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Post by matchacrow on Jul 10, 2025 16:57:45 GMT -5
[ brief introduction ]
Hello to all the readers out there ! I'm MatchaCrow or just
Matcha is fine ^ ^. Welcome to my first novel. I've never actually
written a story before like this. But i figured why not give it a shot.
Now I will tell you, I plan on this story possibly being 4 books, but who knows
really. Anywayyy, I hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun writing it ^ ^.
[ summary ]Born under a dark omen, Crowthorn is the runt of an unusually large litter—eight kits to one queen. While his siblings all take after their parents—earth-toned fur, warm hazel eyes, and strong bodies—Crowthorn is born blind, cold-colored, and different. His unnatural green eyes and gray-blue pelt mark him as wrong in the eyes of his superstitious Clan. His father, Adderpond, a brutal and prideful warrior, sees him as a shameful blemish on his bloodline. His mother, Mottlefern, smothers him with controlling care, trying to shape him into something that might redeem his oddity. Neither offers true love. Just pressure and disappointment. Crowthorn struggles from the beginning. Too small to be a warrior. Too strange to be trusted. When he begins to receive fragmented dreams—visions that seem like StarClan’s whispers—he’s forced into apprenticeship as a medicine cat, not by calling, but because it's the only role left for him. He resents it. He resents StarClan. He does not believe in gods that would make him blind, burdened, unloved—and then expect him to serve as their voice. He performs his duties with scorn, masking pain behind bristling sarcasm, sharp words, and an explosive temper. His personality is fire and stone—too much for some, too jagged for others.
When cats in the Clan begin falling ill with a strange sickness, and sacred herbs begin to wither, Crowthorn is forced to rely on the very faith he despises. StarClan sends him cryptic omens—black feathers in pools of water, thorns splitting bloodied bark, and always, the crow’s cry echoing in his ears. As he investigates the cause, he uncovers a dark truth. To save his Clan, Crowthorn must walk a line between belief and defiance, balancing his hatred for the gods with the truth that he is their chosen voice. But he refuses to be their puppet.
[ THE KEY CHARACTERS ]
CROWTHORN (Protagonist)
- Appearance: Blue-gray fur, unnatural green eyes, blind
- Role: Medicine cat apprentice later Medicine cat - Traits: Blind, explosive, fiercely intelligent, struggling with faith and emotional connections - Arc so far: From isolated, resentful outsider to reluctant spiritual guide wrestling with his place in StarClan’s design EMBERSONG (Mentor/Mother Figure)
- Appearance: Faded ember-red (burnt ginger) with flecks of gray along her face, chest, and tail. Cloudy amber, sharp despite their aged dullness - Role: Clan medicine cat - Traits: Elderly, sharp-tongued, disillusioned with StarClan but dutiful - Arc so far: Trains Crowthorn with tough love, mentors him in both healing and emotional resilience ADDERPOND (Father/Antagonist)- Appearance: Dark chocolate brown with jagged darker brindle stripes along his back and legs, Sharp hazel eyes, narrow and cold - Role: Senior warrior - Traits: Harsh, proud, emotionally abusive - Arc so far: Represents Clan expectations and traditional strength; his treatment of Crowthorn fuels his inner rage MOTTLEFERN (Mother)- Appearance: Pale brown with cream and dark brown dapples mottled across her flanks like a fallen leaf pile, Hazel-amber flecked, always slightly glazed with worry - Role: Retired warrior/queen - Traits: Overbearing, anxious, controlling - Arc so far: Tries to “fix” Crowthorn out of fear and shame; her smothering love hurts more than helps [ future love interest ??? ]
UNKNOWN
[ MINOR BUT RECURRING CHARACTERS ] TALONSTEP (Eldest Brother)- Appearance: Dark brown with a thick neck ruff and amber-hazel eyes - Role: Warrior later Deputy - Traits: Arrogant, blindly loyal to Adderpond - Function: Mirrors the Clan’s expectations—strong, conventional, dismissive of weakness Notes: Competes for recognition; cruel in subtle ways—condescending instead of openly hostile BRIARMOSS (Middle Sister/Sibling Rival)
