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Chapter 1
Crouchkit felt a shiver of excitement run down his spine as the Clan began to gather. In front of him, the Tallrock loomed, its shadow stretching across the camp in the warm newleaf morning. From where he stood, the ginger kit could just barely make out his leader’s head above the massive boulder’s peak, silhouetted proudly against the cloudy sky.
He leaned over to Larkkit. “I can’t believe Onestar climbs up there without falling off!” he whispered, whiskers twitching with humor. “If that’s what you have to do to be leader, I don’t think I’d ever want to be chosen.”
His sister nudged him playfully with her shoulder, tabby fur fluffed out eagerly. “Onestar’s bigger than we are, mouse-brain!” Her pale amber eyes sparkled. “I’m going to be leader someday, even if you’re too much of a scaredy-mouse.”
“If you say so.” Crouchkit glanced over his shoulder, forgetting Larkkit’s jab as he realized that the whole Clan had made its way into the center of the hollow. Either way, that’s all about to start, right now!
Suddenly he felt a paw scoop around his shoulders and drag him backward. Warm breath billowed over his fur, and a familiar scent wrapped itself all around him.
“Get off!” he protested, squirming indignantly as Sedgewhisker began to lap his back with strong, firm strokes. He wriggled free and spun around to face her, feeling his pelt rise with embarrassment.
His mother gazed back at him, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “I’m just making sure you look your best for the ceremony.” Her eyes shone with love, and she curled her tail around her paws.
“I bet every mother says that,” Crouchkit grumbled, his fur burning.
Larkkit scampered over to where their mother sat, pressing herself against Sedgewhisker’s flank in a brief gesture of affection. “You can clean me up. I don’t mind.” The she-kit’s light brown tabby fur blended so well into their mother’s own that for a moment it was as though Crouchkit were looking at larger and smaller versions of the same cat.
Sedgewhisker bent down to nuzzle her daughter’s head. “No, it’s alright. Go on. Onestar’s waiting.”
Larkkit returned to his side, and with a satisfied flick of his tail, Crouchkit turned back towards the Tallrock. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his father, Emberfoot, joining Sedgewhisker, as the entire Clan lifted their eyes upward to where Onestar was finally opening his jaws to speak.
“Cats of WindClan,” the tabby tom called out. “It is once more time for two of our youngest members to take their first pawsteps on the path to becoming a warrior.” Below, Crouchkit saw Larkkit briefly unsheathe her claws in eagerness.
“Step forward, Crouchkit,” Onestar continued. Crouchkit did as he was told, padding forward until he stood directly in front of the Tallrock. Onestar had leapt down from the boulder, and brought his tail up to rest on his shoulder.
“From this day forward,” his leader proclaimed, “This apprentice will be known as Crouchpaw.” He turned his head towards one of the cats in the surrounding throng, beckoning them with a brief nod. “Gorsetail, you will be his mentor. You are experienced and loyal, and I trust you will teach Crouchpaw to serve his Clan with dedication.”
Crouchpaw gasped as he saw the gray-and-white she-cat take a step forward from the crowd. Gorsetail! His mentor was Sedgewhisker’s own mother. I never thought I’d be apprenticed to my mother’s mother!
At first, the thought intimidated him. But at the same time, Crouchpaw felt his chest swelling with an odd sort of pride. I’m going to learn from one of the most experienced warriors in the Clan. Every cat spoke highly of Gorsetail’s abilities, and her three daughters were all capable warriors in their own right.
After only a moment of hesitation, Crouchpaw crossed the small clearing to where the older she-cat stood, reaching up to touch noses with her. Gorsetail dipped her muzzle to meet his, warmth sparkling in her eyes. “I look forward to working together, little one,” she murmured. Her mew was determined, but welcoming.
Crouchpaw took his place by her side, and together they watched as Onestar called Larkkit forward, touching his tail to her shoulder and naming her Larkpaw.
“Furzepelt,” he meowed, “You will be mentor to Larkpaw. Though you have not been a warrior for long, I have watched you fight with skill and courage, and I know you will raise Larkpaw to carry those same traits.”
