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Post by ✨ ιηνєяѕєяєαℓιту on May 17, 2018 22:41:24 GMT -5
THE STORY
prologue
“We cannot let them win,” the gray tom said. “We cannot let one of the Spring win the race.” Another tom, this one once white but now yellowed with age and carelessness, nodded his agreement. He swept his skinny tail in a wide arc around the small gathering. “Of course not. Do you remember the last time one of theirs had a place on the Council?” “We can’t let that happen again,” the gray tom agreed solemnly, his eyes dark and determined. “We can’t afford it.” A third cat, this one young, slender, and feminine, closed her eyes against the other two forms. “No. The Council cannot have another one.” She took a deep breath and flexed her claws, then opened her eyes again. “The Council knows this. But I’m not sure the rest of them are willing to take the same actions we are.” The gray tom drew a paw lazily over his ear, slicking his fur back. “They aren’t,” he said decisively. “They’ve grown… a bit soft, you could say.” Now the she-cat pulled her lips back from her teeth, her eyes glittering. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve got it covered.” Her claws sank violently into the dirt, and her grin was like a slash across her face. The other two mirrored her smile. “I’m sure you do,” said the yellow tom, his eyes dark. “I’m sure you do.” The bushes rustled on the other side of the clearing, breaking the silence that had grown around them. The three cats’ mouths closed, and they drew away from each other as if they had never spoken. A she-cat stepped out from the shadows of the forest, her fur rippling with both muscle and moonlight. Her eyes glittered with every color under the sun, and the dark of her fur contrasted sharply with the white of her fangs and the glow from her eyes. Her lean muscle was developed not from battle training, like the others, but from running and hunting and swimming. It was a wonder that the she-cat had never been chosen for the races, but the other three cats were immensely thankful that she had not. It played in their favor that she had never experienced it. The three original cats looked at this latest one, and then they looked at each other, and then they looked everywhere else. There was a long silence, in which the new she-cat watched the others, her eyes scanning their faces. “So what,” she said, quietly and somehow loudly at the same time, “will we cover today?” Her voice was liquid silver, and it swam through the clearing, choking the others. For several long moments, no one spoke. None of the three cats met the fourth’s eyes, instead looking everywhere but at her. Then, finally, the first she-cat drew herself up and leveled her gaze with the second’s. “Today”—and here there was a pause, as if the she-cat did not know how to proceed—“we need to address your proposal.” The first she-cat took a deep breath and stared the other down, but the second she-cat’s eyes glittered with something the other three could not place. “Of course.” And the second she-cat stepped into the circle.
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The river ran more violently than usual, as if even it could sense the change in the air. In this section of the forest, two cats sat with their heads held high and their tails curled delicately around their petite paws. The dim light highlighted the arch of their chests, pushed out regally from the two cats’ rigid positions. A light mist of rain fell across their muzzles, and they had closed their eyes against it, so when the third cat appeared on the bank of the river, the two others did not notice. The third cat took this moment to take in the two she had chosen to meet. The first was undoubtedly older than the second, with swirls of gray mixing into the dark of her muzzle, and she towered at least a head over her companion. Wisdom, experience, and solid determination were shown in the hard line of her jaw and the tightness of her fur across her face. The second cat was smaller and younger, but no more weak or naïve than the first. Her small head was grim, her jaw set, and her claws were unsheathed and digging lightly into the ground. Her fur was light and soft and sleek, and no doubt she was the object of many affections—but even from here, the third cat could see that she was taken. Her belly was quite rounded out, and the fur was thinner there, and the third cat imagined she could sense the life beneath the second cat’s skin, thrumming, ready to take the world by storm. But beneath the livelihood and elegance and the mask of determination, there was a weariness that penetrated, and the third cat found it difficult to retain her balance once she was hit with it. These cats were moments away from total resignation, and this was the reason for the third cat’s arrival. “You are here,” said the old she-cat. The third cat jerked—the old she-cat had not opened her eyes, and the third cat had not made a sound. “I am,” she said at last, once she had fully composed herself. The second cat blinked open her eyes, and she gave the third a look that dug into her bones. “What will you have us do?” she inquired, in a tone both demanding and resigned. And the third drew in her breath, for this was why she had come, and she placed her paw against the ground. “Do as I do,” she told them, after several long moments had allowed her to find her center. Beneath her paws she could feel the river shaking the ground, and the fur along her neck tingled. “Do you feel this?” She knew the first she-cat did—it was, after all, how she had known of the third’s presence, and the reason why she was here—but the second cat she had not anticipated, and so she had little faith in her connection. But the second cat placed her paw against the ground for only a moment before she brought her eyes back to bore into the third cat’s skull, and so she did not question it. “This is where your strength will lie,” she told them, and then she stood to disappear into the night. “Channel it.”