- Appearance: Sleek reddish-brown with thorn-sharp fur along her spine - Role: Warrior - Traits: Cruel, sharp-tongued, Smug - Function: Bullies him the most; masks her own insecurities with superiority DUSTLIGHT (Sister/Minor Ally)- Appearance: Pale fawn-brown with soft eyes and tufted ears - Role: Warrior - Traits: Quiet, watchful, one of the only siblings who doesn’t shun Crowthorn - Function: Small, rare moments of warmth from family member STONEJAW (Second Oldest)- Appearance: Stocky light-brown tom with wide paws - Role: Warrior - Personality: Blunt, practical, emotionally detached - Function: Ignores him completely Notes: Follows orders, avoids conflict—not cruel, but indifferent SORRELPELT (Sister)- Appearance: Golden-brown with thick tail and bright eyes - Role: Warrior - Personality: Chatterbox, attention-seeking, quick to spread gossip - Function: Used to be curious about him but turned on him after others labeled him cursed Notes: Easily influenced; might be redeemable DOGSNAP (Brother)
- Appearance: Dark smoky-brown with short fur and a scar on his muzzle - Role: Warrior - Personality: Brooding, short-tempered, holds grudges - Function: Secretly jealous that Crowthorn gets any attention at all OWLCLAW (Sister)
- Appearance: Dusty brown fur with faint brown dapples across her back, pale hazel eyes - Role: Warrior - Personality: Reserved, clever, deeply observant, emotionally distant - Function: Complicated—she rarely speaks to him, but listens carefully. [ more characters may be added ]
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Post by matchacrow on Jul 10, 2025 16:58:00 GMT -5
[ U P D A T E S ]
- The Crow's Omen was created ! { 07.10.25 }
- The Crow's Omen prologue posted ! { 07.10.25 }
- The Crow's Omen Chapter One is posted ! { 07.16.25 }
- The Crow's Omen Chapter Two is posted ! { 07.24.25 }
- The Crow's Omen Chapter Three is posted ! { 08.16.25 }
[ F A N S ] |
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Post by matchacrow on Jul 10, 2025 16:58:14 GMT -5
save
[ fan art / reviews ]
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Post by matchacrow on Jul 10, 2025 16:59:51 GMT -5
[ Prologue: When the Crow Cried ]
{ ShiverClan Camp — Deep Night — The Nursery, leaf-fall, just before the first frost }
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The night air was heavy with the scent of damp moss and pine needles, thick with the silence that comes just before the dawn of something new. Beneath the sheltering roots of the towering oak tree, the nursery den was alive with low, anxious murmurs. Seven tiny forms—soft bundles of fur and fragile breath—were pressed against their mother’s warm belly. Mottlefern's fur was matted with sweat, her breathing shallow and strained, but her amber eyes shone with fierce determination. One by one, the kittens slipped into the world—small, warm, with fur of familiar earth tones and eyes of clear hazel, all born from a lineage known for its steadfast brown coats and gentle gaze. But the last kitten—smallest and weakest—was unlike any of the others. His fur was a deep, glossy black, short and sleek like the feathers of a crow. His tail flicked softly, delicate and feather-like, a curious shape no other cat in the clan had ever borne. Adderpond, Crowkit's father, stood rigid nearby the nursery, his dark eyes shadowed by the dim light. His strong frame radiated an uneasy tension, the weight of unspoken resentment curling beneath his fur like a coiled serpent. The smallest movements from within the nursery stirred something cold in him—a silent disapproval he dared not voice aloud. Seven kits, yes—but the last, the tiniest, did not belong to the vision he had forged in his mind.
Outside, the clearing lay dark and silent. Then, a shadow passed across the moon. Caw. A lone crow sat perched on the thick, blackened branch of the old pine above the nursery, its beady eyes glinting in the starlight. Its feathers were ruffled, as if disturbed by something no cat could see. It cried again—piercing, shrill. “That’s the third time it’s called,” whispered Embersong, the ancient medicine cat, her voice dry as pine bark. She hovered at the entrance, her aged orange pelt dulled with time but her eyes still sharp. “Crows don’t linger in camp. Not like that.” Adderpond stood like stone at her side now, tail tip twitching. His eyes were narrow slits, fur bristled. “It’s just a bird,” he muttered, but his tone was more growl than logic. His ears flattened. “Birds aren’t omens.” Embersong didn't answer.