As Larkpaw crossed the circle to touch noses with Furzepelt, the cats around them began to cheer their names. “Crouchpaw! Larkpaw!”
“Larkpaw!” Crouchpaw shouted, meeting his sister’s gaze from across the clearing. “Larkpaw!” He saw her jaws open in a yowl, and he knew she was chanting his name as well.
The chanting died down, and Onestar dismissed the Clan with a flick of his tail. As the warriors began to disperse, Crouchpaw saw Sedgewhisker approaching, her tail waving jauntily in the air.
“Are you excited?” his mother asked as she neared. “You’re lucky to be trained by Gorsetail.”
“I know,” he mewed determinedly. Behind her he could see Emberfoot speaking with Larkpaw. “I’m going to make both of you proud.”
The brown tabby she-cat purred and gave him a quick lick atop the head. Then she turned to Gorsetail, sitting beside him. “Don’t go easy on him, mother.”
Gorsetail gave a twitch of her whiskers. “If he’s anything like you, I don’t expect I’ll have to.” She stepped forward and pressed her muzzle into her daughter’s cheek lovingly.
A moment later Emberfoot came trotting up to them, with Furzepelt and Larkpaw close behind. The gray tom brushed gently against Sedgewhisker’s flank. “I think we should go,” he said softly to his mate. “Let’s leave them to Gorsetail and Furzepelt.”
Sedgewhisker drew back, nodding in agreement. With one last loving glance at Crouchpaw and Larkpaw, she padded away, with Emberfoot pressed close against her, their tails twined.
Furzepelt glanced around the camp, her expression uncertain. “What do you think we should do first? Hunting techniques? Collecting moss?” The young warrior looked to Gorsetail for reassurance.
The older she-cat gazed back at her calmly. “I thought it might be nice if we took them on a tour of the territory.”
Crouchpaw looked at Larkpaw, seeing the same excitement reflected in her eyes that he could feel rising in his belly. A full tour of WindClan’s territory? A heartbeat later, the same word burst out of both their mouths.
“Hooray!”
Chapter 2
Tail raised proudly behind him, Crouchpaw padded quickly after Gorsetail up the slope and out of the hollow. His mentor was at the lead of their small party; the warriors Thistleheart and Whiskernose followed closely behind. Though the sun was near its midday peak, and the moor was bright in the daylight, the heat was mild. Newleaf was still in full swing, and the scorch of greenleaf was a ways off. It was as close to a perfect day as Crouchpaw could think of.
This is my first real opportunity to prove myself to the Clan!
He had been apprenticed for nearly half a moon now, and had done his best to pay attention to Gorsetail’s instructions. When he and Larkpaw trained in battle moves together, she’d managed to beat him more often than not—but he felt he had the edge on her when it came to hunting. Neither Gorsetail nor Furzepelt had made any comments about which of them was better, but every now and then Crouchpaw caught a twinkle in his mentor’s eye when the two of them discussed their apprentices’ progress. He was sure the gray-and-white she-cat was proud of his hunting skills.
And now he was on his first real hunting patrol. This time, Larkpaw wasn’t by his side, and Gorsetail wasn’t hanging back with Furzepelt to assess how he was doing. He was hunting alongside other warriors, and he was going to make his Clan proud.
Thistleheart bounded ahead briefly as their group crested a small hill. Her white fur ruffled in the breeze, the warrior glanced back as the others caught up with her. “You think we should try near the ThunderClan border?”
Gorsetail nodded, coming to stand beside her and surveying the moor in front of them. “Yes, but not too close. I don’t want my apprentice getting into any unnecessary border fights.” There was a slight hint of laughter in her mew, and Crouchpaw relaxed as he realized she wasn’t serious. She knows I wouldn’t try to pick a fight.
The four cats set off again in the direction of the forest that marked ThunderClan’s territory. As the musk of oaks reached them from far off, Crouchpaw wrinkled his nose in distaste. His first border patrol, several sunrises ago, had taken him to the edge of the forest, and he didn’t like the smell now any more than he did then.
Thistleheart and Gorsetail had drawn ahead, and Crouchpaw found himself padding alongside Whiskernose. Drawing in close, he whispered, “Do you ever get used to the other Clans’ scent?”