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Post by ✨ ιηνєяѕєяєαℓιту on May 17, 2018 22:42:01 GMT -5
THE STORY
SPRING PROVINCE FOREST OF BLESSINGS. MIDSUMMER. Silence. Then—a whisper of leaves, brushing against one another. The faintest crunch; a hollow snap, echoing through the trees. Marceline lunged. But there was nothing, as with every pounce, and her mentor emerged instead from the opposite direction of her jump. Always hearing things that weren’t there and never noticing what was. “Marceline…” the pale golden she-cat began, but Marceline’s shoulders shrank into her back before she could continue. “I don’t think I’m the one for this, Bazel,” she whispered, hanging her head. “I’ll never feel it, and I’ll never find you.” Bazel sighed and crouched down to look up at her apprentice. “Not with that attitude, starling. You will—you just need to focus more on yourself before you focus on grounding. You can’t truly connect to the forest if you can’t even utilize your own senses.” Marceline didn’t reply. Grounding…she wasn’t sure she even believed it was possible, not now. She’d been training for two whole seasons and had yet to grasp it, and, moreover, had never seen any other perform the actions she was supposed to be able to pull out of the air herself. Bazel insisted she never speak of it with anyone else, to top it off. She was beginning to think Bazel had some bizarre superstitions she wanted to vicariously bring alive in her. “You still have four seasons before it’s time,” her mentor went on. “But that’s a double-pointed claw. Four seasons to master not only yourself, but grounding as well, before we can’t help you anymore.” Before we can’t help you anymore. Marceline couldn’t help but to shiver. “I don’t think I’m the one for this,” she repeated, in an even smaller voice than before. Bazel was becoming exhausted; Marceline could see it in her eyes and hear it in her breathing. The golden she-cat’s gaze darkened and she snapped, “Do you doubt your leader?” The new, harsher note in her mentor’s voice startled her, and she sharply shook her head. No, Oraia was no fool. “Then snap out of it, Marceline. Oraia chose you herself, as all leaders do for runners. You were no random pick, no open volunteer—you were chosen. Oraia surveyed the incoming apprentices and decided herself that if there were a cat to bring Spring at last to victory, it would be you.” Or Vazhel, Marceline thought sullenly, but knew better than to voice this to Bazel. The older she-cat would have little sympathy for jealousy. She’d only snort and tell her apprentice that Vazhel would never ground. Something that, truthfully, Marceline didn’t understand, and Bazel wouldn’t explain. “I suppose,” she said at last, instead of confiding her thoughts. Maybe once she could ground—assuming it was a real thing that could happen—she’d finally be privy to all the details she couldn’t now dig out of her mentor. “Let’s practice something else for now,” Bazel meowed, and Marceline felt some life return to her. “I don’t think we’ve assessed your running for a good few days now. I want to see you run to the edge of the marshlands, okay? I’ll follow behind you and see if there’s anything we need to tighten up…and don’t forget to pull your paws up close to you when you jump the underbrush.” Finally, something I can do. Marceline dropped into a crouch, bunching the muscles in her hind legs, and looked to Bazel for a start signal. The forward bound, hardly waiting for Bazel to complete her nod, was familiar and easy: Marceline’s true skill, if she had any. Fellow apprentices and warrior clanmates alike praised her on her speed and control, and she couldn’t deny the pride she felt for the power in her legs and the depth of her lungs. Bazel was right though—the slim white apprentice ran with ease on unobstructed ground, but in the forest, her legs tangled in underbrush