The crow outside gave a final, sharp caw. The last newborn mewled. A single sound—thin, fragile, almost lost beneath the layers of moss. But it came in perfect time with the bird’s call, like two voices born into the same breath. Silence fell again. Embersong stepped forward, her breath catching when her gaze fell upon the kit. “StarClan,” she whispered. Mottlefern craned her neck. “Let me see him.” The kit was damp and trembling and his eyes—though shut tightly as a newborn’s should be—flickered briefly with green behind their lids. Not hazel. Not brown. Leaf-green. Lurid. Unnatural. Adderpond stepped forward, his voice a low snarl: “What… is that?” Mottlefern bristled. “He’s your son.” “He’s wrong.” The words spilled from Adderpond like poison, his claws unsheathing into the nursery ground. “Look at him. What kind of kit is that?”
“He’s your son,” Mottlefern snapped once more, though her voice trembled this time. Adderpond turned sharply to her. “He’s blind.” The words fell like a thunderclap. Mottlefern flinched as if struck. “He hasn’t even opened his eyes!” she protested, curling protectively around the small black kit. “He’s cold, he’s just been born—” “He didn’t cry like the others. And he answered that crow.” “It’s an omen,” Adderpond growls out. “You heard it as I did. A crow caws, and this one calls back. He comes with something not of our making.” Adderpond hisses, ears flattened, eyes hard. “I’ll not raise a blind omen-marked runt alongside my trueborn kits.” His gaze locked on the newborn again. “He’ll bring weakness. Division. Trouble.” “He’s still yours!” Mottlefern yowled, her breath hitching. “He is of my blood. He is of your blood.”
“He’ll never be my son.”
The words hit the nursery like a rockslide, crushing the warmth from the air. For a moment, even the crow above the pine did not call. Embersong watched with a shadow in her eyes, her tail tip twitching as Adderpond stormed out of the nursery. She stepped forward, gently nudging the tiny black kit closer to Mottlefern’s belly. “Then he will be mine,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “If StarClan wills it so, he will be trained as medicine cat.” Mottlefern’s eyes widened. “But—” “Born with a crow’s cry. Eyes that see not the world, but something deeper. Marked before he breathed.” She looked at the parents, then the moon. “He will not walk the path of warriors.” Outside, the wind howled softly through the trees. The crow took flight from its perch, wings beating silently into the darkness. And the tiny kit, pressed against his mother’s side, let out one more, soft mewl. As if in defiance. As if promising the world he would not be forgotten.
[ Chapter One: The Shadow in the Sunlight ]Crowkit didn’t need eyes to know he was alone again.
Outside the nursery, the air buzzed with the screeches and pounding paws of his siblings. Laughter rang like birdsong over the clearing, high-pitched and wild. The sharp tang of disturbed dust drifted in through the bramble wall, and the heat of mid-morning sun baked the earth just beyond the den’s shaded mouth. His siblings were out there, tumbling and yowling and clawing at the air like warriors already. Talonkit’s commanding yowl cut above the rest, followed by Briarkit’s shrill laughter and Dogkit’s snarling growl. A pretend battle. A game. One he wasn’t invited to. He dug his tiny claws into the edge of the moss-lined nest. It was warm from his mother’s fur—too warm. He didn’t want her warmth. He wanted to run. To leap. To fight.
But she wouldn’t let him.
Mottlefern hovered near the nursery entrance as always, her presence a barrier as solid as stone. Her breathing was light but constant, ears flicking at every sound her kits made. But she didn’t watch them with pride. Not anymore. Her gaze stayed on Crowkit, as if afraid he’d disappear—or worse, try to follow. He shifted, lifting one paw off the moss. “Crowkit,” Mottlefern said immediately. Her voice was soft, but unyielding. “Stay inside.” Crowkit turned his face toward her, though his eyes—cloudy, leaf-green, and useless—saw only a shifting blur of light and shadow.
“I’m not going to fall into the dirt and die,” he snapped. “I didn’t say you were.” But she had. Not in words—but in the way her tail curled around him every time he stood, in the way her paw always hovered too close. She treated him like he might break. Like he wasn’t a real kit. Like he wasn’t a real son. He took a step toward the nursery entrance anyway. Mottlefern’s paw brushed his side, gentle but firm. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Let go!" Crowkit turned and snapped his tiny teeth near her paw, not biting, just a warning. She flinched back like he’d burned her.