The warrior purred. “I guess. I doubt you’ll find any WindClan cats who like the smell of ThunderClan, but it’s easier to deal with than ThunderClan cats themselves. And at least they’re not RiverClan! I’d rather sit vigil in the dirtplace than visit RiverClan territory…” He trailed off as they walked, his chatter slipping easily away.
Crouchpaw glanced at the light brown tom, appreciating his friendliness. Whiskernose, he remembered, was one of the Clan’s newest warriors, having earned his full name only a couple of moons ago.
They came to a halt not much later, where the moor sloped downwards as they neared the trees. Ahead, Gorsetail flicked her tail warningly, cautioning the others to stay back. Crouchpaw perked up when he spotted the reason: A field mouse was perched on the slope just upwind of them, oblivious to the four cats gathered nearby.
Eagerly, Crouchpaw began to creep forward, catching Gorsetail’s gaze to make sure she approved. But he stopped, confused, as his mentor began to shake her head. Instead she turned towards Thistleheart, jerking her muzzle towards the mouse to signal that the other warrior should make the catch. As the white she-cat padded towards the slope, Gorsetail fell back to join him.
“Is there a reason I can’t try?” Crouchpaw asked in a whisper, crestfallen. “Do you think I can’t do it?”
Gorsetail shook her head reassuringly. “No, I do. But I want you to see how Thistleheart catches the mouse. Then you can use those skills on the next prey we come across, I promise.”
His disappointment forgotten, Crouchpaw returned his gaze to where Thistleheart was approaching the incline. The white-furred warrior had stealthily closed the distance between her and her prey, and was crouched just a few tail-lengths above it on the hillside, her pelt partially hidden by the long blades of grass. Any closer, Crouchpaw knew, and the mouse would begin to smell her no matter which way the wind was blowing.
Then Thistleheart sprang out of the tussock, putting on a burst of speed and racing towards the mouse all at once. Her teeth were bared and her fur was bushed out with excitement. For a fraction of a moment, Crouchpaw could see the shine of fear in the mouse’s eyes as it took in the cat bearing down on it. Then it turned and ran, scampering down the hill on its tiny paws with haste.
But Thistleheart had gathered too much of a head start. In moments she had overtaken the small animal, lashing out with a paw to strike it dead-on. The mouse fell limp. Without skidding further down the slope, the she-cat stopped in her tracks, grabbed the prey’s tail between her jaws, and began to trot back up the hill, her expression delighted yet serene.
A paw prodded his side, and Crouchpaw turned back towards Gorsetail as she spoke again. “Did you see what she did?”
Crouchpaw tipped his head to the side, not entirely sure what the right answer was. “She… hid?”
His mentor’s eyes lit up. “Very good. She hid as much as she could, to reduce the time spent chasing the mouse.”
“But…” Crouchpaw shifted his paws nervously. “I thought that wasn’t what we were supposed to do? Aren’t WindClan cats supposed to chase their prey down, more than anything else?”
“Most of the time, yes,” Gorsetail said. Her voice softened ever so slightly. “But Thistleheart is sturdier than most WindClan cats, and so are you. You won’t be able to outrun every animal you come across. So it helps to know how to get around that difficulty.”
Crouchpaw glanced over at Whiskernose, who was heading forward to congratulate Thistleheart on her catch. The brown tom seemed like the model WindClan warrior, lithe and agile. An uncomfortable feeling swept down Crouchpaw’s back, making his fur prick. “It feels like cheating.”
Gorsetail brushed her tail across his shoulders lightly. “Don’t think of it that way. You’re using your natural strengths in a way that lets you chase prey just like any WindClan cat.” She drew back as Whiskernose and Thistleheart returned, their tails twitching as they looked to her expectantly.
As his mentor moved in to confer with the other two warriors on where to search next, Crouchpaw glanced from her to Thistleheart and back. She’s right, he realized. Thistleheart has broader shoulders, and sturdier front paws. But there were definite similarities, too—the two she-cats had the same shape to their heads, and aside from the gray mottling on her face, legs, and tail, Gorsetail’s pelt was mainly the same sleek white as Thistleheart’s.