and sent her sprawling more times than she cared to admit. It took only a few long strides to break out of the trees and into the open Wild Meadow, where Marceline’s path was only complicated by wiry stems and bright, distracting flowers. In a shallow valley in the center, a stream cut through the barrage of color, and Marceline launched herself toward it, tilting her head toward her chest to minimize the sting of the plants that whipped her as she ran. Cool water suddenly engulfed her legs. The small she-cat paused, picking her way across the rolling pebbles, careful to stay upright despite her pads’ lack of grip on their slick surfaces. Bazel’s never given me advice about crossing water in a hurry. And then she was out, streaking through the last swath of flowers and into the copse of trees on the other side. Now her lungs began to burn. She gritted her teeth and lowered herself further to the ground, propelling her body through the trees and over thickets and bramble bushes, remembering to tuck her paws up close to her body as Bazel’s reminder ran through her head. Then, at last, the marshlands. Marceline finally skidded to a stop just as the trampled under-tree grass morphed into the tall, thin, perpetually wet grasses the lined the edge of the marsh. She heard her mentor stop just behind her but paid the older she-cat little mind. Here, the marshlands, was her favorite place in the entire province of Spring. There was a certain serenity here. The lanky grasses billowed softly in the breeze, and the calm, still waters between were disturbed only by lazy ripples made by scattered wildlife: the gentle landing of a bird here, the gradual trek of a half-submerged turtle there. On the farthest side, several small streams from throughout the territory joined up with the roaring river, launching toward where the forest resumed, marking the border of the Summer province. But it wasn’t just the view that made it Marceline’s favorite place: here was where the prey most varied, and—in Marceline’s opinion—was the most tasty. There were more species of bird than she could count, some, even, that only came around certain times of the year. An otter found here could feed half the province. Moreover, the rabbits found on the edges here didn’t require heavy use of Marceline’s as-yet unmastered senses; vision alone would locate her prey, and her swift paws would do the rest. Yet today the gentle tranquility here was broken. Across the marsh, where the river met the forest, her clanmates were locked in battle. WINTER PROVINCE GLACIER RAVINE. MIDSUMMER. Cats didn’t have to die for someone to win the races, but several always did. Jozka wouldn’t be one of them. Most, in fact, failed to survive long enough to reach the end. In the past few races in particular, few, if any, of the nonwinning racers ever escaped the forest where it took place. Jozka had been told of at least one race where no one returned. Cats who weren’t racers were forbidden to enter the Half-Moon Forest, and those who did survive it were forbidden from speaking of it, so no one would ever learn of the lost cats’ fates. All they could expect was that they were dead. But Jozka wouldn’t be the one to fall this round, he knew that much. He’d train until his paws bled and his legs gave out if it was what it took. And it showed: Jozka had been a slim tom when he began his training. Now he was nearly as thick as his father, and it had only been a few quarter-moons. He wasn’t worried. He knew better than to grow complacent, though—he’d train every day up until the race began, no slacking, no matter how ready he thought he was. Weakness wouldn’t be the death of him, but arrogance wouldn’t either. Bleak made sure of that. Jozka would win the Half-Moon race next year. He would win it, and he would earn his star-name and take his place on the council with all those who ran before.
