbed, calmed by Mossfire’s logic. Raintail stood, silhouetted against a burning sky, and started down at the kits waiting patiently beneath her paws. “I, Raintail, medicine cat of RangeClan, standing in the place of our appointed leader, call upon my warrior ancestors to behold the kits before them. They have reached their sixth moon and, with my blessing, are ready to commence their warrior training. Pikekit, do you accept the post of apprentice warrior of RangeClan?” The spotted tabby didn’t look at the medicine cat, but rather at the gathered clan before him. He met each gaze in turn, swearing a dozen silent vows. There was no hesitation in his voice as he answered, “I do.” “Do you swear to learn and keep the secrets of your clan, and to protect our borders and all within them?” The brown tabby turned to face her. “I swear.” Raintail smiled, charmed by him solemn expression. “Your clan has heard your vows. Your clan will hold you to your vows. I name you Pikepaw, apprentice warrior of RangeClan. May you always keep your word,” the grey she-cat studied the clan. Sudden nerves fluttered to life, deep within her belly; choosing a mentor was no simple task. Pikepaw’s future depended on her and the choices she would make. She swallowed audibly, then strengthened. “Whiteclaw. I entrust this oath and its’ speaker to you. Train him well in the ways of our code.” Below her, eyes gleaming, Pikepaw strode across the clearing. Whiteclaw stepped forward and bowed his head, touched nose to each of his new apprentices ears in turn. The clan cheered, then hurried forward, each determined the greet the clan’s newest apprentice. Rivertail hurried forward and entwined her tail with her sons’, a purr rumbling in her throat. It took Raintail a long moment to quieten the clan and settle them before her; the excitement of an apprentice ceremony was a distraction sorely needed. She repeated the words, swearing Ravenpaw in as her own apprentice. The black and white she-cat bounded forward, high on the promise of her future, then slowed, her paws suddenly uncertain. “Stormkit should be here, too.” She whispered. Raintail pressed her pelt against the younger she-cats’. “Your brother walks with StarClan now. The will have granted him his warrior name already.” “But he was never made an apprentice.” “Rank matters not in StarClan. They see into our hearts, and, if we are deserving, grant us the future in death we never received in life. Your brother was a noble cat, Ravenpaw. One day, when you see him again, you will know him as a warrior.” Doubt lingered in her apprentice’s amber eyes. “But he wasn’t named by Redstar, or you. How will they recognise him as a member of the clan?” “Oh, little one…” Raintail draped her tail across Ravenpaw’s shoulders. “StarClan will know, I promise you.” - - - - - - Storm - - He was loosing himself. Piece by piece, the fragile web of his mind unravelled. He let go, ever so slowly, of the precious morals that bound his bones together. He stopped holding back. He was determined, more than ever, to survive. I’m sorry, he mouthed to Perch as the she-cat crouched opposite him. Blood trickled slowly from the cut above her eye, running down her face and obscuring her vision. She shrugged, uncaring. She knew the rules of the game, better than he did. Storm didn’t match her crouch, but instead stood lightly on the tips of his toes, ready to twist away at a moment’s notice. “Again.” Thorn’s voice was unforgiving. The lithe tabby sat, perfectly poised, on the officiator’s tree root. Storm wasn’t fooled by the rigidity of his stance; a hurricane still raged beneath Thorn’s calm façade, barely concealed within his bones. Perch drove forward, muscular hind legs propelling her scrawny figure forward with surprising speed. Storm dropped, pressing himself to the ground, muscled tense. Overhead, Perch’s figure filled the sky. For a moment, she seemed to hang, almost motionless. Storm exploded upwards, colliding with his opponent and driving the breath from her body. His weight sent them both crashing to the ground. Perch shrieked, furious, and writhed within his grip, jaws snapping as she sought flesh. Her teeth found a limb, closing tight around his foreleg. Storm hissed and kicked out, send her spinning away from his. Something ripped, and a tuft of tortoiseshell fur drifted to the ground. They circled, tails lashing. Perch moved slowly, each movement tender, chest heaving as she fought for breath. Storm stilled. For a moment, pain threatened to overwhelm him, radiating out from his injured foreleg. Focus, he chided himself. You can’t fail again. He took a deep breath and charged forward, feinting to one side and then the other. Perch pivoted, desperate to track his movements, unable to keep up. Storm darted past, flashed out one paw, scored his claws down her shoulder. Perch staggered away, then lashed out. Storm danced backwards, ready for her next move. It never came. Perch hung back, breathless and bleeding. “I yield,” she panted. “You win.” Elation at his first victory warred with horror at being forced to harm a friend. Thorn sighed, but nodded, accepting her surrender. The tabby flicked his tail, dismissing the assembly. He leaped down and disappeared into the shadows, suddenly disinterested. Storm edged forward towards Perch’s hunched form, desperate to help her up. The grey tabby shook her head and forced her battered body to stand. Her pale fur was ragged and dusty, bright with blood. She looked nothing like the proud she-cat who’s greeted him. “You’ve changed, Stormkit.” Perch eyed him balefully. She knocked aside the paw he offered her. “No, I haven’t!” He protested as he drew back. His former name sounded uncomfortable, like the name no longer fit. A part of him was afraid that someone was listening. “I’m still me!” The grey she-cat shook her head. “I thought you were better than this.” The words sent a chill down Storm’s spine, as cold as midwinter snow. Denial rose, hot and thick, but his mouth couldn’t seem to form the words. He snapped his jaws shut and stared sullenly at the ground between his paws. “Stone was right,” Perch turned ad began to walk away, heading for the Gorge and the almost-safety of Slate’s den. “You can’t survive out here and stay a good cat. It’s what the Overlord does. He finds every good quality you possess, every belief you hold, and rips them out of you.” The last of the crowd exchanged pitying glances as he hurried past, desperate to keep up. They’d seen morals crumble, ideals crushed, had long ago learned that no-one survived the Overlord’s brutality without loosing themselves along the way. Storm’s plight didn’t interest them. It never had. “Perch!” Storm struggled after her. “Wait!” He twisted around a boulder and slid in front of her. Perch curled her lip and pulled up short. She waited, eyes tired. “You… You don’t get to judge me.” He hadn’t expected his mouth to finally form the words that been buzzing like wasps around his mind. Perch blinked, affronted. “Excuse me?” Storm bristled. “You keep telling me that I should be better than I am, but you haven’t done any better, Perch. You gave up your clan name, your family, your history, the same way I did, yet you keep criticizing me for it!” His companion bared her teeth. “You should be better than I am! Look at me, Storm. All I can do is quietly rebel, but when I looked at you, all I saw was the potential to do better. I know who you are, who your parents are, and I had hoped that you hard inherited even a fraction of their stubbornness. Evidently, I was wrong.” She shoved past him and started down the steep descent, fury eclipsing the pain. Storm watched her go, chest painful and hollow. Sharp claws pierced his stomach and bile rose in the back of his throat. “I… I didn’t know you knew them.” Almost a tree-length down, Perch turned, ears flat against her skull. “I could smell them on you, when you arrived.” The grey tabby sounded almost sad. “I was a leader’s apprentice, remember? I knew who you were the moment they brought you here. Snowstar used to say that Redstar was the best of all the leaders, noble and honest and wise, and I’d thought you’d be the same.” “My father is not honourable. He gave me up, remember?” “He was forced to choose between his son and his clan. As a leader, it was his duty to choose his clan.” “And as a father, it was his duty to choose me.” Storm hurried forward to meet her. “Do you really believe that?” Perch stared him down, a challenge hot in her eyes. “Are you telling me that if you were leader, and you had to choose between the lives of every single one of your clanmates, even the kits and elders, that you would choose to save a single cat over all of them?” Storm searched for an answer. He couldn’t find one. Perch resumed her descent, slower now, her muscles stiffening. “Redstar made his choice, and he thought it was the right one. Now make yours. Live as someone you despise, or die as who you are.” “But I can’t do that,” Storm whispered as she walked away. “I want to… I have to survive, no matter what.” The ragged tortoiseshell sighed and began to pick his way down the Gorge. Safer to steer clear of Perch, he decided, until he sorted through his tangled mess of feelings. He cut across the cliff-side, forsaking the main path down, following one of the many ledges across the rock. The path was barely wider than his paws, but he followed easily, sure-pawed despite the frost. The track had iced over, turning the track into a death trap. Despite the danger, the crossway was frequented by almost all of the Gorge’s inhabitants. It was one of the few places anyone could think, and one of the best places to spy from. The track widened slightly and became a ledge. A flat-topped stone, smoothed by years of wind, made an ideal vantage point. Storm eased himself down onto the stone, his injured leg screaming. Perch’s blood felt sticky and unnatural between his toes. He lapped tiredly at the wound she had inflicted, probing the edges of the wound with his tongue. The edges were sore, already inflamed. With limited medical supplies and one half-trained, overworked healer, infection spread easily in the Gorge, sickness even easier. He’d need to visit Slate once Perch left. It was easy to sit silently, patiently, and watch the world pass by. It was easy to pass unnoticed, he’d discovered, when you were up high. It was a good habit, a safe habit, the best way to stay one step ahead of everyone else. It was a habit picked up from Snakeeyes, and one he intended to keep. Stay safe. Stay silent. Stay alive. It had become a mantra. He licked at the wound again, wincing at the sour taste of Perch’s blood. It mingled with his and churned sickly in his stomach. Night had fallen by the time Perch left, slipping through the shadows by the spring. Slate appeared behind her and crouched to lap a few mouthfuls of water. Her apprentice, pale gold and dainty, followed with her jaws full of moss. Storm picked his way down, wound screaming in protest. He slid the last tail-length, the gravel crumbling beneath his paws. Shards of rock bit at his paws, but the moons had toughened his pads. Not even the sharpest splinters of stone had sharp enough teeth to pierce them. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” Slate said dryly as he limped over. “Perch bit me pretty hard.” He murmured. “You got her worse,” Slate guided him away from the pool and into the spacious cave that made up her den. “Those scratches were pretty nasty.” “I’m sorry.” He responded. He didn’t know what else to say. Slate’s den was deep and cool, with a sandy floor and mossy walls. One wall was cleft, forming a sheltered sleeping space for Slate and her student, while the other wall as lined with shallow shelves of rock, stacked with her meagre supply of herbs. No healing plants grew this deep in the mountains, but Storm was too afraid to ask where she looted her supplies from. It smelt like home in there, Storm had noticed, with the same scents of moss and rock and water that had lingered around Raintail’s den. Storm settled against the moss, grateful to take the weight off his leg. The golden apprentice, Sienna, reappeared, a swathe of cobwebs in her jaws. The little she-cat, only eight moons old, sat beside him and examined the wound. “Looks clean.” She reported, voice muffled by the silken strands. “I didn’t want to come in while Perch was here. I sat outside and cleaned it until she was gone.” “Good.” Slate nodded. She cleaned her paws on the nearby moss, then pawed through her stash. She located dried marigold and carefully shredded it, adding water to the petals to make a paste. Storm winced as she smeared it along the wound. Sienna bound it, wrapping the limb tightly with in cobwebs. “You should rest. He should rest, right, Slate?” Sienna peered up at her mentor, eyes huge. “Two days,” Slate agreed. “At least.” Storm nodded in silent thanks. A break, even a temporary one, was a relief. He straightened his injured foreleg, resting it on the edge of the mossy nest. Across the den, Slate cleaned, her movements pedantic, while Sienna hauled moss to the edge of the pool. Already, other cats had come to steal it away. As the Gorge’s sole healer, Slate was the only cat outside of the Elite allowed to have it. Once she was done, she dumped it by the spring and feigned ignorance as it was divided up amongst the subordinates. “Is Perch mad at me?” He blurted out. “For hurting her?” Slate shook her head. “She knows the rules. She’s been playing the game long enough. But as of late, she hasn’t been herself.” Storm shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” “She’s contemplating giving up.” The charcoal healer’s voice was blunt. “Oh.” Slate hesitated for a moment, then glanced furtively about. “Perch was a lot like you, when she first arrived. Stubborn and determined, so determined, not to give in. She was born a clan cat, and as far as she was concerned, she’d die a clan cat, but she was the only one. The Overlord has always been skilled at breaking people, but he could never quite get his claws into her. She was a rebel, and the only one until you turned up. She was so alone, but then you turned up, refusing to be anyone but Stormkit. Then you changed. What happened?” “I decided to survive.” Storm shot back. “Are you saying Perch is dead?” Slate’s tongue was as barbed as the thorny grasses that grew deep in the mountains. “I… uh, no. She’s not.” Storm didn’t understand what she was getting at. “The Overlord is terrifyingly clever,” Slate explained. “He knows that with a resolve like hers, Perch will be an exceptional agent, once she’s been broken. She may not call herself by her clan name, but it’s like she used to say. She’ll die a clan cat.” She sank into silence, evidently done with her explanation. Storm chewed his whiskers and watched as she worked. A thousand questions sprang, unbidden, to his mind. “Why did she change her name?” He asked quietly. For a long moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer. “To appease her brother. He doesn’t have half the fire she does. No more questions. That really will get you killed.” The healer brushed past him, as cold has her namesake. Storm sank deeper into the moss and rested his chin on his uninjured paw. Slate left and reappeared, left and reappeared, keeping busy. The things she’d said worried at his thoughts, ebbing and flowing like the currents of a river. Something kept resurfacing at the forefront of his mind. She’ll be an exceptional agent.Storm frowned, unable to struggle through the confusion. What does she mean? What kind of agent? The word brought back memories of the night he was taken, of the Overlord’s dead stare and twisted grin, of Snakeeyes’ vigilance, of the Elite and their tests. The phantom claws that had seized him earlier sank deeper into his belly. Outside, the wind howled like something wounded. “Survive,” Storm whispered, burrowing deeper into the moss. “Whatever the cost.” Sleep took him slowly, left him wondering about what Slate meant. I’ll ask Snakeeyes. He’ll know what it means.