Thistleheart, Crouchpaw knew, was Gorsetail’s daughter—one of his mother’s littermates. The biggest difference between them, even more than the others that he could see, was that Thistleheart’s fur was thicker and longer, giving her coat a glossy look.
Somehow, thinking about the fact that Thistleheart was his kin made his own build seem less of a burden. It just runs in my family. His spirits lifted again, Crouchpaw trotted up to the other cats, listening attentively as they decided to head back towards the center of the territory before returning to camp.
The sun was past its peak when their patrol came upon more prey. A lone rabbit was hopping placidly from one clump of grass to the next, nibbling at each.
Crouchpaw’s heart leaped when he saw it. The rabbit was plump, and its brown fur was smooth with health. This would be a much better catch than a tiny mouse! He looked at Gorsetail, his expression hopeful. She said I could catch the next prey we found…
The gray-and-white she-cat nodded, frowning in concentration. “Whiskernose,” she decided, flicking an ear in the skinny tom’s direction. “Circle around the field and approach from the other side. I want you to chase the rabbit towards Crouchpaw.”
Blinking in acknowledgment, Whiskernose started off towards a few clumps of gorse dotting the moor in the distance. As he went, he glanced back, giving Crouchpaw a friendly blink of encouragement.
An uneasy feeling erupted in Crouchpaw’s stomach, as though a mouse were running around inside him. He’s counting on me to succeed. He knew he didn’t want to let Gorsetail down, and he wanted to catch prey for his Clan—but now he found that he had another goal, too. He wanted to impress Whiskernose.
Hesitantly, he looked over at Gorsetail. His mentor seemed to guess at his worry, and brushed against his flank lightly. “Just remember what I told you about using your own strength. You’ll be fine.”
Forcing himself to swallow the hesitation, Crouchpaw puffed out his chest and stepped forward. “I’ll be fine.”
Gorsetail and Thistleheart paced back a few tail-lengths to avoid getting too close to the hunt. As he waited for Whiskernose to begin the chase, Crouchpaw could feel the sunlight pouring down across his back, the heat seeming to intensify with each passing moment. The rabbit continued to hop about carelessly, but nothing else was moving in his field of vision. It was as if the entire moor had slowed down.
Just when he was beginning to wonder if Whiskernose was taking a nap, there was a blur of brown fur on the far side of the field. The light brown tom streaked out from between the gorse bushes, his paws barely seeming to touch the grass.
The rabbit let out a squeal and fled, pelting across the moor straight in Crouchpaw’s direction. He lashed his tail excitedly and sprinted forward, the prey’s fear-scent already making his mouth water.
Even as he closed the distance, the rabbit kept running straight towards him. Blinded by fear, Crouchpaw could see, its attention was entirely on the cat pursuing it, not the one bearing down from ahead. They were mere tail-lengths apart now; Crouchpaw felt his claws slide out as he prepared to make the killing blow.
A light breeze ruffled his pelt—from behind. Time slowed down even more than it had before; each blade of grass ahead of him waved gently as the breeze passed over it. Crouchpaw could see the rabbit’s whiskers twitch even as it ran, could see its deep brown eyes widen as it was forcibly alerted to his scent. He could see its hind legs thumping against the ground as it began to swerve sharply to the side, running at an angle away from both cats.
I’m going to crash into Whiskernose if it does that! They were so close now, with the rabbit between them, that they wouldn’t be able to change directions before they collided. And that would ruin any chance of either of them putting on enough speed to catch up to the rabbit before it escaped to its burrow.
Instinctively, some part of him rejected that outcome. I’m going to catch this prey. He could feel his own hind legs tense up, as if he was mimicking the rabbit’s actions. Heart racing, he gathered every muscle in both legs inwards, readying them for one great burst of strength—not to the side, as the rabbit was doing, but down and out.
With every ounce of force he could muster, Crouchpaw launched himself into the air, leaping over the grass and aiming straight for the rabbit, claws outstretched.