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“Fantastic catch, Jozka.” His mother nodded down at him as he dragged the massive rabbit into the camp. She was nearly the mirror image of him: silver tabby markings around legs and tail and splashed across her face, white around her torso and on her cheeks, bold ice blue eyes. But where her gray stripes faded directly into a blinding snow white, Jozka’s first turned bronze, then honey gold, then blended into a faintly more creamy off-white. Flint, Winter’s sole elder, told Jozka it meant that somewhere in his ancestry there was a flame point cat, or maybe a ginger tabby. But all Jozka gleaned from that was that there was a cat in his line that was from a different province, maybe Summer, maybe—seasons forbid—Spring, and so the silvery apprentice chose to believe his mother’s story instead: The Sun itself, she’d told him, had chosen him for the race, and where its rays touched Jozka’s stripes, they turned them gold. “It’s almost as big as you,” Sleetstorm continued, purring. She flicked her tail against Jozka’s ear; pride lit the Winter deputy’s eyes, and she smiled as she went on her way. It was true. The rabbit was so big that it dragged the ground between Jozka’s paws, and he had to walk with his front paws splayed apart and sort of waddle in order to carry it forward. Truthfully, he was as surprised himself as anyone that he’d caught something so large, even with it being the middle of summer and him rapidly growing to approach the size of full-grown warriors. He dragged it toward a dip in the gray stone floor, where another tabby point—this one also off-white, but with darker gray stripes and darker blue eyes—sat cleaning his front paws. “Sionek!” Jozka greeted, flopping the rabbit down between them. “Would you like to share?” But his brother shook his head, not meeting Jozka’s eyes. “No thanks,” he told him, getting to his paws. “Eat it yourself. You need all you can eat to bulk up for the race.” “But—” Sionek was out of earshot before Jozka could protest. He thought he’d detected a note of bitterness in the other tom’s voice, but for what? Jozka had never been anything but friendly to his brother, as far as he knew. If he’d done anything, he hadn’t meant it. Maybe he’d imagined it, but then why had Sionek left? The rabbit was big enough to fill both of them and then some, and Jozka knew that Sionek liked rabbit. “Panther?” he tried instead, gesturing with his tail toward the rabbit as his fellow runner apprentice padded by. The she-cat was a shadow in broad daylight. Wispy black fur and faint charcoal stripes provided sharp contrast against her silvery undercoat and eyes, which were a paler yellow than anything Jozka had ever seen. His clanmates always said they’d never seen a cat with their fur until Panther’s father Tundra was born, and speculation about his parenthood had been active ever since, as no one had ever named his own father. The smoke tabby pelt stood out sharply against Winter territory, especially in the winter snows, yet somehow Jozka had little doubt that Panther would be a formidable hunter and sneaky as anyone when the time came. Even more curious was the black she-cat’s perpetual silence—Jozka didn’t think he’d ever heard her speak. His clanmates’ lack of chatter about her muteness led him to think that it was intentional, that at some point, when he hadn’t been around, someone had heard her speak, but it was bizarre nonetheless. He’d always kept an ear perked for her voice, just in case she ever chose to speak within earshot. This was not one of those times. The black apprentice paused, glancing first at Jozka and then at the rabbit at his paws, then wordlessly padded toward him without so much as a nod. Jozka climbed into the dip and folded his paws beneath him; Panther crouched down across from him, not looking at him a second time, and tore into the flank of his catch. “How’s your training going?” he asked, tentatively attempting conversation. It wasn’t an empty question—they didn’t often train together, and she was the other entry to the race, so he was genuinely curious. But no answer came. “Do you think you’re gonna win?” he tried again. Still nothing. Not even a flick of an ear or eye contact to give any indication that she had heard. It sort of made him feel like no words had actually left his mouth, as if he’d only spoken in his head. He didn’t try further after that. Instead he lost himself in his own mind again, envisioning the race, and answered his second question in Panther’s place. No, she won’t, he thought, because I will. He couldn’t help but feel his shoulders drop a little though, because he couldn’t deny, now that he’d thought about it: that meant his fellow runner could die. Even the thought that it wasn’t necessary that she did was little consolation. While Jozka was sure Panther would be able to hold her own with ease, less and less cats came back from the races each time, and he wasn’t optimistic that this one would be any different. Whatever the cause, Jozka had to accept that he very well could be the only runner to leave that forest. Beyond the fact that he didn’t really want a fellow Winter to be killed during the race, he had to wonder—would he have to watch his clanmate die? But another question—and answer—came to him before he could block it. Would it be worth knowing that the rest of the runners were dead, or seeing someone he’d grown up with die, to earn his place on the council and the power to shape the provinces? He knew it was cruel. But Jozka couldn’t get himself to say that it wouldn’t.