- - - - He didn’t ask. Snakeeyes was a harsh taskmaster, and set him test after test. Storm barely had a free thought for Perch or Slate’s ominous words. The copper tabby seemed determined to shape him into a survivor, a warrior, a fighter. Any momentary lapse in concentration earned a stern reprimand. “Be careful that close to the cliff. The path will be icy.” Storm rolled his eyes at Harvest’s words. The tortoiseshell tom forged ahead, sure-pawed and swift, leaving the golden she-cat to follow in his wake. “I was born a clan cat, remember? Mountain climbing is in my blood.” His companion snorted. ‘It won’t be if all that precious blood is spilled.” “Don’t be cocky, Storm.” Snakeeyes, several lengths behind, warned. “Cockiness breeds mistakes.” Storm gave a ragged sigh and slowed his pace. Harvest quickened her step in response, until they walked side by side. Winter had been harsh in the Gorge, bitterly cold and dark, the high walls of the canyon keeping the suns’ meagre warmth at bay. It had taken his foreleg too long to heal, hindered by the cold and Slate’s dwindling supply. Storm had woken every morning to a world encased in ice and shadow, his torn flesh aching. Checking for rocks loosened by ice had become a regular chore. The patrol skirted the Gorge, testing the strength of the stones. “Found one!” Brownsnake yowled. The patrol hurried over, wary of the ice that clung to each stone and blade of grass. Brownsnake stood beside a cracked granite boulder that teetered precariously at the edge of the Gorge. The earth behind it was deeply scarred; it had moved almost a tail-length, weakened by the frosts. Snakeeyes frowned and pressed one paw to the ground before it, then hissed as he slipped. The copper tabby stepped backwards. “It needs to be moved.” “Should we send it over?” Storm peered over the edge of the Gorge. “It would certainly be easier.” Harvest agreed. Snakeeyes nodded in curt agreement. Harvest called out a warning to the cats below. They scattered, pressing themselves to the sides of the Gorge, taking shelter beneath the many ledges that lined the cliffs. The Elite guardian twitched his tail, directing them to their places. Storm stood at the edge of the Gorge and braced his shoulder against the boulder. Harvest stood beside him, their positions identical. “Got it?” She asked through gritted teeth. “Got it.” Storm shot back. Around them, the rest of the patrol began to dig, slowly clearing the frost from the base of the boulder. Once the frosts were cleared, a single good push would send it over. It was easier, they’d long ago discovered, to clear the Gorge and send the loose rocks over, rather than wait for the stones to fall unaided, crushing the unsuspecting cats below. Slowly, the stone began to loosen. Storm ground his teeth together, shoulders trembling under the weight of his burden. Even shared with Harvest, the weight of the boulder was almost unbearable. Snakeyes cleared the last of the frost, then stepped back. “You’d all best get clear,” Harvest spat. “This is gonna go as soon as we let go.” “Leap on three?” Storm questioned. Harvest nodded and braced the muscles in her flanks, ready to leap. Storm leant back, shifting his weight from his shoulders to his haunches. “One.” His companion panted. “Two.” “Three.” Storm let go. He leaped forward. His heart stopped as his hind paws slipped. No!Unsheathed claws scrabbled, desperate for purchase. The world seemed to slow. Horrified, Harvest charged forward, one forepaw outstretched. Storm tried to fling himself forward, tried to seize her outstretched paw, tried to keep his balance as he hung precariously at the edge of the world. The rocks beneath his paws crumbled away. Snakeeyes charged forward, shouldering Harvest aside. The copper tabby lunged forward, raised one forepaw and slammed it heavily against the ice, driving his claws deep into the ice. His momentum carried him forward, swung him down and out over the emptiness. The ice groaned under his weight, but did not shatter. Storm seemed to hang, suspended, and reached forward. No…Still a mouse-length from safety, he fell. Above him, Snakeeyes swore. His body twisted unnaturally as he dragged himself back to the cliff. He found a pawhold, barely there, and hauled himself over the lip of the cliff. - - - - Storm seemed to fall for seasons. A season of waiting. A season of falling. Wind buffeted his pelt. The sky slashed blue above him. A single bird – a raven, he guessed – hovered overhead. Looking for scraps, I suppose. Some part of him hoped that someone else would notice, and order the fresh-kill pile guarded. Where will I go when I die, now that I have forsaken StarClan?He barely had time to wonder before he hit the ground. Pain, agonising pain, lanced through him as his face collided with something hard. Bone crunched, the sound sickening. His broken body kept him conscious for precisely three heartbeats before something gave out and darkness washed over him. He slumped forward, unconscious. Ravenkit… Anyone… Please…
… remember me…
》Chapter Five - - Storm - - Pain-It burned like fire radiating across his face and- Pain-The world was full of it he was drowning in it no- Falling-Falling far and fast the ground rushing up to meet him until- Pain-It hurt it hurt it hurt- Bones crunching shifting breaking-Blood- On the stones like red snow all around warm warm warm-Great Starclan it hurts I can’t move I can’t move I can’t move- Have I hit the ground yet?
Help me… - - - - The world was black and red and made of pain. Voices hammered against his skull like hailstones. He couldn’t understand the words, couldn’t force his brain to understand the garbled noise. Storm struggled to open his eyes, battling against the nausea that threatened to overcome him.“Water.” He croaked. His face felt hot and thick and wrong.Paws tapped across stone, clumsy and uncertain. He thought he heard words, shouted desperately, but he could feel his consciousness slipping away, unravelling like spider-webs between his paws. The tighter he tried to grasp it, the faster it fell away, disintegrating into nothingness. “Water…” He whispered, and slipped away into darkness.- - - - The sun rose and fell and rose again. He measured the time by the precious moments spent hovering at the edge of understanding. He was vaguely aware of the comings and goings of others, of shadowed presences standing at the edge of his nest, of food he couldn’t swallow placed within reach.He vaguely remembered someone saying fever. He vaguely remembered someone saying shattered. He thought time passed, thought it dragged by like heavy stones in the river, but he knew with a sickening, painful certainty that his world was made of pain. His bones throbbed.Pulsed.Burned. It hurt.Everything hurt.“Will he live?”
“Aye. If he has the mind to.” Storm wished they’d stop talking. All he wanted was to sleep. All he wanted was for the pain to stop. Instead, it radiated along the arch of his cheekbone like lightning. It throbbed behind his eye, insistent and unyielding. Something was wrong. He was vaguely aware of Slate, moving through the fog of his consciousness, her dainty paws smoothing the strangeness from his face. Her touch was softer than it had any right to be, and seemed to chase the pain away. Will he live? Some tired part of his brain fought to find an answer. To die would be easy, he knew. Death would free him from the Gorge, from the cage the Overlord had constructed, but some stubborn part of his soul screamed at him to hold on.Will I die? The concept didn’t seem as frightening as it used to. It would be easy, the voice in his head reminded him. Do I want to die? Something cold crawled down his spine. Death would be easy. So easy. I could just give in… He didn’t want to give in. Something vaguely reminiscent of stubbornness reared its ugly head. It was the wrong kind of stubbornness, he knew, the kind that was reckless and foolish and would inevitably kill him. He wondered if this was how his father felt, when he made his desperate deal; like he was something he wasn’t, something confused, something breakable, waiting to be shattered.I don’t want to give in. He’d always been a fighter. He liked to think it was in his blood. Maybe it was. Or maybe the Gorge had changed him, in some dark, bruised way he didn’t want to acknowledge. Something black and ragged forced his way into his fevered dreams. A raven, stark against the too-high sky. It hovered, dove, flew beside him as he fell. The ground seemed to reach up towards him, the twisted spires of stone stretching out to embrace him. He fell, the air rushing past, cooling his fur, heating his blood. Down.Down. Down. Only this time, he woke before he hit the ground. - - - - By the time he managed to force himself to his paws, the moon had waxed and waned and waxed again. His chin slammed into the ground as his paws skidded out from under him.“It’s about time you woke up.” Slate appeared at the edge of his vision, her charcoal tail twitching. “How long…” His tired jaw couldn’t form the words he needed.“Almost two moons,” The healer hummed. She padded forward, eyes narrowed as she analysed his bruised body. “After the fever set in, we began to think the worst.”“We?”“Snakeeyes was… surprisingly concerned.” There was a hint of worry in the she-cat’s voice. Something cold wormed its way into Storm’s belly. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the healer’s revelation.“Oh.” It was a strange image the healer’s words conjured. It didn’t sit right in his mind. He couldn’t quite picture the copper tabby sitting quietly by his nest. Did he pray, Storm wondered, to the empty skies above?A memory flashed, sun-bright. He remembered the fall, remembered Snakeeyes’ outstretched paw, remembered the copper tabby’s sudden, sharp movements as he anchored himself to the cliff. Something about it tugged at the frayed edges of Storm’s mind. Something half forgotten, belonging to a different time, a different place. His father’s voice.
Each clan has a unique set of skills. It’s what makes them suitable for their unique territories. He sank back down into the mossy nest, folded his forepaws over his ears and tried to forget the sounds of his past. The memory cut deeper than any cats’ claws.Your father didn’t fight for you, he chided himself. Forget about him.And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important.“You need to get up,” Slate sunk her claws into the scruff of his neck and shook him roughly. “Weakness isn’t tolerated here.”“I know.” He muttered. He’d felt Thorn’s claws too many times to believe anything else. “Up.” Slate repeated. Slowly, Storm forced himself to his feet. The Gorge swam before his eyes, tilting one way then the other. Slate darted forward and pressed her shoulder against his, supporting his weight with her own. She guided him forward, her tail draped over his patchwork shoulders. The healer guided him towards the spring. His paws were clumsy, unpracticed, but he forced his broken body forward to where the water pooled. His muscles, stiff from disuse, screamed as he settled onto the sand. “I should let you know,” Slate whispered, “that it was a bad fall. Your face took the brunt of the impact. I don’t know how you survived, but… but you did.”“Just tell me.” Storm interrupted. He sensed the hesitance behind her words, could sense her holding back. Slate sighed. “Crushed cheekbone, fractured eye socket, broken nose… and you’ve lost two teeth.”‘Oh.” He repeated, numb. Apprehension filled his throat with sand. The tortoiseshell leaned forward, expecting his face to be broken. Distorted. Irreparable. Instead, his face seemed strangely whole. Slate had done an exceptional job, as skilled as any medicine cat. The bones had knit together. The fur had grown back. The scars had faded. His eyes, however, were wrong. It took him a moment to comprehend it, to wrap his mind around the strangeness that was his face. One eye was the same striking amber, the familiar colour bestowed upon him by his mother, seasons ago. The other was as clear and blue as the summer sky.Slate hunched beside him, here gaze trained on his face, waiting for a reaction. The young tortoiseshell didn’t move, paws rooted to the sand. For a long moment, he sat perfectly still, considering the reflection before him. Storm said nothing, then bent, touched the tip of his tongue to the pool and began to drink.The water was as cold as ice and it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. It slid easily down his throat and flowed to every part of his aching body. He hoped some part of him was stronger for it. “When can I go back to training?” He asked quietly.If Slate seemed surprised by his question, she didn’t show it. “I’d like another few days to observe you, but time is a luxury we don’t have. The day after tomorrow.” Storm nodded in silent agreement.“Storm…” Slate tried. “Are you ok?”“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” There was something disjointed about the way he spoke, as if something inside had cracked. If there was an answer, Slate didn’t know it.- - - - The Gorge and its inhabitants treated him differently after the fall. They tiptoed around him, afraid to raise their voices. In the moons he’d fought the fever, he’d become something else. Something unkillable. Even Snakeeyes kept his distance, though Storm thought he could sense something hesitant in the copper tabby’s movements. He was sure the Elite warrior was limping, too, and the unnatural way his body had twisted crawled back to the forefront of his mind. Training resumed, in all its glorious brutality. A thousand questions burned on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t afford the distraction. Every fibre of his being, every ounce of concentration was poured into his training sessions. His skills were sharpened, slowly and painfully. Inch by inch, the Elite fashioned him into something else.He no longer had the strength to fight it. It was easier, so much easier, to just follow their instructions. “There are several soft points on a body,” Granite stalked up and down the line, her silver fur bristling. “You must learn them. Aim solely for them. The faster you can eliminate your enemy the better.”Their sparring sessions had taken a darker turn. No longer did the Elite interfere; most matches were fought close to death, until the loser could no longer raise their paws in defence. Each night, Storm dreamed of sharp claws slicing through his pelt, adding to his tally of scars. “The belly,” Granite continued. “The throat. The eyes. Damage done here is seldom repairable. A good blow to the belly or throat will effectively dispose of your opposition, while a blow to the eyes can trigger blindness.”Storm tried not to notice the gazes of the other subordinates as their attention shifted to him. That should be you, the voice in his head whispered. Blind. Broken. Useless. The tortoiseshell shook his head. Ever since the fall, it was harder to ignore the persistent danger of his thoughts. The fall, as it had simply become known, had added two new scars to the tally he wore; they were grass thin and curved below the eye socket of his blue eye, one more painful reminder.Granite nodded at him. He stepped forward, into the ring of stones. The past few moons, ever since his talk with Snakeeyes, ever since the fall, he had dedicated every fibre of his being to survival, no matter the cost.Each day, each spar won, left a bad taste in his mouth and more dried blood on his paws, but he lived. He lived, where others died. The part of him that was still Clan, that still screamed that he follow the Warrior Code was horrified. His very existence now trampled the Code to dust. Most days, though, he was able to shove the voice into a narrow crevice of his mind and ignore it. The voice, he knew, would get him killed. Storm stepped back, shocked, as Granite positioned herself opposite him. The little she-cat, with claws as sharp as the winter winds and reflexes even sharper simply grinned at his confusion. “Did you think you’d fight subordinates forever, Stormcat? You are the most promising of the young recruits. Snakeeyes and I only thought it fitting you be given a real test.”The copper tabby’s name made him feel sick and strange, but he couldn’t say why. Snakeeyes owes me nothing. Why would he risk his hide trying to protect me?Still, the image of the Elite tom twisting, twisting, twisting to try and save him was burned into the forefront of his mind. Why would he try, unless he wanted me to live? He did visit me while I was sick, after all…“Very well.” He made himself crouch down opposite the dappled she-cat, eyes assessing his opponent. Granite was lithe and quick, but so was he. He was skinny, underfed, but had the natural bulk of a RangeClan cat. He outweighed her, he thought, but it would be no use in a spar. I need to wrestle her close, where her agility counts for less…Around the edges of the arena, the mood had sharpened. Other subordinates leaned forward, whiskers twitching with excitement. Very few of them liked him, Storm knew. He held the Elite’s favour. They didn’t. They were eager, very eager to see him beaten. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Perch, crouched in her brother’s shadow. Something hot and fierce gleamed in her amber eyes.Granite didn’t bother signalling the start of the match. She simply leaped, aiming for his paws. Storm darted left, out of her reach, and readied himself to pounce upon her exposed back. He’d underestimated her quickness; Granite had already turned and faced him with outstretched claws.I’ll have to be smart… Instead of leaping forward, Storm began to back up. The crowd murmured excitedly and skidded out of his way. Granite followed, her expression icy calm and revealing nothing. At last, Storm’s hind paws met a boulder. He spun quickly and climbed, managed to reach the top before Granite could follow. RangeClan cats always fight from the highest ground. The voice that whispered now was his fathers’. The highest ground is always the strongest ground.Granite paced beneath him, hissing in fury. She could not climb without Storm lashing out, claws tearing at her exposed face. She circled the stone once, twice, with the tortoiseshell spinning desperately to keep her in sight. His head began to spin and his heart lurched as he missed his footing, one hind paw skidding off the stone. Pain lanced through his toes as a claw was wrenched. Granite wasted no time. She lunged upwards and sank her teeth into his paw. Her weight brought him crashing down.Half the audience whispered in excitement as he hit the ground. The other half kept silent, slowly assessing tactics. Storm rolled, desperate to find his feet before Granite was on him, but the dappled she-cat held tight to his leg. He kicked out with the other one, smashing his paw into her eye. Granite howled and leaped backwards, pressing one forepaw to her face. Storm scrambled backwards, but could no longer put any weight on his hind leg. “Ha!” Granite lowered her paw again; he’d done no real damage. “You trying to give me a mismatched eye to match, Stormcat?”“I think you’d look good with blue eyes.” Storm panted. His opponent snorted, then dove forward. Storm tried to beat her back, tried to match her blow for blow, but he knew he was flagging. He was bleeding too, his injured paw staining the dust scarlet. Outstretched claws flashed too close to his throat, his face. It was all he could do to deflect the blows.All too soon, his leg buckled. He hissed as he went down, tried to roll. A single grey paw stopped him, wickedly sharp claws outstretched, the tips resting on the soft skin of his throat. “A good effort,” Granite lamented. “But unfortunately, it’s not enough.” Her grip tightened. Storm could feel his vision growing dark, shadows pressing at the edges of his bad eye.“Fortunately for you…” The pressure began to ease. “The Overlord has ordered you spared. He believes you have potential, Stormcat.”Storm knocked her paw aside and scrambled to his feet, struggling to draw air. His throat felt raw, as if he’d swallowed brambles. “Potential for what?” He gasped.Granite shrugged. “For whatever he’s planning. He’ll tell you soon enough, I expect.” She turned back to her class, tail lashing. Half of them, Storm noticed, looked disappointed. The other half looked jealous. “Now,” Granite yelled. “Who can tell me what Stormcat did wrong?” What I did wrong, he thought bitterly. Always wrong. Never what I did right.He dragged himself over to the other side of the arena and collapsed. He twisted and began to lick at his wounded paw. The bite wasn’t deep, he saw, but was messy where Granite had dragged her teeth through fur and flesh. The bleeding had already slowed. He licked at it with a rough tongue, then sighed. He couldn’t stand the copper tang of blood. A shadow flitted overhead. A single black feather floated down.Ra ra raaaaaaaaa.Storm tilted his head back. A single raven perched in the pine that sheltered the arena, its’ dark eyes bright and fixed on him. “No carrion for you today, Featherbrain,” he muttered. “Stormcat is still alive and well.”The ravens were always at the arena. The ravens were always watching the fights. Storm wondered if they really ate the carrion, if they picked at the bodies of the dead. It had been an old elder’s tale back home, in the heart of the mountains. They said that when the winters were cold and the snows were deep, the ravens could find food where cats could not. Follow the ravens, they said. Crowfood is better than no food, they said. He remembered teasing Ravenkit after they’d heard the story. His soft-hearted sister had hissed, her pelt bushed, and had informed him that she was named after survival, and he was only named after destruction. He’d never quite forgotten, and her words haunted his dreams now.Overhead, the raven hopped closer. It pecked at the branch, raining bark and pine needled down. Storm hissed and pawed at the top of his head, where pine needles gathered between his ears. “I swear, one day I will hunt you.” The raven seemed the laugh as it winged off into the empty sky. - - - - It was dawn when they came for him. The shadow cut through the early mists, moving with practiced ease. He’d traded the den he shared with Stone and Perch for a narrow cleft in the rock just big enough for him and his nest and all his sorrows. It was colder there, without the warmth of other bodies, but it was private. Storm stood as the figure approached, eyes down. Even so, he recognised the lithe, narrow build.“You’ve been summoned.” Snakeeyes meowed. His copper eyes gave nothing away.Storm nodded and climbed warily to his paws. He stepped out into the world, painted white by mist. The sides of the Gorge were shadows, looming above. Other shapes flickered by as the dawn patrols left. It was eerily still, eerily silent. The fog had swallowed all the noise and was yet to spit it back out. Storm followed the copper tabby as he wove through the Gorge. Past the dens, past the pitiful fresh-kill pile, past the sharp, sudden turn. His skin began to prickle as it always did wen he entered the Elite’s domain. The far end of the Gorge was wider, the sides lower. Pine trees crowded the edges of the cliffs. The odd patch of grass pushed up through the stony ground.“The first snows will fall soon.” Storm whispered, desperate to break the silence. His companion said nothing, kept his copper gaze training on something unseen.The Overlord made his den halfway up the cliffside. A narrow, switchback trail would up. Storm pressed himself against the cliff wall and dug his claws into the stony path. At last, the trail widened out and became a ledge. The Overlord sat perched on the edge, claws curling over the lip of the stone. “Thank you, Snakeeyes. You may go.” The Overlord turned and flashed a predatory grin.Snakeeyes bowed his head and melted silently into the fog. Storm stood, paws rooted to the stone. “You weren’t the first Clan kit I took, but I expect you’ve learned that by now. You clan cats always did fascinate me. Such discipline. Such skill. Beaten into you from such a young age. I always knew you’d make good soldiers.” The Overlord picked up one paw and examined his unsheathed claws. Storm’s stomach clenched as he notices the bloodstained tuft of fur caught between them. “I underestimated your stubbornness, though,” the grey tom sighed. “You Clan cats had something my own soldiers could never hope to possess; honour. Clan cats, I’ve noticed, are made of granite. You’ll shatter before I can mould you into clay.”Storm shifted, uncomfortably. “I am not a Clan cat, sir.”Yellow eyes met his. “Clan cats either died or resisted. And then there was you. I’ve kept an eye on your progress. Snakeeyes says you’re the best student he’d ever trained. Then, of course, there was your accident. A fall like that would have killed a lesser cat.”“Thank you, sir.” The tortoiseshell whispered, unsure of what else to say. “Do you ever wonder why I chose you? You specifically?”“Because of my father.” “Because you were loved. Unconditionally. Would you agree?” “I suppose…” Storm didn’t understand what the grey tom was getting at. The Overlord climbed to his paws and arched his spine, stretched his legs forward in a luxurious stretch. Muscle rippled beneath his thick fur. The tabby straightened and wove his way over to the young tortoiseshell’s side. “I’ve watched your progress with interest, Storm. I had my doubts about your loyalty in the beginning, but you’ve proved me wrong. Do you know why?” The Overlord’s voice, dangerously low, curled through the air like smoke. “Because unlike your father, unlike your pitiful Clan, you adapt to survive.”Is that was this is? Storm suppressed a shudder as the Overlord settled beside him. He fought the urge to edge away. “The snows will fall, soon,” the Overlord whispered. “The Clans will be weakened.”He means to invade. Realisation struck like lightning. Storm tried to keep his expression neutral. “Tell me, Storm. Do you miss your home?”“I have no place in the mountains.” He responded carefully. “I thought you’d say that,” the Overlord sighed. His broad shoulders slumped. “But you see, I value honesty above all things. So tell me. Do you miss your home?”“Yes.” Storm tried and failed to keep the longing from his voice. What would the mountains look like, he wondered, beneath their winter coat? The skies would be brighter, surely. The sun paler. The trees would be frozen, each leaf encased in ice. The mountains would be beautiful, he decided. Clean. Pure. “Would you like to go home?” Something wicked gleamed in the Overlord’s moon eyes.“Yes! Yes! I’d give anything-” He shut his mouth abruptly, teeth clicking together, and tried to snatch the words back. Cold fear seeped slowly through his veins. He’d heard stories – of course he had – from the time before his birth. He’d heard the stories of his Clan’s defeat, of his fathers’ disgrace. They’d been whispered on the wind, repeated on the moonless nights. In the Gorge, the stories were laughed over at the fresh-kill pile whenever he’d walk past. He knew of the Overlord’s clever tongue. He knew, in that moment, that he’d sealed his fate. His mouth was dry, as if he’d swallowed sand. A grin, cold as the granite beneath his paws, curled across the Overlord’s ruined face. “Why don’t we make a deal?”- - - - It was simple. An exchange. He could go back to the mountains, to where the summer grasses sang and boulders help up the sky. Back to the warmth of the hills and the valleys. Back to the noise of the river and the clear, crowded skies. He could go home. All he had to do was pledge his loyalty. His undivided loyalty. Storm sighed and followed the track to the top of the Gorge. He emerged into the copse of pine trees that sheltered the arena. Two more steps and he stood at the edge of the clearing. The arena was empty. The pine trees were not. Ra ra raaaaaaaaaaa.The ravens filled the sky and hopped neatly from branch to branch. They stared down with bright, curious eyes. “You must think this all very strange,” he whispered. “I bet you wonder why I don’t just fly away. But I tried flying once. Except I just fell.” If the birds were listening, they gave no sign of it. Pine needled crunched underpaw. Storm spun, tortoiseshell pelt bristling, teeth bared. Snakeeyes stepped forward, the tip of his tail flicking. “You should always pay more attention to your surroundings.”Storm flattened his ears in a vague apology. “I have a lot on my mind.”“I know. I’ve been sent for your answer.” The copper tabby stalked smoothly forward until they were side by side. Again, Storm fought the urge to back away. Snakeeyes stood uncomfortably close, his gaze narrow and intense. “I need more time!” Storm protested. His companion simply shook his head. There would be no more time. “Do you know what he means to do?” Rage boiled, hot and thick, under his skin. “Do you even care?”For a heartbeat, Snakeeyes’ façade cracked. Something dark flickered across his neutral expression. Lightning-fast, the tabby lunged forward. Snakeeyes was deceiving; there was iron in his paws, despite his slender frame. Storm was thrown backwards by the force of the strike. He tried to rise, paws searching for purchase, but claws pricked at his throat, perilously close to his skin. “Of course I care,” Snakeeyes hissed. “More than you will ever know.” “Why don’t you do something about it then, you coward!” Storm kicked upwards. Satisfaction surged through him as his paws collided with Snakeeyes’ soft underbelly. The copper tabby landed neatly. Storm scrambled upwards, tail lashing, and prepared to meet him. “Do you think its that easy?” The copper tabby asked. Storm could sense his fury, rolling beneath his words. “Do you realise how hard I’ve had to fight to keep myself alive? To keep you alive?” Snakeeyes shook his head and began to pace back and forth across the clearing. Overhead, the ravens cawed, either disappointed or delighted at the lack of fresh blood. Storm straightened slowly, unsure. The scolding sounded eerily like another. He remembered Perch and all her fire, daring and demanding that he do better. You were the best of us, the cold contempt in her gaze had screamed. “What am I supposed to do?” He felt lost, the situation spiralling beyond his control, beyond his understanding. “You told me to survive. Whatever the cost. I gave up so much of myself to do that, only now everyone keeps telling me that I made the wrong choice. Why ‘keep me alive’, as you say, if you’re only going to fault me for living?” “I knew this was too hard.” Snakeeyes sighed. He stopped and pressed one paw to his face. He seemed to argue with himself, jaw working. He was missing a tooth, Storm noted. A canine. At last, the copper tabby straightened, lowering his paw to the ground. “Just tell me,” Storm said tiredly. “I’m tired of all these half-truths and empty promises.”“For so long I waited,” Snakeeyes said quietly. “For him to take the wrong cat. For him to bring someone back who was focussed and driven and too stubborn to give up their homeland. Someone better than I was. And I thought that cat could be you. But you were far too stubborn at first to see the bigger picture. You had to let go, otherwise he would have killed you and we never would have gotten this chance.You’ve been given an opportunity very few will ever get. He doesn’t trust you, but he thinks he can use you, which means he will keep you close. He’s even decided to send you home. The time is now, Storm. Do you think the Overlord will stop with your Clan’s disgrace? This is about something far more. He’s ready to make his move. Do you think the Clans are ready? Do you think they have any idea what awaits them?”Storm pressed himself to the ground, bowing beneath the weight of Snakeeyes’ fury. He’d never seen the copper tabby so emotional. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. If the Overlord truly meant to invade Clan territories, he knew the Clans would stand no chance. It was almost winter; all energies were spent gathering supplies for the cold seasons. They’d be low on prey, low on medicinal supplies. It would be the perfect time to strike. The full extent of the Overlord’s cunning began to dawn. What chance would his Clan have, he wondered, when they doubted their leader’s ability to keep them safe? RangeClan had been broken long ago. He didn’t know if anyone had managed to put the pieces back together. They’d be in no position to face the brutality of the Gorge. Not again. “You want me to betray him.” He said slowly, tasting each word as he spoke it.“I want to save my Clan.” Snakeeyes responded, equally cautious. Your Clan. The fevered image of the copper tabby twisting and anchoring himself to the rock forced itself back into Storm’s mind. Snakeeyes possessed a frightening skill set and all the pedantic caution of a mountain cat. He lived on battle lust and the sweet promise of victory. He knew all the hidden ways between the mountains, could track prey over bare rock, was lithe and strong and vicious. Storm could no longer deny it. Snakeeyes fit the stereotype, matched the description.