He stepped into the sunlight. The camp hit him all at once—sound, scent, warmth. The sun soaked into his dark pelt, and the smells of pine, warm stone, and old prey washed over him. The earth under his paws was dry and familiar. He knew this space. He had been mapping it for moons, every time Mottlefern let him breathe. Paws scuffed the dirt ahead. The game was still going. He could hear them charging. “Enemy warriors!” Talonkit shouted. “We’ll protect ShiverClan with our lives!” Crowkit crouched instinctively, heart thudding. He crept closer, one paw at a time, listening. And then—just as he was nearly there— “Look! The shadow’s awake.” Briarkit.
The words struck like claws. His shoulders stiffened. “Where’s your moss-ball, Crowkit?” she called, voice sweet and sharp all at once. “Gonna trip on your own paws again?” “Maybe he’s pretending to be a rock,” Dogkit snorted. “He’s good at that.” The laughter burst around him like bees from a kicked hive. Crowkit’s ears flattened. “I can hear you, fox-breaths.” he growled. “Oh no!” Sorrelkit gasped. “He speaks! And he hears! Not completely cursed after all!” More laughter. Even Owlkit gave a low snort, though she said nothing. As always. Only one voice didn’t join them. “Stop it,” Dustkit said, voice small and cautious. They ignored her, of course. They always did. Then came a voice that cut through it all—tight, trembling, and furious.
“Enough!” Mottlefern’s tail brushed against Crowkit’s side again as she pushed forward. “Go play somewhere else. Talonkit, now.” Talonkit didn’t argue. He never got in trouble, not even when he led the teasing. He gave a short huff and turned, calling the others with him. They ran off without another word to Crowkit, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. Crowkit stood there, legs trembling. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or humiliation or something deeper he couldn’t name. But it burned. It always burned. He turned sharply toward Mottlefern. “Why won’t you let me do anything?” “You’re still growing,” she said gently. “And you—” she hesitated, “—you can’t see, sweetheart. I just want to keep you safe.” “I know I can’t see!” he snapped. His voice cracked at the end. That made it worse.
“I’m not stupid. I can walk. I can hear better than all of them. I just—” his voice dropped to a growl, “—I want to play.” Mottlefern didn’t reply right away. He could feel her crouching beside him again, tail curled protectively. “You’re different,” she whispered. “That doesn’t mean you’re less.”
It felt like it did.
Crowkit pulled away and padded toward the nursery wall. He didn’t want her comfort. Not now. Maybe not ever. He pressed his nose against the dry brambles, using the roughness to anchor himself. Out in the clearing, Talonkit was still barking orders. “Form up! Drive out the rogues!” Even from here, Crowkit could hear the way his siblings obeyed. Their paws moved when he said move. Their yowls echoed his. They were warriors already, in their own minds. He was just a shadow. One that didn’t match. Not in fur, not in eyes, not in voice. The others all bore the rich browns and golden eyes of Mottlefern and Adderpond. Crowkit was black as the forest shadows, his eyes the color of newleaf leaves—cloudy and strange. He didn’t even move like them. Mottlefern said he walked like a ghost—quiet and awkward. Maybe that’s what he was. A ghost of what could’ve been. He breathed in the earth, warm and dry and real beneath his paws.
One day, they wouldn’t laugh. One day, he’d be stronger than all of them.
Not like them.
Better.
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Post by matchacrow on Jul 16, 2025 9:59:34 GMT -5
[ Chapter Two: The Nursery's Cage ]
The air inside the nursery never stopped smelling like milk and moss. Crowkit hated it. He hated the soft floor. He hated how close the walls were. He hated how his mother watched him like a wounded vole and how his siblings got to tumble outside until their pelts were caked in dirt and pine needles. It had been three days since his last attempt to join their games. Three long days of Mottlefern hovering, licking his fur flat when he didn’t want her to, murmuring things like “You’ll get your turn” and “Your time will come.” Words that meant nothing. Words that stuck in his throat like thorns. He could hear them outside now. The clearing was full of kits’ squeals and scuffling again. A sharp thud. Someone yowled dramatically. “Briarstar declares this her territory!” Talonkit shouted. Crowkit's ears twitched. So, Briarkit was leader today. Of course. “Stonetail and Dogfoot flank the rogue! Dustheart, guard the kits!” They were using their future warrior names again. Crowkit curled tighter in the moss nest, teeth clenched. Not a single one had asked what his name would be. They probably assumed he wouldn’t make it that far. He wouldn’t be a warrior. That much had been made clear.