chapter three - marceline SPRING PROVINCE SPRING-SUMMER BORDER. MIDSUMMER. Marceline and Bazel played their own part in wrecking the peace, paws throwing water ahead and behind and beside as they ran, birds suddenly scattering to escape their path. The marsh wasn’t very wide across, but as they rushed to defend their clanmates, it felt like a grand, endless ocean. At first Marceline hadn’t been able to make out the writhing enemy cats. Reason, however, had told her it was Summer—that was, after all, their border, but Spring had dealt with rogues before—and now, as they neared the fight, Marceline could see she had been right. Mentor and apprentice found themselves suddenly face to face with two others immediately after leaping from the marshlands; they wasted no time in splitting, slashing, meeting claw with claw, and Marceline dove headfirst into the first real, not-training fight she’d ever been in. It was running that was her strong suit, but she wasn’t nearly as terrible at fighting as she was with her senses, or forest hunting. While her small size gave her a disadvantage, as did her reliance on vision, Bazel hadn’t taught her to be discouraged and undetermined, and she fought back with dredged up confidence, with defiance at these cats who dared put their claws on her clanmates. Her opponent was bigger than her by far. Marceline felt as if she could stand straight between the other feline’s legs and her back fur would only just reach the other’s belly. But the size difference would allow her maximum agility. The other cat, a golden tom, hissed and bunched himself into a pouncing position; Marceline ducked as he sprang, nipping a hind leg as it passed her. She spun, but the tom was quicker, and he was already on her and digging his claws into her shoulders. “End this!” The yowl sliced through the haze of battle, and Marceline froze, shoulders bucked back and claws only lightly skimming the ground from shoving her opponent off. The golden tom stayed where he was behind her, hind legs bunched from the landing, front paws still outstretched. Oraia stood atop the dry, ragged stump where a tree had once stood before a storm took it out. Wood spikes from the break pushed up through the fur of her toes. The sun lit her gray pelt golden silver as her eyes flashed in its glow, anger radiating like the steam from the marsh after a summer rainstorm. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, surrounded by daggers of wood and flaming sunlight, she was the picture of furious regality. “And why should we?” Blaze spat. The Summer leader crouched at the edge of the trees, the Spring deputy Chausie only inches away, glaring at him with her own teeth still bared and tail still lashing. Glistening red was spattered across both their pelts. “Your cats caused a problem here. Can’t finish what you started?” “My cats,” Oraia hissed between sharp white teeth, “aren’t that ignorant. We have no reason to begin fights with our neighbors.” There was silence, momentarily; Oraia looked as if she wanted to say more, but whatever it was, she kept it inside. Blaze only hmphed. “I suppose we’ll just have to see how the Council feels about that,” he said, and then he grinned a grin of pure self-satisfied malice.