“You’re RiftClan.” Storm meowed.“Was.” His companion seemed happy to settle back into his customary silence. The scruffy tortoiseshell straightened slowly. Would it really be so bad, he wondered, to betray the Overlord. He’d be home, could warn his family of the impending calamity. You could save them, the voice in his head whispered.If the Overlord finds out, the rational part of his brain hissed, he will slaughter you where you stand. “Ok,” he said eventually. “I’ll help you. Tell the Overlord I accept the terms of the deal.” Snakeeyes nodded once, then climbed to his paws. Storm watched as the tabby slunk away with an easy confidence, copper eyes gleaming. He chewed his whiskers nervously, then started after him. The largest of the ravens shadowed him, flitting from tree to tree until he reached the start of the trail. It meandered down the side of the Gorge, impossibly steep, before spilling out at the base of the cliff, alongside the spring.Storm took every step carefully, testing for loose rocks before moving forward. It was difficult to imagine a time when he’d raced down the cliff, sure-pawed and quick. He lingered, as always, relishing the feel of the wind in his fur. Despite memories of the fall, he’d always enjoyed the height. Below, the Gorge crowded in on every side. He detested not being able to see the sky, but could no longer delay his descent. All too soon, there was solid ground beneath his paws.“Good to see you’re moving slower now.” Slate was as still as her namesake. The grey she-cat crouched by the spring, keeping a careful eye on Sienna as the young she-cat sorted through a pile of leaves. The scene put him in mind of Ravenkit, following Raintail and begging to help. He wondered if she’d officially become an apprentice Medicine Cat. He shrugged. “I probably wouldn’t survive another fall.”“Ha,” Slate straightened and stretched each leg in turn. “You’re funny.”“Not really.” Storm murmured. “The first snows will fall soon.” Slate observed.“So everyone keeps saying.” Storm padded over to the water. Sank into a crouch. Lapped mouthfuls of the icy liquid. The spring was grey, a shadowy reflection of the sky, and tasted of the cold mornings. He wondered if it would freeze over come winter. “You have no idea what you’re in for.” If he didn’t know her, he would have said Slate sounded sad. “She’s talking about the trials!” Sienna piped up, work forgotten. The young she-cats’ eyes shone. “It’s the same for every First Snow. The Elite fight to keep their place and the challengers can fight to earn their place amongst them.”Evidently, rumours of his deal had spread throughout the Gorge. Storm nodded tensely and cleaned drops of water from his whiskers. “They’ll hate you even more now.” Slate said coldly. “She means Perch and all the others,” Sienna clarified. “They really don’t like you.” The young she-cat still had a kit-like innocence about her. Sheltered by her position, she was spared the worst of the horrors of the Overlords’ dictatorship. All she knew, really, was how to make it better. Storm envied her naivety. “I know.” He told her. Perch had made her disdain plain. There were no more soft words, no more knowing sideways glances. The others had distanced themselves, wary of his skill, his determination. He’d shed their blood once, twice, many times over. He missed the solid shape of his Clan around him, missed the closeness of his sister and his almost-brother. He envied the ravens, too. Envied the steadiness of their group as it wheeled above him. At least they didn’t run from him, or stare him down suspiciously. “They all think you’re crazy. Watching those birds all the time.” Slate closed the distance between them. She placed one paw under his chin and titled his face up, examined the scars beneath his damaged eye. It was ritual now. Every time they crossed paths the healer would examine his face. Storm didn’t know what she was looking for. The bones hadn’t re-broken, nor had the cuts reopened. “I don’t care,” he pulled away from her outstretched paw. “No-one else talks to me.”“Ravens don’t talk to anyone.” Sienna laughed softly. “I talk to you.” Slate pointed out, ignoring the younger she-cats’ jest. “Only when you want something from me.” Storm shot back. “It’s better than never at all.” 》Chapter Six - - Storm - -
Snow, cold and white and paw-deep, blanketed the Gorge. Storm stepped carefully from his den, his breath frosting the air. The ground was freezing beneath his pads. It was the kind of cold that cut straight to the bones, the kind of relentless cold that showed no mercy. Flakes of snow as big as kit’s paws drifted lazily downwards and lodged in his fur. Not even the heat of his body could melt them.
There could be no doubting it. The First Snow had fallen. The challenges would commence.
The tortoiseshell sighed. He stretched each leg in turn, relishing in the heady burn of muscle. The ache was rock steady proof that he had grown strong.
I can do this. One more fight, just one more fight, and then I’m home…
The air was cold on his tongue as he moved through the Gorge. The ravine itself was still and empty, it’s inhabitants gathered topside for the trials. Already, Storm though he could hear the screeches. Already, he thought he could smell the blood. He forged his way across the ravine’s floor to the opposite cliff, where the trail to the edge spilled out beside the spring. The trail looked steeper than usual, slick with ice and snow. The young tom paused at the bottom, feeling the curve of the slope beneath his paws.
I will not fall. I will never fall again.
Sienna was a whisper in the snow behind him. The younger she-cat wove forward then paused beside him, cobwebs bundled in her jaws. They were the last lonesome pair, the last to make the climb. Storm found himself dragging his paws, because each moment spent hesitating was a moment spent unharmed. Sienna, by juxtaposition, was busy and skittered up and down the trailway, fetching the supplies Slate demanded. The mouthful of precious cobwebs would be the last load fetched, and the pair of healers would need every thread of it.
Almost predictably, the golden she-cat paused. “Nervous?” She mouthed around her mouthful of silk.
Storm nodded. The day was weighted, the knowledge of all he had to do pressing heavily on his shoulders.
Sienna lowered her bundle, placed it delicately on her paws. “I will never understand what you’re about to do.” She glanced sideways, her gaze brimming with sympathy. “Slate told me about your choices.”
“Slate needs to keep her mouth shut.” Storm grumbled. “If she keeps spilling secrets, she could end up punished for it.” He’d learned to bear the weight of unimaginable things over his eight moons in the Gorge, but deep down he knew that he could not bear the loss of another friend.
“The Overlord wouldn’t dare. Slate is worth more to him alive.” The younger she-cat shifted her weight from paw to paw, restless, unable to properly comfort him. “Storm, I… I know how much this chance means to you, I really do, but… just make sure you can live with the consequences. Don’t… don’t let them kill the best parts of you.”
Storm scowled, dug unsheathed claws into the snow until the frost bit deep into his skin. “No,” he snapped, “you will never understand how much this means to me. You were born here. You’ll die here. And you’re lucky, to have Slate to keep you safe. The rest of us don’t have that luxury. We have to fight, and keep fighting, just to stay alive. I don’t get to keep the best parts of me if I want to live.”
The younger she-cat seemed to shrink in on herself, tail and head lowered, ears flat against her skull. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll never understand what it means to be part of something bigger than yourself. I just hope you can live with yourself once the prey is killed and eaten.” She shook her head, almost sadly, then bowed her head and picked up her herbs. The young cat stepped neatly onto the path before him, tail dragging through the snow.
Storm grit his teeth and fought to keep the doubt from creeping in. Sienna’s words had stung, cutting deep into his heart. No, he chided himself. This is the only way. I have to go home. I have to save my clan.
It seemed so simple when he laid it out for himself. In his mind’s eye, he could see the mountains, his home, sprawled beneath a pale sky. He could picture the ragged mountain tops, the vast swathes of trees, the wide slow curves of the river. He could picture the camp, embraced by stone, the grass soft underpaw. The dens were warmer there, he thought grimly, the air warmed by the steady breath of clanmates.
The tortoiseshell tom sighed and began to climb, sure-pawed despite the ice. “Sienna?” He called.
Several tree-lengths up, the dainty she-cat turned and tilted her head to one side in an unspoken question. Storm bounded forward, grateful for his longer legs, until they stood side by side. “I’m sorry, for what I said.”
His companion shrugged, unable or unwilling to speak around her mouthful, but Storm could see the warmth in the depths of her gaze. The little she-cat was too naïve, too forgiving, but the act of apologising still meant something to her.
They made the climb side by side, silent apart from their breathing. The trail snaked up the side of the Gorge, then opened up at the edge of the pine copse. The spindly trees rose before them, bristling with needles despite the cold. The sound of gathered cats drifted through the gloom. Storm didn’t give himself time to hesitate and plunged into the shadows. He knew the way now, let his paws follow the worn path.
The ravens had flocked. Two dozen hunched in the branches, their small eyes shining brightly. Storm wondered if they could already smell the blood that would be spilled. They’d feast tonight.
At last, the narrow path opened up. Countless pairs of eyes turned to stare as they arrived. Not for the first time, the young tom found himself self-conscious. The members of the Gorge had all but shunned him after the fall and his miraculous survival. Several whispered that he had in fact died, and the ancestors had left some gristly puppet in his place.
“Welcome. The Overlord was a grey shadow against greyer stone. He sat easily on the largest outcrop of stone, his scars pale against his ashen fur. “The First Snows have fallen, and it is time once more for my Elite to prove their strength to me. It is also time, of course, for any potential new members of my chosen ones to nominate themselves and step forward.”
The training circle, sheltered within the copse of pine trees, had been cleared of snow, its boundaries freshly marked with chunks of jagged granite. At the head of the circle, the Overlord’s rocky throne was stark against the pale sky. The scarred tom dominated the perch, all sharp angled and liquid limbs, but Storm could make out the still silhouettes of Snakeeyes and Thorn on either side of him, their pelts spotted with snow. Slate hovered at the base of the outcrop, a bundle of herbs in her jaws. Sienna slipped easily into the crowd, heading towards her mentor. Storm, however, slunk forward, ears flat, and tried to disappear into the gathered crowd.
The nature of the challenges were simple. Brutal. Effective. Those who believed themselves worthy enough of Elite status would step forward, into the circle, and challenge one of the Overlord’s favoured few to a fight to the death. The victor was awarded a place in the Overlord’s inner circle, and all the privileges that came with it.
The looser met their end, before the eyes of the onlookers.
Storm jostled his way to the front of the gathering, ignored the sharp stares and sharper words. He could feel their hate, radiating from them like heat from the sun. He found a space at the edge of the clearing, raked his claws through the snow to the ground beneath, settled with his tail wrapped around his paws. The smarter cats had found seats beneath the pine trees, where a coating of fallen needles warmed the ground. The luckier cats had found seats on the tree roots, where the frost had not yet taken hold. Storm, however, needed the chill of the snow to keep him alert.
“First challenger.” The Overlord called, quietening the whispers. “Harvest.”
The golden she-cat prowled forwards, her curled ears flat against her head. Muscle rippled beneath her thick winter coat. She halted in the centre of the ring, broad paws braced against the frozen ground. “I challenge Lightning.”
The traditional words turned the spectacle into a sick ceremony.
Lightning was a good choice, Storm reflected. The ragged tortoiseshell was smaller than Harvest, not as quick as Granite. The Elite she-cat was a savage fighter, but savagery would only do so much against superior strength and speed. Harvest would match her, Storm knew, blow for blow.
“I accept the challenge.” The tortoiseshell strode into the circle, the jagged white patches on her fur transparent against the snow. Unsheathed claws glittered like ice in the pale sunlight.
A wicked smile curved across the Overlord’s face. He raised one paw and nibbled at his unsheathed claws, stripped a pine needle from between his toes. His smile was too wide, Storm noted suddenly, exposing crooked fangs. The light from the grin never reached his eyes. “You may begin.” His voice drifted down, another snowflake in the wind.
The match was every bit as brutal as Storm expected. Every blow landed heavily, every slash cut deep. They were no longer training, no longer vying for the attention of the Elite. Pale fur drifted through the air as the she-cats clawed at each other. Blood arced across the snow, steamed against the frozen ground. The air was thick with the scent of it, so thick that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t keep the scent from his nose. At last, Harvest gained the advantage, her bulk allowing her to pin Lightning’s scrawny frame beneath her. The smaller she-cat’s flanks heaved as she fought for breath. She clawed viciously at her opponent’s face, but no amount of struggling could dislodge Harvest now. Her grip was too strong, her stance too steady.
The golden she-cat glanced upwards, ignoring the blows that fell like rain across her chest. Her amber eyes met the Overlord’s yellow ones. The grey tom gave a single nod.
Storm fought the urge to look away as Harvest’s paw sluiced downwards.
It would do him no favours to show such weakness now.
A half-hearted cheer surged, more out of excitement for Lightning’s demise than Harvest’s ascension. The golden she-cat was far kinder than her predecessor. Standing victorious and bloody in the training circle, the victor turned and stalked over to the Overlord’s perch to join the other Elite. She sank into a crouch with a ragged sigh, her eyes half closed as Slate began to work, expertly cleaning and binding her wounds. A pair of subordinates hurried forward and dragged Lightning’s body away, her torn form leaving a trail of blood behind it.
No-one bothered to hide it.
Storm kept his gaze forward and tried to ignore the press of bodies around him. He felt the Overlord’s gaze scan the crowd, grew uncomfortably warm when it settled on him. The scarred tom gave a small and secret smile as the young tortoiseshell met his eyes.
“Second challenger. Storm.”
He took a deep breath and stepped into the circle. - - -
- - Pikepaw - -
“In a battle, there’s no time to think.” Whiteclaw paced around the training clearing, thick tail twitching. Snow lay thick upon the ground, belly deep in places. Pikepaw fought to keep from shivering; there was no warmth in behind the weak winter sun.
“As much as we’d like to plan each move carefully,” his mentor continued, “You often only have a moment to think. Sometimes, not even that. Sometimes, there’s not time to think at all, only time to react. In light of such, today we’ll practice defensive moves, with emphasis on your reaction times.”
Pikepaw shuffled his feet against the ground, tried to stir some warmth into him. The clearing was crowded today, with the newest apprentices lined neatly along one side, their pelts fluffed against the cold. Dustpaw and Flamepaw sat beside them, tails wrapped neatly around their paws. The young tabby resisted the urge to press himself against Flamepaw’s thick pelt. The sooner they got moving, the better.