“Crowkit,” Mottlefern said gently behind him, as if summoned by his thoughts. “You should rest.” “I’m not tired.” She sighed, but didn’t press him. She never did when his voice got like that—sharp, clipped, vibrating with something too big for his tiny chest to hold. He waited until she left the den. She never went far. Just a few tail-lengths to speak to Fernclaw or grab a moss ball from the fresh bedding pile. But it was enough. Enough time for him to move. Crowkit rose, every movement slow and deliberate. His paws knew the uneven floor of the den now, the rise near the center where the moss got thick, the way the entrance tilted just slightly to the right. He reached it with little more than a whisker twitch of effort. Outside, the camp swirled with movement. Warriors chatted near the fresh-kill pile. Queens watched the playing kits with amused, tired eyes. Apprentices darted between chores. Crowkit didn’t care about any of them. He wanted one thing: to be part of the game.
He padded forward, nose high, ears swiveling for movement. The dirt here was harder, the scents stronger. Pine sap. Bird feather. Paws scuffing stone. Someone was close—Owlkit, from the faint dappled-pelt scent that clung to her fur. She didn’t say anything as he passed. She never did. The others were pretending to fight at the base of the old stump in the center of the clearing. Talonkit’s voice barked commands. “Get behind her! That’s how warriors fight!” Briarkit shoved Sorrelkit off the top of the stump with a triumphant screech. “Victory!” Crowkit paused, crouching low. He waited for the perfect moment. When their voices rose, when claws pounded the earth, when the air thickened with excitement—he leapt. He didn’t care who he hit. His paws landed squarely on another kit—soft, small, surprised. They tumbled together in a blur of fur and startled yowls.
“Crowkit!” Dustkit’s voice gasped underneath him. He froze. Dustkit? Of all the cats to hit, why her? He scrambled off, chest heaving. “You fox-heart!” Briarkit shrieked. “What are you doing?” “I was playing,” he growled. “You don’t get to play!” Dogkit snarled, fur puffed. “You could’ve hurt Dustkit!” “She’s fine!” Crowkit snapped. But Dustkit wasn’t answering. She’d rolled away and was watching him with those big, soft eyes—quiet, not scared exactly, but… disappointed. Talonkit stepped forward, voice cold. “Father’s right about you.” Crowkit’s claws slid out before he could stop them. “What did you say?” Talonkit didn’t flinch. “You don’t belong in ShiverClan. You’re broken. You slow everyone down.” A sound broke from Crowkit’s throat—half snarl, half whimper. He lunged. But strong jaws caught him mid-stride.
Crowkit twisted in the air, yowling in fury, until he was set down hard in the dirt. A larger shadow loomed over him, cold and quiet. Adderpond. “Enough,” the senior warrior growled. His voice had no heat in it. No concern. Just hard-edged judgment. “You shame your Clan with that display.” Crowkit crouched low, fur bristling. His tail lashed. “They started it.” “They’re warriors in training,” Adderpond snapped. “They’ll lead this Clan someday.” “They’re just playing!” “And what are you doing? Tripping over your own paws and attacking your sister?” His gaze narrowed. “You can’t even see where your claws land.” Crowkit’s breath hitched. That one hurt. He wanted to scream. He wanted to claw the dirt. But instead, he turned and ran—not to the nursery, not to Mottlefern, but toward the corner of camp where the bramble wall bent into shadow. Where no one could follow. He lay there until the light began to dim and the camp quieted.
No one came looking for him. Not Talonkit. Not Mottlefern. Not even Dustkit. He pressed his nose into the dirt, breathing in the earth and the scent of pine roots, trying to make the burning in his chest go away. “You don’t belong in ShiverClan.” He would remember those words forever. And someday, he would prove them all wrong. Even if it meant becoming something they feared.
[ Chapter Three: You Hear Everything ]
Not with words.
She fussed with his fur, straightening it over and over until his skin prickled. She pressed herbs between his paws—not for sickness, but “just in case.” She sat so close to him that her flank brushed his every time he shifted. But she said nothing. Because she didn’t know what to say. She had seen it. All of them had. Crowkit’s outburst in the clearing. His claws are out. His yowl. The way he’d lunged for Talonkit like a fox-kitted rogue. He hadn’t been allowed near the other kits since. They’d started sleeping in a separate nest, just a few tail-lengths away. That one had softer moss. Warmer pelts. Quiet laughter after Mottlefern curled around him and whispered, “Sleep, little one,” as if sleep could fix what he’d broken.