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Sliced skin pulled with every step, and Marceline’s face was a permanent wince on the walk back to camp. During the fight, the adrenaline had mostly blocked her register of pain, but now, defeated and exhausted, every wound on her pelt screamed. And there were a lot of them. Nothing major, nothing big, but it felt like every part of her body had a claw scratch somewhere, and that was almost true. Cinnamon fur filled her peripheral as Vazhel fell in step on her right side. A nasty wound stretched from between his eyes and across his nose to the edge of his jaw. “Well,” he puffed at length, “I don’t see how that was fair at all.” Marceline let out a humorless snort. “We’re Spring. Involve Spring with anything and fairness goes straight to the wind.” She could see the resentment lining the shoulders of every cat in their procession as she said it. And it was true. What the cats of Spring did to deserve their treatment, no one would ever know, but it was harsh nonetheless. Marceline couldn’t swallow her bitterness. “What do you think the Coucil will decide?” Vazhel quieried, tilting his head to the forest behind them. “They’ll rule in Summer’s favor, of course. What else can we expect? Impartiality, in the Council? Ha!” This came from Tempest, Vazhel’s shorter-furred brother, dropping back from his position further up to keep pace with the two of them. “Nice one, Vazhel. Still as idealistic as ever, I see.” The cinnamon tom shrugged. “I suppose I keep hoping they aren’t as bad as our mentors say.” “Maybe in your dreamworld.” Tempest wrinkled his nose and glared at the sky. “Cruel twist of fate that I’m not gonna be a runner like you two. I guarantee you I’d make it out of there alive and first. And then I’d show the Council how a councilmember should act.” Marceline finally let a small smile cross her face. “You’re far too rash,” she teased. “You’d get yourself killed on the first day.” A somber tone crept back into her voice as she added, “But make no mistake: that is our intention as well.” She lost herself in thoughts of the half-moon race as Tempest and Vazhal bickered back-and-forth on either side of her. Would they succeed? The last time a Spring cat had won a race was so far back in history that no one was really sure it had ever happened. Maybe it hadn’t and the mention of it was meant only to motivate. Whatever the case, it had been obvious to Marceline since before she had even been chosen as a runner that the Spring were getting restless. Some cats whispered of violent overthrow in shadowy camp corners; others insisted the runners be pushed harder and harder still, until there was nothing but ruthlessness left in their souls. Marceline didn’t feel that they were training any harder than any of the regular apprentices, other than maybe her mentor’s insistence on learning the mysterious and elusive “grounding.” Feelings of incompetence rested on her shoulders every day, and she couldn’t help but worry about Oraia’s choice in her as a runner. So, indeed, would they succeed? Vazhal was strong and level-headed to be sure, but though he was as long and tall as any SeasonClan cat, his lithe stature couldn’t come close to the bulkiness of the Winter and Summer cats, and no one tread on more silent, quick paws than those in Autumn. Marceline, for her part, couldn’t even figure out which direction rustling leaves were coming from. She wasn’t hopeful.
The trees broke to reveal an unfamiliar wall of stone, stretching up and nearly out of sight. Long shadows fell over the line of Winter cats; the moon, obscured here by the rock formation, draped pale white light onto a gathering of cats beyond it. “This is Clawhold,” Bleak—both Winter’s leader and Jozka’s mentor—announced to the apprentices fanned out on either side of him. All four apprentices were here today for their first meeting at Clawhold. Jozka didn’t know what he was expecting as they walked here tonight, but it wasn’t this. The curved, sharp stone pillars, glistening under the light mist the sky spat down in sporadic bursts, were the most immense and regal things Jozka had ever laid his eyes upon. The thought that this would be his home in a year’s time, if he—no, when he—won the race, flitted across Jozka’s mind. Bleak started down over the slope, beckoning with his tail for his cats to follow him. Jozka leapt down after him, paws slipping momentarily on the slick ground, while Panther padded at his side as gracefully as ever. Chamomile, the other normal apprentice, leapt down from beyond Bleak, with Jozka’s brother on his far side—as far away, Jozka noted, as he could get. More cats were gathered at the center of the ring of claw-stones than Jozka could have ever imagined existed. He could make out each province: beyond the small gap between