“Hey! Pikepaw!” The newest apprentice, Russetpaw, peered around her littermates to stare at him.
“Yeah?” The spotted tom turned to face her.
“How was the dawn patrol this morning?” The dappled red she-cat twitched her whiskers, her green eyes shining with mischief.
Beside her, her sister Brindlepaw groaned. The dusky tabby pressed her chest to the frozen ground and folded her forepaws over her eyes. “Don’t tell her, Pikepaw! She’ll tease me about it forever!”
“Well, if it means that much to you, I couldn’t possibly tell her that you thought a rock as an invader and screamed the alarm. I couldn’t possibly tell her that-”
“Pikepaw!” Whiteclaw cut in, his voice colder than the snow. The young tom bowed his head in shame, embarrassed by the scolding. “I’m awfully sorry to have interrupted your gossip session, but if you’d like to participate in today’s lesson, I suggest you keep your mouth shut and your eyes on me.”
“Yes, Whiteclaw. Sorry, Whiteclaw.”
The younger apprentices snickered quietly, but fell silent as Whiteclaw’s gaze slid sideways. Flamepaw shot him a sympathetic smile, the kind that told him not to worry; we’ve all been caught before.
Their mentors broke them into small groups, pairing Pikepaw with Flamepaw and Brindlepaw. Group training had become routine; RiftClan invaders had been darting over the border since the last full moon, and the scrawny cats wouldn’t know honour if it bit them. They fought angrily, fought unfairly, and Icewhisker had decided that all the apprentices would practice fighting multiple opponents at once. Their mentors ran them through several drills, taught them how to find a corner and back themselves into it, so no opponent could sneak up behind them.
Pikepaw went first, kept his back to a tree and his eyes on Brindlepaw and Flamepaw. His opponents worked well together and attacked from either side. The young tabby spun and lashed, determined to keep both at bay. Fighting two opponents, however, was overwhelming. He was quickly exhausted by their relentless assault, quickly brought down. Whiteclaw nodded in approval regardless, and summoned the other trio of apprentices into the circle to practice. Some part of him was savagely pleased when he lasted longer than Dustpaw did.
“That was tiring!” Russetpaw gasped like a landed fish beside him as the second trio sat back down.
“You all need to work on your endurance.” Her mentor, Magpiefeather, put in. “A battle will not stop just because you grow tired.” Beside her, the other mentors nodded in agreement.
“Great,” Dustpaw puffed, “now they’ll make us run a lap of the territory every day until we build up our strength.”
“Quiet!” Pikepaw hissed. “You’ll start giving them ideas!”
They ran through the exercise twice more, different groups each time, until every apprentice had attempted both attacking and defending. By the time the sun started to set and the temperature started to drop, Pikepaw had discovered muscles he didn’t know he had and every one of them begged him to stop moving. The other apprentices were no better off; Russetpaw and Brindlepaw curled in an exhausted heap, the older apprentices attempting to disguise their heaving chests.
“That will do for the day.” Whiteclaw called. The pale warrior surveyed the gathered apprentices and their mentors, made a decision. “We will take the Dead Forest track home and check the RiftClan border. You new apprentices can practice refreshing the border marks.”
Exhausted, glad for the respite, Pikepaw relaxed his tense muscles and fell into step beside his mentor. They filed from the clearing, heading upwards into the mountains. The training ground lay in the centre of a thick copse of trees, mostly protected from the wind and snow. The bare mountainside greeted them, the coating of grass buried beneath the snow. Up ahead, the mountain peaks stabbed into the sky like broken teeth. RangeClan territory stretched from the base of the mountain where the river lurked all the way to the first rocky ridge. Beyond lay the bleak wasteland RiftClan territory, where each high ridge plunged into a deeper valley where no trees grew and little prey hid.
Briefly, the young tom wondered if any hunting patrols had ventured across the border yet. Whiteclaw told him that it happened every season; the snow was thickest beyond the ridges, and RiftClan had sharp claws and hungry bellies to fill.
RangeClan life had, in the meantime, settled into a strange routine. Normalcy blanketed the clan like snow, only just thick enough to hide the chaos beneath. Redstar kept himself hidden away in the shadows, and it had been so long since Pikepaw had seen him that he was beginning to forget what his leader looked like. The admission pained him, more than he cared to admit. He’d loved Redstar as a surrogate father once, but the red tabby was a ghost, no longer their leader.
Icewhisker and Raintail split the leadership duties between them. With heavy council from the senior warriors, it was just enough to keep the clan together. Not for the first time, Pikepaw thanked StarClan for the snow. The onslaught of the cold season meant that their neighbours were too busy with their own survival to exploit their weaknesses.
And yet, RangeClan persisted, as stubborn as a weed. Raintail continued to name new apprentices. New warriors, too, granting Owlwing and Grassfire their names only a moon ago.
Pikepaw fell into step behind his mentor, leaping from one of Whiteclaw’s pawsteps to the next. He felt foolish, following his mentor the way a new kit followed its mother, despite being almost fully grown, but in the deepest places the snow reached his ears. Not for the first time, he envied the thick pelts and broad paws of his clanmates. The other apprentices bounded forward, toes splayed, balanced enough to keep themselves from breaking through the thin icy crust.
Each breath burned his throat. “Whiteclaw?” He croaked.
The big tom glanced over one shoulder. “Yes?”
“Do you think Redstar will ever get better?” He blurted the question out, unable to keep it locked behind his teeth any longer. He’d considered asking his mother, wouldn’t dare ask Nightmask, couldn’t bother Raintail any more, yet the question continued to plague him. Whiteclaw was one of the Clan’s most senior warriors, had lived through things that not even Raintail could dream of. If anyone had an idea, it would be him.
The white warrior slowed, allowing the others to forge ahead. Magpiefeather, Dustpaw’s mentor, glanced over his shoulder, pawsteps slowing for just a heartbeat.
“Go on without us,” Whiteclaw said, “Pikepaw and I will continue to check the border.”
The bicolour tom bowed his head in acknowledgement, then vanished over the ridge, calling to the rest of the mentors. Pikepaw watched them go, then turned back to his mentor as the warrior sat. The tabby eased himself onto the ground beside him, followed his gaze as they stared out over the mountains.
“When you live as long as I have, you see some truly remarkable things.” The older tom spoke slowly, carefully, picking his words as if he was walking across thin ice. “Never would I have dreamed of seeing us defeated in our own camp. Never would I have dreamed of seeing Redstar stumble.”
Pikepaw stared at the snow beneath his feet and tried to picture his leader as he used to be, sure-pawed and strong, amber eyes burning. Redstar had laughed often, he recalled, and did his best to make time for his kits. For him too, Pikepaw knew, even though they were not blood relations.
“When we were apprentices together, he was so sure of himself. So brutally honest, so ready to do the right thing, no matter what that was. He was a brilliant clanmate, and a better leader. We could always rely on him to think logically about every choice, to explore every pathway before he committed the clan to something. He knew our fates rested on his shoulders. He used to joke about it with me, and I used to say it was a good thing he had broad shoulders.” Whiteclaw’s voice was wistful.
“I hadn’t realised you were apprenticed together.” Pikepaw murmured, although it seemed an obvious conclusion once his mentor had pointed it out.
“You mean you didn’t realise Redstar was that old.” Pikepaw was immensely grateful for the faint traces of honour in his mentor’s voice.
“… No…”
The warrior huffed in amusement, then turned his gaze downward. “I’m telling you this, Pikepaw, because I don’t want you to blame Redstar for what happened to Stormkit.”
“I never said I did.” The young tabby argued.
“Maybe not. But you think it.”
Pikepaw fell silent. Did he blame Redstar? He’d blocked so much of that night from his mind, determined not to relive the pain of it. The days afterwards had been worse, watching the invaders carry away his best friend had been a different kind of pain altogether. The phantom ache still lingered sometimes, deep within his chest.
“When we were young, Redstar did everything carefully, for a very specific reason. I don’t know why he made the deal with the invaders, but there would have been a reason. Whatever caused him to make such a drastic decision… he mustn’t have seen another way out.”
“As much as I appreciate the reassurance, Whiteclaw, it isn’t what I asked for.” Never in his life would Pikepaw have dreamed of snapping back at his mentor, but the boundary between them had fallen away, even if it was only temporary. For a moment, they were just clanmates.
“I know,” Whiteclaw said simply, “but I think you needed to hear it. You want to know if Redstar will ever get better. And honestly? I don’t know. There are old stories… legends really… of cats loosing such a vital part of themselves that they can no longer function. Raintail does her best to heal the body, but not even the best medicine cat can heal the mind.”
Pikepaw nodded, numb. It made sense, he supposed. But… “He won’t get better, will he?”
Whiteclaw shrugged, the movement smooth beneath his thick fur. “There’s no telling. Perhaps he will, perhaps he won’t.”
“What about the Clan?” They were barely functioning as it was. Pikepaw couldn’t bear to imagine what would happen if things didn’t change.
“The best thing to do is for Redstar to step down.” Whiteclaw reasoned. The big tom rose to his paws and arched his spine in a luxurious stretch. Pikepaw winced as boned popped, an old injury complaining about the cold. “But he won’t.”
Pikepaw mirrored his mentor, shaking the warmth back into his frozen form. “Why not?”
“He’s waiting.” Whiteclaw said it with such serious, ominous weight that for a moment, Pikepaw was afraid.
“For what?”
“For what every fallen warrior waits for. A chance at redemption.” - - -
- - Storm - -
“I challenge Thorn.”
His voice rang out across the clearing, clear and unafraid. Truthfully, the tortoiseshell tom had been waiting for his chance to sink his claws into Thorn’s tabby pelt, ever since Slate revealed the nature of the challenge. He could taste the satisfaction of it, rolling across his tongue. He was no longer a frightened kit, cowering at the big tabby’s paws. He’d grown strong under Snakeeyes’ tutelage. All he had to do was prove it.
Thorn had been waiting too, he realised, noting the savage glint in the dark tom’s eyes. There was something dangerous in his simple, something dark and deeply unsettling. Storm swallowed his fear and settled into his stance. He could feel Snakeeyes’ stare boring into him, could feel the heavy weight of the Overlord’s expectations and all he had to do, could feel the contempt of countless stares, each one a set of claws digging into his pelt.
“I accept.” Thorn snarled and settled into a crouch.
In that moment, Storm recognised that he’d made a mistake. He’d chosen poorly. Thorn was bigger, stronger, wilder. Storm had not watched him fight in moons, but the tabby had watched him. Mutters flew through the crowd, quiet recognition of his shortcoming. At the base of the stone, Slate shook her head sadly. She’d warned against this, nights ago, accusing him of letting vengeance guide his claws rather than wisdom. Too late, the Storm acknowledged that she was right.
“You may begin.” The Overlord’s voice was honey over stone.
Storm didn’t move. Waited, instead, for his opponent to come to him. Thorn bared his teeth. Bunched his muscles. Sprang. Instead of rising up to meet him, the young tortoiseshell rolled backwards and kicked his paws up, plunging them deep into Thorn’s belly. He curved his spine to keep up momentum and threw the dark tabby over his head.
The tabby grunted as he landed, flopping awkwardly onto one side, unable to find his balance. Storm found his feet quickly, dove forward before his opponent could recover. He’d meant to drive straight into Thorn’s side, to bowl him over before he could recover, but it felt like slamming into a wall of rock. Thorn recovered faster than Storm thought he could have and lashed out. The tortoiseshell hissed as sharp claws split on ear.
Thorn dropped, slamming his shoulder into Storm’s exposed belly. The tabby’s greater weight forced him to the ground. Broad paws braced against his scarred cheek, pressed his face into the slush. His torn ear stung, a thin line of blood dribbling down in brow and into his eye.
“Thought you were something special, didn’t you?” The brown tabby snarled, his breath hot against Storm’s cheek. Claws scraped his skin, pricking at his damaged eye socket.
The young tortoiseshell fought to keep the river of panic from rising. The dull ache in his cheek was spreading, burning like fire, like lightning. He couldn’t die, not here. There was too much he had to do.
Focus! He grit his teeth. Fight smart!
Storm thrashed, rolled his blue eye until the damaged muscle ached and he could meet Snakeeyes’ gaze. The copper tabby’s usually empty stare was brimming with something like sorrow.
Time slowed down as claws scraped against his throat and mud forced its way between his teeth.
“I expected more.” He saw Thorn’s mouth move, heard Snakeeyes’ voice, the Overlord’s voice, his father’s voice.
“Don’t worry.” Desperation leant him strength. Storm heaved himself backwards, lashing out with one hind paw. Luck guided his claws. The blow connected with Thorn’s hind leg. His captor hissed and, just for a moment, shifted his immobile weight.
It was all Storm needed.
He ripped himself free from Thorn’s grip. Rolled. Thrust both forepaws upwards, claws unsheathed, aiming for the eyes. The dark tabby screamed as the blow connected, one set of claws digging into the tender flesh between eye socket and eye. Blood sprayed as Storm ripped downwards.
His opponent scrambled backwards, paws slipping in the bloody snow. Storm hauled himself to his paws, chest heaving. He was vaguely aware of the Overlord’s muttered voice, of Snakeeyes’ soft reply. The tortoiseshell stepped forward, head down, teeth bared.
Thorn hopped backwards until he regained his balance. Blood dribbled down his cheek and pooled on the ground below. His face wrinkled into a snarl as he prised his paw away from his face, exposing the empty socket below. He hissed, fury bubbling over and mixing with the blood at his paws.
Storm smirked, quick and savage. “We’re like twins.”
Thorn growled and charged forward, paws made clumsy by rage. The young tortoiseshell dodged, spun neatly to one side, landed a glancing blow against his opponent’s flank. He was doing well, he supposed, but Thorn had not earned his Elite status for nothing. The tabby stopped his headlong charge, skidding in the snow, and calmed his breathing. He turned, tail lashing, and waited. Storm licked nervously at his lips, waiting for the trick. The change in pace was unsettling – Thorn had never been calm, least of all in the heat of battle.
The dark tabby sneered. “Impressive, fleabag. Let’s see if you can finish the job.”