It didn’t. And the nest didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Crowkit lay awake long after the others had gone still. He listened to Talonkit snoring faintly, Briarkit kicking in her sleep, and Dustkit breathing softly and carefully. He didn’t belong in their nest. He didn’t even belong in the nursery. Later that morning, Mottlefern brought him to the sun-warmed patch near the elders’ den and tried to coax him to sit with her. “You don’t have to do anything,” she promised. “Just let the sun warm your fur. You like that.” Crowkit didn’t answer. He sat, tail curled tightly, ears trained on the clearing. His siblings were back at their game. Sorrelkit’s shrieks echoed off the stones. Briarkit barked orders today. “Dogfoot, flank him!” she shouted. “Stonetail, block the entrance!”
Crowkit’s name didn’t come up. It never did anymore. He dug his claws into the soil. “You’ll be old enough to leave the nursery soon,” Mottlefern said after a while. Her tone was soft, but unsure. “The leader and deputy are starting to look at kits. You’ll be chosen for training. Maybe… maybe not for a warrior’s path. But there are other roles.” Crowkit tensed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I only mean—” her voice faltered. “Not everyone takes the same path. Some cats serve their Clan in quieter ways. Ways that use… other strengths.” “You mean because I can’t fight.” His voice was flat. “No,” she said quickly. “Because you’re smart. And you notice things. You hear what others miss.”
He pulled away from her paw. “I hear everything they say. And it’s always the same.” “Crowkit—” “I know what they think. About my eyes. About me.” She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He felt her paw rest on the ground beside him, twitching, unsure if it should reach for him again. He stood. “I’m going.” “Where?” she asked, startled. “Doesn’t matter.” He wandered to the edge of camp. Not the nursery side, but the outer wall, near the warriors’ den. The brambles here were thicker, tangled with ivy. Few kits came this far—it was where warriors gathered after dawn patrols, sharing prey and low murmurs. Crowkit could smell prey. Freshkill. Bird feathers. Something was eating.
He moved closer. “...said he lunged. Right in the middle of camp.” A warrior’s voice. Low, amused. Another chuckled. “Brave, I’ll give him that.” “Or foolish. They say his eyes are all wrong. Green like wet rot.” “Blind too, aren’t they?” A third voice: flat and unimpressed. “Doesn’t matter. He’s not Talonkit.” Crowkit froze. He didn’t recognize all the voices, but he knew that tone. That judgment. The way his name wasn’t even spoken—just he, like a problem they didn’t want to own. “Crowkit.” He whipped around at the sound of his name. Not one of the warriors. Someone else.
Adderpond.
He was seated a few fox-lengths behind him, half-shadowed under a jutting rock. Crowkit hadn’t heard him approach. “How long do you plan to skulk around the edge of camp?” the tom asked, voice flat. “I wasn’t skulking,” Crowkit muttered. Adderpond didn’t respond for a long time. Just sat there, sharp eyes locked on something Crowkit couldn’t see. “You listen well,” Adderpond said at last. “That’s something.” Crowkit turned his face slightly toward him. “You mean for a useless kit?” “I said it’s something,” Adderpond replied. “Don’t twist my words.” But he didn’t deny them. Crowkit’s hackles lifted. “You’re my father. Aren’t you supposed to care?” Adderpond’s tail flicked once. “Caring isn’t the same as coddling.”
“I don’t want to be coddled.” “Then stop acting like it.” The warrior stood, brushing dust from his pelt. “You want to prove something? Earn it. You don’t get to be special just because you were born different.” Crowkit stared at the sound of his paws retreating. He wanted to shout after him. Wanted to tell him: I didn’t ask to be different! But he didn’t. Instead, he turned and headed back to the far edge of the clearing, near the medicine den. Not to talk to anyone—just because it was quiet there. The other kits didn’t play that close. The warriors didn’t linger. And for a moment, he was alone. Just him, the scent of herbs in the shadows, and a quiet space where no one expected him to fit.
[ chapter four ] |
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Post by matchacrow on Jul 27, 2025 17:04:12 GMT -5
[ chapter five ]
[ chapter six ]
[ chapter seven ]
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Post by matchacrow on Aug 16, 2025 9:47:20 GMT -5
[ chapter eight ]
[ chapter nine ]
[ chapter ten ]
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