the two groups below him, the sand- and gold-colored cats mixed in with Autumn’s other brown pelts contrasted sharply with Summer’s own indiscriminate browns. The Winter cats, as they filed down into the clearing, brought moon and night to the otherwise forest-colored SeasonClan. Of all the pelts of the provinces, those of Winter stood out the most. Spring had not yet arrived. A snort rose to Jozka’s nose. Did he expect any different? It was true that they were on the far end of Summer, just as Winter was on the far end of Autumn, but Winter were here now, weren’t they? “Spring must be embarrassed,” Jozka snickered. Panther’s only acknowledgement that she heard was a flick of her ear. “Probably sulking on their way, putting off their punishment.” “You’d think they’d realize being late will be just as mortifying.” A dark gray tabby flopped down next to him, dark blue eyes glittering with mocking. Zivan, Winter’s newest warrior, shook his head at the edge of Clawhold where Spring would presumably enter. “Making it harder and harder for themselves, as always. I can’t help but wonder why it’s so difficult for them to keep out of trouble.” Jozka rolled his eyes. “What did they do, anyway?” “The Council doesn’t typically share the details before trial.” Zivan shrugged. “I think it’s to reduce bias before judgement. We’ll find out when Spring arrives.” They sat in silence for a time. Light showers began and stopped repeatedly, just enough to coat the cats’ pelts, sending a chilly blast of wind through Clawhold each time it stopped. For once, Jozka was thankful for his thicker pelt, normally a burden in the summer months. Summer and Autumn beside them were mildly shivering. “Now’s as good a time as any to see who you’ll be up against in the race,” Zivan said abruptly, gesturing with his tail toward the others provinces. The apprentices in Summer and Autumn were easy to pick out: they were smaller and fluffier than their warrior counterparts. “But how do I know who the runners are?” Jozka asked. “Runners sit at the front of their province with their mentors, like the leader, deputy, and medicine cat.” Zivan tilted his head toward Panther. “It’s the provinces’ way of posturing, I guess, and letting the runners get a good look at each other. After all, you all are each province’s biggest assests. I’ll be heading behind you with the rest when Spring arrives.” The gray tabby eyed the stones on the far side of the clearing. “If that ever happens, anyway.” Jozka puffed a sharp laugh in response, but his eyes were already roaming over the other runners. In Autumn were two lithe she-cats, one faint brown with abnormally large ears, and the other a slightly smaller tortoiseshell. Both sat primly with their paws tucked beneath their paws, attentively watching the flat outcropping in front of them where the Council would appear. Beyond them sat the Summer runners, both of them brown tabby toms with broad shoulders like the Winter cats. The first tom’s coat had more red tints to it, and the second’s was more pale, with white markings. Both were a full head taller than the she-cats in Autumn. “Well, the Autumn runners can’t be too hard to beat," Jozka commented after a while. “They’re smaller than any other runner here.” Zivan laughed softly. “Don’t let your guard down too much with smaller cats. Fantome is the fastest, sneakiest she-cat in Winter—and the smallest. They train differently, anyway, and don’t fight like bigger felines.” “I suppose.” But those two looked more delicate than Fantome—although that could, of course, be at least partially because she was seasons older than the runner apprentices—and so Jozka was unconvinced. A hush washed suddenly over the gathering of cats before he could say as much, and Jozka looked instantly at the far end of the clearing. The Spring cats had arrived at last, lead down the incline by a muscular charcoal she-cat—unmistakably their leader, Oraia. Gold-rimmed blue eyes blazed through the night, fierce rather than ashamed, her pelt a sharp contrast against the creams and golds and browns of her province. “Finally,” Jozka muttered under his breath, but his voice sounded loud in the utter silence of the clearing, and Zivan was already slinking away. Suddenly he was aware of a much larger form by his side, and Bleak leaned down at his ear. “Do you see the white and black runner?” Jozka looked beyond Oraia, where two runner apprentices skidded down the hill. The first was a medium-furred cinnamon tom, as tall as a Winter cat but much more lean. At his side was a much smaller white she-cat. Other than the bold charcoal stripes on her legs and ears and tail, there wasn’t anything remarkable about her. “That’s Spring’s prized runner,” Bleak hissed, already stepping away. “Remember her.”
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