His stillness forced Storm forward, on the offensive now. Thorn’s bulk left few places to strike, and the ones he could spot were well guarded. He had no chance of reaching Thorn’s other eye, not now that he’d used that trick, and the softness of his neck was protected by a mane of thick fur. Storm feinted one way and then the other, scoring his claws down Thorn’s shoulder. The tabby turned, responding faster than anticipated and smashed a heavy paw into Storm’s face. He reeled backwards, fighting to stay on his paws. His opponent darted forward, followed it up with a heavy swipe to the jaw.
Somehow, the tortoiseshell stayed standing. He curled his lip, spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground.
Overhead, the raven screamed, agitated.
Ra ra raaaaaaaaaa.
The scents of blood and torn fur sent it into a frenzy. It hopped along the branch, bobbing and jerking. Storm glanced upwards, just for a moment, caught the dark gleam of its eyes.
You have to end this before he tires you out. He dropped into a crouch, stalked closer. Thorn watched, tried to predict each movement. Storm darted forward, feigned one way and then the other. No fear now, only determination as he slammed his body into his tormentors. For a moment he was young and sacred again, no more than the dark tabby’s plaything. Thorn staggered beneath the force of his assault. Slipped.
Storm was small for his age, lightning quick despite it. All he could think about was the pain, the scars, the torment. All he wanted was to pay it back. He clawed at Thorn’s face, Thorn’s belly, drawing his attention away from the vulnerable points of his body.
Saw his opportunity.
Seized it.
He pressed down, all his weight behind the blow, paws digging into Thorn’s throat. The dark tabby gurgled, eyes wide and white. His legs spasmed as he fought to free himself. Storm grunted as one forepaw caught his aching jaw.
Down, down, down he pressed, until Thorn’s flailing limbs grew still and his eyes rolled back into his skull. Only then did the young tortoiseshell step back. Only then did the young tortoiseshell begin to shake. He dropped into a crouch, his aching muscles protesting, breath rasping in his throat.
The cat that he had killed lay motionless before him.
Storm fought for breath. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Shadows pressed at the edge of his vision. He couldn’t draw any air into his lungs. The scent of blood was sweet and cloying and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs each breath was short and shallow and unable to sustain him the young tom shrunk in on himself and tries to unsee the dead body before him it didn’t work every time his eyes drifted closed he saw Thorn’s wide eyes gasping pleading for life he couldn’t breath couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe was this how Thorn felt as Storm choked the life from his body I’m going to die I can’t breathe help help help-
A gentle paw rested between his shoulder blades. “Breathe, Storm. Breathe in for four heartbeats, hold your breath for four heartbeats, breathe out for four heartbeats.”
He couldn’t breathe the shadows in his vision were coming closer tightening around his throat his chest burned as he fought for air a warrior does not need to kill to win his battles I’m sorry I’m sorry StarClan but my life was in danger I had to I had to I had to-
“Storm.” The voice was quiet, laden with authority. The sound was familiar, the scent familiar. Slate. “Just breathe.” The healer instructed, her paw rubbing soothing circles on his chest.
Storm opened his jaws and sucked in as much air as he could. In for four, hold for four, out for four. It burned, fire in his lungs, but he started to breathe again, the shadows around his throat slowly easing. “Ok,” he gasped, “I’m ok.”
Slate’s hazel eyes peered into his. Satisfied by whatever she saw there, the grey she-cat nodded once and straightened. Thorn’s ragged body sprawled on the ground behind her, even less impressive in death than he was in life. As Storm watched, two subordinates crept forward and dragged the body away. The young tom forced himself to take another deep breath and tried to ignore the brightness of the blood on his paws. Great StarClan, I killed a cat. The thought almost brought the shadows back. No, he chided himself, I had to do this. It was the only way to survive.
The crowd was silent as he followed Slate back to the Overlord’s perch. They started at him, eyes wide, a little more afraid than they had been before his battle. Storm eased himself down onto the frozen ground. Harvest twitched one ear in acknowledgement of his arrival, her eyes half-closed, exhausted.
“You did well.” Snakeeyes’ voice was barely a whisper. The copper tabby did not turn to look, but instead kept his eyes forward.
Storm nodded, numb. Is that was this is?
From his throne, the Overlord turned and grinned down at him, the tips of his long fangs protruding from his lips. It was a cold smile, alight with a bitter kind of glee. The tortoiseshell dipped his head in silent submission. His wounds stung as Slate began to treat them. Storm found it vaguely ironic.
- - -
They gave him a new cave, at the other end of the Gorge.
It was big, roomy, warm, and he hated it.
- - -
“I think it’s time we revisited our deal.”
He weighed it. The pros and cons. The shoulds and should-nots. He wanted it with an intensity that frightened him. Wanted to be free, to be beneath his own skies, to be surrounded by his own clanmates.
Wanted it. Feared it.
How would his clanmates look at him, if they saw what he’d become?
“You promised I’d go home.” Storm said quietly.
The Overlord wrapped his tail neatly around his paws and stared, unblinking. “I did. Hence why we must discuss the terms of our deal.”
I wasn’t aware I’d taken that deal. But he had. Of course he had, the moment he’d opened his mouth and let his desperation show. In all the days since then, Storm had considered the grey tom’s words carefully. He’d considered all the things Snakeeyes knew, considered all the things that would happen.
Two choices. Dire consequences either way. He could refuse the deal, refuse to take park in the destruction of his clan, suffer one of the Overlord’s creative punishments. He could take the deal, risk his life and pelt to warn his clan of their impending doom. Betray the oath of loyalty he swore. He thought about the intensity in Snakeeyes’ gaze as the copper tabby explained his counter-plan, and the disappointment on Perch’s face. How long have they been waiting for someone like me to help them?
He thought of pain, of broken bones and burning muscles and faded scars. Betraying any oath sworn to the Overlord was a dangerous and punishable offence.
To betray the Overlord was death…
… and yet, he didn’t know if he had it in him to turn his back on his clan. On his friends. On his sister.
Redstar didn’t fight for me, he reminded himself. He let the Overlord take me.
But Pikekit called out for you. The voice in his head spat back. Ravenkit demanded they do something.
He wanted to press his chest to the ground, to curl into a ball, to cover his ears with his paws and block out the voices. They complicated everything, turned everything into a game of do-or-do-not. Opposite him, the Overlord waited, endlessly patient.
“What,” Storm said carefully, “are the terms?”
The Overlord’s strange and twisted smile flashed, the strange and twisted smile that never lit his eyes. “It’s simple, really. An exchange. You will go home, as promised, and earn your Clan’s trust. When you have it, you will pass all the information you can to me. I want to know about their plans, their warriors, their movements, and when the time is right… well, when the time is right, you will do as you have been trained to do, and dismantle your former Clan.”
The tortoiseshell forced himself to sit straight, not to show weakness. Still, flattened his ears against his head. You knew this would happen, he reasoned. This is how you survive…
… and if I want to save my Clan, I could. He’d have no way of knowing, and I’d be safe… surrounded by my clanmates…
“Is there anything else?” He stalled.
The Overlord’s patience was waning, shrinking like the moon, melting like snow. He unsheathed his claws, scored them through the frost in a gesture meant to intimidate. Storm forced himself not to flinch as phantom pain twitched beneath his skin.
Make a choice make a choice make a choice make a choice.
My Clan loves me my Clan will protect me.
I can protect myself.
I will survive.
The tortoiseshell raised his head and met the Overlord’s pale stare. “Is there anything else?” He repeated. He fought to detach himself, to view the situation through the eyes of the ravens circling overhead. All it was, all it could be, was an exchange.
The Overlord will never know if I don’t tell him the truth.
He chewed his whiskers, pretended to consider the offer. Perhaps, he’d known it would always come to this, because he was strangely calm. Perhaps he’d known he’d always have to choose between two hard things, because the Overlord was clever, was waiting patiently to make the next move in a long and endless game.
The Overlord will never know if I don’t tell him the truth.
“Not unless you have anything else you’d like bargain for.” The Overlord said coldly. There was something terrifying in his voice, something haunting about the absence of emotion in his words.
“No.” Storm growled.
“Do you agree?”
He swallowed and wondered if StarClan would condemn him for this. “Yes. I agree.”
》Chapter Seven - - Storm - - It was snowing.
It was snowing, the ravens were screaming and nothing about the day felt real.
“Do you remember the plan?” Snakeeyes asked. The copper tabby had been charged with escorting Storm to the border. The rocky outcrop was hardly that; less of a border and more of a luminal space after the Overlord’s influence faded and before the Clan’s began.
Storm flexed his claws, listened to them scrape stone. The pads of his paws itched, his muscles burned with the need to run. “I remember.” He muttered.
His companion nodded once, a subtle incline of his head that may have carried a million different meanings. His tail twitched once in a mute sign of displeasure. “Very well.”
Storm tried not to hear the impatience in the tabby’s usually flat voice. Tried not to hear the hope and fear as it warred. Instead, he saw only the patchwork mountainside before him. The distant bulk of the Mother Mountain, the song of golden grass, the haze of wildflowers called to a part of him he’s forgotten. The part of him that used to be clawed at his heart and begged him to remember. The part of him that was focussed his not inconsiderable energy on the chance he had been given, despite the stench of death that seemed to linger. He wondered how much distance he could put between himself and the Gorge in the space of a single day.
“Storm,” Snakeeyes cut in quietly, the way he did when he sensed trouble.
“What?”
“I know this must be hard for you.” The copper tabby said quietly. “I commend you for your courage.”
The young tortoiseshell stilled, the fur along his spine twitching. Something soft crawled through his bones and settled in his belly. How long had it been since someone had praised anything but his fighting skill? He’d spent long seasons honing it, shaping it, until the ferocity of his soul and drawn the Overlord’s attention. He was to be the scarred tom’s teeth and claws. Nothing less. Nothing more.
And yet...
Snakeeyes’ words woke a part of him he’d thought forgotten. A part of him he missed. “Thank you.” He said softly. Deep within his chest, pride uncoiled and stretched. He wanted to catch it, to hold it in tender paws, but he worried that, the moment he’d reach for it, it would disappear.
Snakeeyes nodded again, the movement more decisive. “Good luck. Stay true to the plan.”
The plan, the plan, always the plan.
Storm didn’t know how to say goodbye to the tom who had cared for him. Who had sheltered him. Who had encouraged him. The tortoiseshell twisted to stare at the copper tabby, mouth hanging open. He wanted to say something to commemorate the moment, but there were no words to say. No words to contain the vastness of what they were about to to.
In theory, it was simple. Return to his Clan. Warn them of the incoming threat.
His bones crawled. It would be easy, too easy, to simply follow Snakeeyes’ instructions. The threat against his life, however, urged him to obey the Overlord’s commands.
Snakeeyes would never forgive him. And yet... and yet... Storm flexed his claws once more, impatient to be gone. It had been Snakeeyes who demanded he survive.
Whatever it takes.
“I’ll try.” He said. It was the only truth he could promise.
Two simple words.
Then he ran.
- - - The world was smaller than he remembered. Storm skirted the Mother Mountain, climbed the path as the sun rose. The trail wound from the lawless lands at the very base of the mountains, widened as it plateaued. To the left, the mountain reared. Before him, Clan territory sprawled. Storm hesitated, pelt twitching.
Focus. Remember your training.
He paused to sniff at the air, tried to commit each scent to memory. He could smell snow and wind and rock, could smell the unmistakable stench of feline bodies. A RiftClan patrol had passed by, and recently. RiftClan, he knew, would not take kindly to his presence at their border. It would be an easy way to make them uncomfortable. To make them suspicious.
Focus. Remember the plan.
Which plan?
He followed the border, ears down. There was nowhere to hide. RiftClan territory was a strange and barren place, even to his experienced eyes. Short grass underpaw and ragged outcrops of stone. He could hear the faint gurgle of running water and the endless cry of birds overhead. Storm slowed, cast his gaze upwards. The ravens had followed him from the Gorge and had been the closest thing he had to companions. It felt strange to be without them, now, like some part of him was absent.
“Ok,” he muttered, simply for the pleasure of talking. “You can do this. Chin up.”
He followed the border until the cold winds abated and he could smell the green of the trees. Almost subconsciously, his pace quickened, quickened, quickened until he was running across the open spaces. The mountain breeze carried with it something that he almost remembered. The ground rose softly beneath his paws, plunged again as he hit the river. Storm skidded to a halt, paw deep in icy water. The water was so cold it hurt, bit through muscle and bone with needle teeth. The young tom bunched his muscles, leapt, landed easily on a boulder. Leapt again and again until his paws hit the opposite bank and he burned with the joy of movement.
Beyond the river, beyond the peaks, the world fell away. It plunged down into a deep, forested gully. Storm picked his way down the rocky cliff face, all the skills he’d learned in the Gorge coming out to play. He dropped nearly onto the animal trail below; it was rich, overwhelmingly so, with scents he didn’t quite recognise.
The border. The highly disputed land between RangeClan and RiftClan. Storm made his way along it, using the tangle of smells to disguise his own, until the slender trunks of trees rose around him. They were ghostly pale, marked with dozens of claw marks. Scrubby bushes crowded around their bases, so closely packed that beyond the narrow track, there was hardly room to move.
The young tortoiseshell moved slowly, every sense alert. He slicked his tongue skiing his lower lip, nervous. A hundred potential enemies moved amongst the shadows. Each popping twig, each rustling leaf was the sound of someone creeping closer.
“Don’t be foolish,” he chided himself. “Don’t tell me you’ve been away for so long you’ve forgotten the way the forest sounds.”
He froze as the breeze picked up once more, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of living bodies. Storm tilted his ears back, caught the vague sound of easy talk. They weren’t trying to hide, he noted. Why would they? These were RangeClan cats, secure in their knowledge that their territory was safe. Instinct had him diving to one side, burrowing into the undergrowth.
“Hold up.” The voice was rich with authority and distinctly female. Storm ran through his mental bank of voices. Tried and failed to place it. It had been too long.
“Something wrong?” The second voice was unmistakably younger.
“Here. Smell this.”
“I don’t smell anything. Hey Frostclaw, can you smell anything?”
A third voice, presumably Frostclaw, cut in. “I think - ah. There. What is that?”
“A rogue, I think. Definitely cat, but I don’t recognise the group-scent.” The patrol leader sounded suspicious. Aggressive. Storm could picture her crouched over the path, her shoulders hunched as she inhaled the scent he thought he’d hidden.
Not well enough, mouse-brain. A ridiculous beginners mistake.
“Whoever it is, the scent is strong. They’re close.”
Storm bared his teeth in annoyance and crept backwards, careful not to make a sound. Somewhere before him, the RangeClan patrol fanned out. They’d fallen silent, but he could hear their faint breaths, feel their faint pawsteps beating against the soil. He swore under his breath as one set of pawsteps quickened and cut behind him. Storm spun and darted away through undergrowth, all attempts at stealth forgotten.
Someone let out a yowl, a clear signal to pursue him. Storm grit his teeth and forced his legs to pump faster. He didn’t want to meet his Clan this way, running like some frightened animal. He wanted to be in control, to face his clanmates as an equal. He twisted around a tree trunk, paws nimble, skidded to a halt as an outcrop of rock loomed before it. He had only a moment to examine it; there were several pawholds and enough ferns grew in the gaps between the boulders to take his weight. Considering the top of the outcrop would offer him a vantage point, one that would give him a distinct advantage over his hunters, he deemed it worth the risk.
The young tom bunched his muscles, exploded upwards, hooked his claws into the clump of ferns. A difficult climb, but he’s spent moons under Snakeeyes’ tutelage, learning to climb as RiftClan warriors did. After that first horrific fall, he’d been determined not to slip again.
He dragged himself upwards, one paw over the other. One hold to the next.
Almost there, almost there, almost-
He bit back a scream as black and white fur flashed at the edge of his vision.
“Going somewhere?” A tom, his limbs still lanky with youth, crouched on the top of the outcrop.
Storm hissed in frustration. He glanced downwards, spotted the two remaining members of the patrol as they crashed through the undergrowth. He spotted the leader immediately; she carried herself with unmistakable authority. The broadness of her shoulders, the muscle in her flanks suggested an incredibly strength. He glanced back up to the warrior above him and gave a wry smile. “Apparently not.”
“A good effort,” the patrol leader lashed her tail. She looked like part of the mountain had come to life. The soft colours of her pale tortoiseshell fur reminded him of snow and stone and the red of leaves as they fell. “But our knowledge of our territory is far superior to yours.”
“It would seem so.” Storm’s muscles cramped with the effort of hanging on. Some part of him worried that his claws were being pulled from his body. He sighed.
The plan. Remember the plan.
“Can I come down?” He let his voice shake.
The dilute tortoiseshell shared a glance with her companions, then nodded. Storm relaxed. He let his muscles loosen and dropped to the ground.
Surrounded. He forced himself to sheathe his claws, forced his pelt to lie flat. Slowly, he straightened, made himself look suitably terrified. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.
“For what?” The patrol leader hissed. She was a ghost, her half-masked face unforgettable.
Maybe one day you’ll know the truth, Halfmask, and you’ll understand why I’m sorry. Storm pressed his chest to the ground in an effort to appear submissive. “For showing up like this, so many seasons after I went away.”
He spotted her confusion, some concrete, palpable thing. Behind, in front, around, the pacing cats slowed. The black and white tom, the pale grey tom both straightened and looked to the senior member of their patrol. Halfmask stared, her eyes wide.
“It can’t possibly be you.” She breathed.
Storm nodded slowly. He pressed his chest to the ground and attempted to make himself as unthreatening as possible. “It is.”
Suspicion sharpened Halfmask’s gaze. “You’re lying. You’re dead.”
“I’m not.” He said.
She crept closer, nostrils flaring as she inhaled the young tom’s scent. “Stormkit had amber eyes.”
Storm raises one paw and pressed it to his cheek. The scars beneath his eye felt rough and ugly beneath his pads. Twin reminders of how much he’d changed. “I was injured,” he tried to explain. “I fell. Shattered my eye socket. My face... broke.”
The pale she-cat didn’t look as if she believed him.
“Um, Halfmask?” The black and white tom cut in. “What’s... what’s going on?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t remember,” the warrior said faintly. She straightened and glanced around. “Where’s...?”
The grey tom twitched his tail. “He took the overhead path. He’ll be waiting where the trails converge.”
“Fetch him, ” Halfmask snapped to order in a way that suggested she was used to giving orders and was used to having them obeyed. The powerful she-fat stalked forward and clamped Storm’s tail to the ground. “You. Stay.”
It was all he could do. The trio waited, tense, for the pale grey warrior to return with whoever he’d gone to fetch. Storm pressed his chest to the ground and arched his back, stretched his forelegs out before him in an attempt the work the kinks from his muscles. Beside him, Halfmask bristled, unsure if she should treat the movement as a threat.
“It’s alright,” the young tortoiseshell murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”
“That remains to be seen.” She sniffed. Storm understood her hesitance; she didn’t know if he was who he said he was, didn’t know if he was telling the truth. He’d grown into something long and scarred and lanky, nothing like the kit she’d known. He didn’t even smell like a RangeClan cat anymore. His scent was something else entirely - the tang of ice and blood had combined to form the bitter aroma of the Gorge.
Pawsteps beat at the edge of his hearing. Storm straightened, determined not to meet the fourth member of the patrol in such a submissive pose. The grey warrior returned, slipping easily through the undergrowth. Whoever he’d brought was moving faster, a little uncontrollably. The new arrival burst through the undergrowth in a tangle of limbs and whiskers.
The cat skidded to a halt. Taller than he was; long legs, sleek spotted pelt. Eyes as green as summer. Older now, despite the kitten fluff around his ears, his cheeks. “It’s you.” He breathed.
Storm rose slowly, limbs trembling from the effort. The threat had passed, the lingering suspicion turning to slow confusion. “Hello, Pikekit,” he said quietly. “It’s been a long time.”
They froze, their chests heaving as they regarded one another. The newcomer was unmistakably Storm’s kithood friend. His scent was still unchanged, the flecks of white and brown across his muzzle as familiar as the constellations he’d stared at above the Gorge.
“Frostclaw said... said a tortoiseshell,” he panted. “Someone Halfmask knew, and... and... I thought you were dead.” Relief and amazement warred in Pikekit’s voice.
Storm, entirely unsure of how to react, nodded slowly. “It’s me.” He promised and hoped Pikekit would believe him. The spotted tabby, Storm knew, would be his best chance at gaining access to the Clan. Perhaps this encounter had been fated.
The spotted tabby reached out one paw - slowly, hesitantly - and rested it on Storm’s shoulder. Stunned, terrified, phantom pain twitching beneath his skin, Storm jerked backwards, away from the lethality of touch. Pikekit - no, wait, he’s older now, he’ll be a warrior now - mirrored the movement, pelt spiking in alarm. Storm froze, muscles locked in the fight-or-flight response, and met each challenging stare in turn. No, no, stop, be still you’re home now they’d never hurt you whatever you do don’t hurt them don’t hurt them don’t hurt them.
He uncoiled slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said again, uncertain of forgiveness. “But I don’t like being touched.”
“Oh, um, sorry.” Pikekit/not-Pikekit lowered his paw.
Storm nodded stiffly, entirely unsure. “It’s... it’s fine.”
Despite the awkwardness of the encounter, Pikekit/not-Pikekit flashed a faint smile. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
I think it’s me. I hope it’s me.
Halfmask forced herself between them. She shouldered Pikekit/not-Pikekit back, a wall of muscle between her clanmate and a potential threat. “You recognise him?” She questioned.
The spotted tabby nodded. “It’s been some time, but I know his face. Those markings. I wouldn’t forget those markings.”
One of the many advantages, Storm supposed, to being a tortoiseshell.
“Stormkit,” his kithood companion said. “It’s Stormkit.”
The dilute warrior seemed to accept it as the truth. She nodded slowly, as if she were steeling herself for some great thing. Storm spotted the telltale signs of tension - the flexing of her claws, the rigidity of her shoulders - but her movements were decisive. “Frostclaw, Magpiefeather, you follow behind,” Halfmask directed. “Pikefang, you walk beside our guest.”
Wordlessly, the patrol members fell into formation. Storm rose to his paws, slowly, as not to startle them. He offered the spotted tabby a small smile. The warrior stood close - not close enough for their pelts to touch, but close enough to easily eliminate a potential threat. “So,” He meowed, in a desperate attempt to settle the strangeness between them. “You’re a warrior.”
“As of two moons ago.” The spotted tabby couldn’t help but puff his chest in pride.
“Pikefang’s a good name. A strong name.” Storm couldn’t quite remember how to hold a conversation. So much of his life had been orders and sharp questions and abrupt answers. He hadn’t had a decent talk with someone since he’d fallen out with Perch.
The tabby chewed his whiskers, visibly nervous. “You should have been there with me.” A sadness ran though him, impossibly deep, yet temporary. The young warrior straightened, stared resolutely ahead and Storm god the feeling that the spotted tabby was trying not to cry.
“I wish I could have been.” The ragged tortoiseshell admitted quietly.
Pikefang’s tail twitched. For a moment, Storm feared the spotted tabby would try to lay it across his shoulders in a gesture of comfort. The young tom sped up, but a tail-length of distance between them, ignored the hurt in his companion’s eyes. Pikefang sighed and accepted the distance between them. The space allowed him to think and breathe easier. Allowed him to focus on the quick steps of the warriors around him, the noises of the forest beyond.
Focus. Remember the plan.
They didn’t return to the border path. Instead, they ventured deeper into the forest. After the purity of the alpine air, the forest felt much too crowded. It thickened around him, threatened to choke him. Storm forced himself to stare, to try to catalogue landmarks, but all the scarred, dead trees looked the same. He remembered a story, murmured in Morningmist’s vague voice, told on a moonless night. A horror story, designed to scare. The forest had once been as green and lush as the rest of RangeClan territory. A popular place, for it was rich in prey, even in the depths of winter. RiftClan, jealous of our resources, invaded. Dozens of invasions. Dozens of lives sacrificed. So much blood, spilt within the confines of the forest that the trees could not grow.
At last, the gaps in the trees grew into proper clearings. Widened into a vast, grassy area, spotted with stone outcrops. Deep snowdrifts striped the open space. It was all so impossibly familiar. Across the meadow, a circle of boulders loomed. Trees grew between the gaps. Purple scrub clustered thickly about the base. Home. The word was so simple, so powerful, that it took his breath away. Storm had to stop and simply take it in. The ragged line of mountains. The broad sweep of too-blue sky. It called to him. Sang, in a language his heart had forgotten.
Halfmask forged ahead, entirely confident of the world and her place in it. The young warriors parted like a river and curved around him, tails kinked high over their backs. Only Pikefang stopped, a warm glow in his pale green eyes. “Amazing, isn’t it?” He breathed.
“Yes.” Storm whispered, and it was.
His companion was quick to smile. “Come on, then. Let’s get you back to camp. Ravenheart will be ecstatic.”
Ravenheart. His sister’s name was poetic. He repeated it to himself as he followed Pikefang across the meadow. Heather scraped at his pelt. Grass brushed against his belly. The world was a riot of colour, the late wildflowers still visible despite the snow. The richness of it all was astounding. Impossible. He couldn’t help but laugh because he felt so, so alive. He heard Pikefang’s breathy laughter as the young tabby gave chase. For a moment, they were young again and the past seasons had never happened and everything was as it should have been.
The patrol reconvened at a deep cleft between the stones. A twisting eucalyptus tree marked the entrance to the camp. Halfmask nodded as they arrived then turned and squeezed between the roots. The RangeClan camp was easily defended and difficult to gain access to - the narrow gap between tree and stone forced cats to enter single file. Unless, Storm thought grimly, they came swarming over the rocky walls as the Overlord once did.
Storm took a deep breath and slipped through the tunnel. His whiskers scraped stone. The narrow space was claustrophobic and reminded him of another time, another place. The young tom forced himself to breathe and keep breathing, forced himself to focus on Halfmask’s feathery tail just in front of him and Pikefang’s bulk just behind. Keep walking. Just keep walking. He narrowed his eyes as white light flooded the tunnel and they stepped out into the open air. It wasn’t quite fresh, choked with the scents of dozens of cats, all braided into the singular scent of the Clan.
The light was blinding. He narrowed his eyes, kept one ear on the gasps and mutters of cats. Halfmask forged ahead, calling for Icewhisker. The silver deputy appeared, his eyes fixed on Storm. The tortoiseshell lifted his chin and stared defiantly back. The camp was filled with familiar faces - he spotted Whiteclaw and Stoneface crouched by the fresh-kill pile, their mouths hanging open. Mossfire lay by the elder’s den, Morningmist beside her. The apprentice’s den was full of strangers. A trio of tabby faces, each speckled with white, watched their arrival with interest.
The crowd parted as a sleek black she-cat forced her way through, Icewhisker on her heels.
“Nightmask!” The deputy snapped. “Nightmask!”
The black tabby hissed in response, her amber eyes flashing. “Back off!” She spun, met Storm’s gaze.
The young tortoiseshell checked his instinctive step backwards. There was a sun-bright ferocity in those amber eyes. He wanted to tremble before them, wanted to duck his head and press his face into his mother’s fur, but he dared not move. “Hello, mother.” He whispered quietly.
“My son,” she breathed, awestruck. “You’ve come home.”
Storm opened his mouth to respond, snapped it shut again as Icewhisker stepped forward. “Nightmask,“ the silver tabby tried again. “You can’t possibly know-“
The dark she-cat straightened, her movements stiff with displeasure. “A mother does not forget the face of her child, be it five seasons or fifteen.” Nightmask had an unmistakable frosty grace, one that easily intimidated cats into agreeing with her. Even her mate had been afraid to disagree with her.
Evidently displeased, the deputy turned and stalked away, heading towards the looming bulk of the leader’s den. Storm watched as he disappeared into the shadows, his tail twitching in something akin to anger. He could smell it, crackling in the air like lightning in a storm. Beside him, Nightmask was babbling, her careful composure shattered, but Storm could scarcely hear her. All the sounds, all the scents, all the voices as his Clanmates stepped closer were simply too much to bear.
He wanted to tremble. Wanted to run. Wanted to attack before they could attack him. Instincts warned him that the presence this many cats was an unmistakable, undeniable threat. A fight he could not win, even with all his training. Storm unsheathed his claws and dug them into the hard-packed ground in an effort to anchor himself in the present. These were his Clanmates. His family. They would never hurt him.
He pulled away as Nightmask leaned forward. “Please,” he stuttered. “Space. I need some space.”
“Oh.” The black warrior pulled back, somehow both understanding and disapproving. “I see.”
Storm flattened his ears. His mother had always been a difficult cat to please, with impossible expectations of herself and of her kits. She had a way about her that made her Clanmates crave her approval, but her stony disposition suggested you’d die trying to get it. She’d been an impossible mother. Loving, devoted, but impossible.
“Excuse me!” A new voice, sharp as claws, split the air.
Storm craned his neck, caught a flash of bristling fur as the gathered Clan melted away. His mother stayed, immobile, at his side. There was a small comfort in her presence, and in Pikefang’s. The spotted tabby had put himself between Storm and the exit the moment they’d arrived and hadn’t yet moved.
“Excuse me! Move aside, Medicine Cat coming through!” His sister cut through the crowd with lethal grace. She’d grown into a smaller copy of their mother, with Redstar’s broader build rather than Nightmask’s height. White brindled her dark pelt, made her amber eyes seem wider and younger. She settled before him, let her eyes wander over his messy pelt, his scarred body. Storm noticed, shocked, that she was as tall as he was. “Hi.” She said quietly, a little shy, a little afraid.
“Hey there, little sister.” He said.
She grinned and it was a little like seeing the sun after a day of rain. “I thought I smelled memories.” She paced around him, her nose twitching as she examined him.
Storm turned, desperate to keep her in front of him. “So. Medicine Cat.”
“Yep,” she trilled, her voice rich with excitement. “I was given my name at the last half-moon meeting. It’s Ravenheart.” She added.
Storm couldn’t help but smile. “I know. Pikefang told me. It’s a pretty name, and you deserve it.”
Her bashful smile thanked him for the compliment and reminded him that he really didn’t know if she deserved it. If she was worthy of it. “You’d best come to the medicine den. You don’t look like you’ve got any fresh wounds, but you look dangerously underweight, and you’ll need a more in-depth examination.”
Ravenheart spun and forged her way across the camp. Her decisive movements left no room for arguments. Storm dropped his shoulders, let the tension leave his body and followed. Nightmask and Pikefang fell into step behind him. Storm didn’t like the idea of guards, but he had to admit it was a necessary thing.
He chewed his whiskers as he walked. His family seemed ready to accept his story, but the Clan would be harder to convince. It would be difficult to gain their trust. He could only hope his mother’s confidence would help.
The medicine den lay in a secluded corner of the camp. Ravenheart ducked beneath a low-hanging stone and emerged into a small clearing. A stony overhang, lined with herbs, formed one wall. The other sides were sheltered by thick, hazy scrub. Storm could scent cats, one or two perhaps, curled in nests hidden within the bush. Ravenheart twitched her tail towards a patch of sunlight. “Take a seat.” She kept her voice light and warm and unthreatening, but Storm could hear the strain in her words.
The tortoiseshell nodded in agreement and sat. The sun felt gloriously warm on his pelt. He kept a careful eye on his sister as she pawed through herbs. She selected a pawful, shredded them with careful claws, pushed them towards him. “Something to give you strength,” she meowed. “It’s a poor substitute for fresh-kill, but it’ll help.”
“Thanks.” Storm lapped them up and wrinkled his nose at the bitter taste.
He tensed as Ravenheart crept closer. The sleek she-cat sniffed at him, too close for comfort. Storm forced himself to hold his ground, despite his instincts screaming at him to run. Her teeth, her claws were too close to his body. His sister sensed his discomfort and began to murmur under her breath, senseless, soothing sounds. It was almost relaxing.
He shot upright again as pawsteps echoed through the tunnel. “Ravenheart! How’s our newest patient?”
It had been seasons since he’d seen the Medicine Cat, but nothing about Raintail has changed. Her thick, soft fur was handed with faint tabby stripes and her eyes were the same azure as the sky.
Ravenheart dipped her head in greeting. “No visible signs of sickness or recent injury, but he’s underweight and exhausted. And unnerved by the closeness of others.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Raintail, mindful of her apprentice’s words, kept her distance. Nightmask, seated by the exit, crooned in agreement. The Medicine Cat ignored her, turned instead to her apprentice. “There’s not much we can do, I’m afraid, beyond seeing to it that he’s fattened up. Why don’t you do and fetch him some prey, Nightmask? Something fresh.”
Instantly, the black she-cat was on her paws, glad of the chance to fuss. Storm had to admire Raintail’s tact; she’d effectively removed a distraction without insulting her, while making sure she was kept busy.
“And you,” Raintail turned to Pikefang. “Do you have a good reason for being here?”
The spotted tabby twitched his tail. “I’m sure Icewhisker wants him under guard until he decides what to do.”
Icewhisker. Interesting. Storm laid his chin on his paws and tried to remember if he’d seen his father. No. Redstar had been curiously absent from his impromptu homecoming, and all three of his remaining companions seemed ready to accept Icewhisker’s instructions as final.
Where are you, Redstar?
“Well, I’m sure you can keep guard just as effectively from outside my den. I have more patience besides your friend, and I can’t have you sitting there where I’m going to trip over you.” Raintail shooed the tabby warrior from her den. Pikefang didn’t protest, but cast a longing look over his shoulder. Storm met his summer-green eyes and tried to look encouraging.
He wasn’t sure it worked.
“We thought you were dead, you know,” Raintail sat before him and wrapped her tail around her paws. The movements were snow and soft. The plump she-cat radiated kindness; Storm found he didn’t quite know how to react. “Although, thinking back, I suppose that was a foolish notion. The Overlord wanted you alive for a reason.”
The tortoiseshell folded both paws over his nose, unsure. Unsettled. “Everyone keeps saying that.” He mumbled. Raintail seemed truly, unselfishly kind, but the voice in his head whispered that he stepped carefully.
“That you were taken for a reason?” The pale grey she-cat sounded skeptical.
Storm moved only his eyes and met her inquisitive stare. “That they thought I was dead.”
The Medicine Cat raised one paw. Storm tensed and shifted slightly backwards, his pelt bristling. Slowly, painfully slowly, Raintail rested her forepaw on his. Acting on instinct, Storm unsheathed his claws and dug them into his mossy nest, and yet, despite the tension in his muscles as he prepared to strike, the she-cat did not pull away. “You feel alive to me.” She said quietly.
Do I? He wanted to speak the words aloud, but they caught somewhere between his heart and his mouth. Storm pulled his paw out from beneath hers and looked away, his mouth dry.
“Hey! For StarClan’s sake, can you look at me?”
The voice split the air like claws. Storm was on his paws in a heartbeat, teeth bared and tail lashing. He settled into a defensive stance, legs locked and ready to pounce. Beside him, Raintail sighed and climbed to her paws. “Here we go.” She muttered. The she-cat sounded exhausted. Suddenly, Storm was curious. It hummed in the hollow cavity of his chest, where feelings that weren’t anger used to lurk.
Paws drummed against the well-worn floor as Pikefang forced his way back into the den, his tail lashing. The young tom looked furious and unsure, torn between memory and loyalty. Outside, the shouting continued.
“Almost two moons,” Raintail muttered. “And he chooses now.”
Pikefang’s gaze slid sideways. The young tom’s long canine teeth were caught over his bottom lip, as if he were sneering. “Nightmask told him.”
“She should not have been so foolish,” Raintail lashed her tail. It was the only sign she gave that she was upset. She glanced over her shoulder, found Storm hunched and ready to fight, found Ravenheart standing just behind, slack-jawed and worried. “Stay with your brother, Ravenheart. There’s no way this can end well.”
Wary, Storm kneaded the ground with anxious claws. The unrest spoke volumes, as did the way Ravenheart edged closer, as if to shield him from what was coming. Her touch was softer than a whisper. “Loosing you was hard on all of us,” she whispered. “On our father, most of all.”
Storm only had a moment to wonder about what she meant before the cacophony of sound breached the calm of the Medicine Den. Three cats, one ahead and two slightly behind, like an unsheathed claw. An arrowhead of barely concealed emotion. It was like the vague memory of a nightmare, forgotten until the sun fell and memories stole back in. Storm stared.
His father looked nothing at all like the cat he remembered. The leader who stood before him was wild and unkempt, his red tabby fur sticking out at harsh angles. His once muscular body had withered until he was as gangly as a young kit. His eyes – roving, haunted – widened as they found Storm. The young tortoiseshell fought the urge to recoil; there was madness in Redstar’s eyes, something sick and disbelieving.
“Redstar, please,” Nightmask demurred as she pressed herself to the red tom’s side. “Look at me.” The desperate attempt to distract her mate went unanswered.
Storm thought about pressing himself against Ravenheart’s side, then straightened, determined not to be afraid. “Hello.” He whispered. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him. There was no recognition in his father’s gaze. No hope. No joy. No adoration. Nothing but an anger Storm could only describe as desolate.
“How can I?” Redstar’s voice was strange and coarse from disuse. “How do expect me to look at you when that is standing there?”
“That?” Nightmask bristled. Her manner shifted, turning from pleading to ferocious in a heartbeat. She was smaller than her mate, despite his malnourished state, and yet she took up far more space. “That is Stormkit. Our son. You will not treat him as anything else.”
A hurricane was brewing within the walls of the Medicine Den. Too many bodies were crammed into the tiny space. Focus on your breathing. Slate’s words echoed through Storm’s skull. He forced himself to look up, to analyse the situation before him. The tension between his parents was unmistakable. To one side, Pikefang looked uncomfortable, his green eyes focusing on anything but the quarrel. Raintail’s whispers were twitching, her face tight with fury. For a moment, Storm thought that the passive she-cat would throw the new arrivals from her den.
“Nightmask.” Icewhisker, almost forgotten cut in.
Storm glanced up. He’d forgotten the silver deputy had followed his parents into the den. The spotted tabby looked tired. He’d been awake too long, Storm thought. The sun rose too early and set too late.
“This isn’t the time or the place,” the deputy urged. He shot a pointed glance sideways. Storm bristled at the accusation in the tom’s cobalt gaze. “We should let Stormkit rest.”
“Stormkit,” Redstar’s voice dripped venom. “That is not his name. That name belongs to my son, and my son is dead. That is not my son.” He twitched his matted tail towards Storm. For a long moment, the red tabby stood silent, then turned and began the slow, deliberate trek back to his den. “Get it out of my sight. Out of my territory. You have until sunset.”
He left a thorn-studded silence behind.
In that moment, Storm felt weightless, as if everything holding him down no longer existed. His Clanmates – no, not his Clanmates, never his Clanmates, not if they were going to stand there and do nothing – stared. Ravenheart stood beside him still, her mouth hanging open. Slowly, she turned towards him. “Stormkit-” She started.
The tortoiseshell twitched one ear and turned away. “He’s right,” the tortoiseshell muttered. “That name doesn’t belong to me.”
He padded back to the mossy nest and kept one eye on Icewhisker as the silver deputy followed his leader, his tail dragging through the dust. He kept one ear on Pikefang as the spotted tabby glanced from deputy to Medicine Cat to forgotten son, then hurried from the clearing.
“Of course it does!” Ravenheart protested. “Who else would it belong to?”
Storm folded both paws over his nose and tried to ignore his persistent sister. “The cat I used to be.”
“That’s awfully melodramatic, brother.”
Storm wanted to hiss in frustration. The day had been too long. Too much. Or perhaps it hadn’t been enough. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to feel. What had he expected, though? Really? To be welcomed back into the clan with bright eyes and soft words and friendly nuzzles? No, he’d been gone too long.
“I don’t expect you to ever understand,” he spat. “You didn’t live it, Ravenheart. You got to be here. You got to grow up safe and loved and whole. You didn’t have to do anything but be yourself to get where you are.”
“Enough.” Raintail spoke quietly, but her voice carried the unmistakable weight of authority. There was a faint tremor in her voice, but an underlying strength persisted. The Medicine Cat turned towards them. “Icewhisker is right. Stormkit needs to rest.”
She spoke his name in a way that gave no room for arguments. Storm set his jaw and burrowed deeper into the moss, no longer willing or wanting to listen. Sensing a lost battle, both the Medicine Cat and her apprentice turned away. “Just leave him for now.” Raintail whispered.
I’m sorry I’m not the cat you remember, Ravenheart.
“Will he get better?” Even hushed, his sister’s voice was distinctive. It carried the heavy mountain burr he’d missed, with the soft tones native to RangeClan. The cadence was clear, each syllable perfectly spoken.
It was strange, the things he thought about. Dreamed about.
“Of course,” Raintail’s voice was softer, rounder, wiser. “He just needs time. As you said, there’s nothing physically wrong with him.” Their voices faded as both she-cat’s left the den, either to give him space he didn’t want to need or to find his parents.
That is not my son.
His father’s words hit harder than he cared to admit. Storm was hot and cold and numb and hurting. He was a thousand tumultuous things and thought a thousand unsettling thoughts. He wondered about Snakeeyes and his careful-not careful plan, about the words they’d spoken and the plans they’d made. Maybe the Overlord had been right – maybe his Clan didn’t want him. His father certainly didn’t.
He tried to remember if any of his Clanmates had been pleased to see him. His mother had. His sister had. The others had not. Even Pikefang had hesitated to welcome him back.
That is because they thought you were dead, he reasoned with himself. They have every reason to be cautious. And yet, it was the Overlord’s voice he heard, echoing through his mind.
He examined his unsheathed claws and nibbled at the moss caught between his toes. It was a meaningless distraction, meant to buy him nothing but time to think.
That is not my son.
That is not my son.
That is not my son.
Something black crawled out of his mind and into his heart. It wove its way through his chest and whispered dark things. Slate had called them intrusive thoughts. They weren’t his thoughts, but were impossible to distinguish from his own.
Fine, he thought. If I’m not your son, then I suppose you’re not my father.
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