They collided and rolled across the field, narrowly passing alongside Whiskernose as the other warrior skidded to a halt. The rabbit was a thrashing ball of fur in Crouchpaw’s grip, and he lashed out with all four paws, trying to land a solid blow.
Then it was over, and the prey was limp on the ground in front of him. Panting heavily, he stared up at the sound of running pawsteps. Whiskernose, Gorsetail, and Thistleheart were all approaching, their faces lit up with delight.
“The Clan will eat well tonight,” meowed Gorsetail, her mew steady despite the joy in her expression. “That was excellent, Crouchpaw.”
“Really?” he gasped, feeling his pelt sticking up and clumped with grass all over. “Even though it wasn’t what we planned to happen?”
His mentor purred deeply. “You played to your own strengths. Most WindClan cats wouldn’t have been able to make that leap.”
Thistleheart nudged the rabbit’s body with a paw, wrinkling her nose at its disheveled fur and ragged wounds. “Maybe not the cleanest kill, but…”
“But a kill nonetheless,” Whiskernose chimed in. His whiskers twitching, the brown-furred warrior gave Crouchpaw a brief nudge with his front paw. “I doubt Onestar would tell us to leave it behind just because it’s got a few extra claw marks.”
Chest bursting with pride, Crouchpaw dipped his head to grab his prey by its scruff. The effort of exerting himself in the catch had vanished from his legs. I can’t imagine any feeling in the world better than this.
Chapter 3
A full moon floated above the lake, turning the water to silver. Onestar led the Clan down the moor’s gentle decline, Ashfoot and Kestrelflight keeping close beside him. Crouchpaw padded along in the trail of warriors and elders behind them. His ginger pelt was fluffed out, but more from anticipation than cold. Beside him, Larkpaw was fidgeting with excitement, her brown tabby fur similarly bushy.
“Our first—”
“—Gathering!” he finished triumphantly.
His sister flicked her tail across his nose. “I was going to say that.”
He brushed against her shoulder, his good mood undampened. “We can both say it.” Larkpaw blinked, then opened her jaws again as he did the same.
“Our first Gathering!” they crowed, voices raised to the night sky.
Ahead of them, the large gray warrior Boulderfur whipped his head around, his eyes narrowed with annoyance. “Behave yourselves! We’re going to be crossing into RiverClan territory soon.”
“Sorry,” Crouchpaw murmured. With a snort, Boulderfur turned away, bounding forward towards the front of the procession. Once the large tom was out of earshot, Crouchpaw turned back to Larkpaw. Her eyes were still alight with mischief, and they snickered together briefly.
The ground underpaw gradually grew damper, and Onestar began to keep closer to the shoreline as he led them forward. They were approaching the RiverClan border.
Crouchpaw’s whiskers twitched as he remembered what Whiskernose had said several days ago: No cat enjoyed the smell of the other Clans. Sure enough, he could see each of the warriors ahead of him stepping delicately over the border markings, careful not to place their paws on the scent marks. They don’t want to get that stench in their fur!
Larkpaw hurried slightly ahead of him as they crossed over, leaping nimbly over a clump of reeds. “I’m the first one to reach another Clan’s territory!” she chirped, tail waving happily. With a brief purr, Crouchpaw prepared to hop across to join her.
Another cat’s mew sounded behind him. “These don’t seem very fresh.”
Pausing, Crouchpaw turned to see his Clanmate Leaftail sniffing at the scent marks on WindClan’s side of the boundary. The warrior’s eyes were narrowed and his pelt was pricking.
Another warrior, Weaselfur, was beside him, a curious look coming into his eyes. “Perhaps the border patrol couldn’t remember how to leave their scent.” His mew was snide.
Amusement danced across Leaftail’s face as he stepped over the border. “Are we sure a patrol even went out today?” he called back to Weaselfur.
“It wouldn’t be the first time Ashfoot’s forgotten to do her job,” the ginger tom hissed, hurrying forward along the lakeshore.
Discomfort rolled down Crouchpaw’s spine as he heard the two toms banter. Glancing about worriedly, he noticed Whiskernose approaching just behind them. Relieved, he dropped back to walk beside the light brown warrior.
“Should they be doing that?” he asked quietly.
Whiskernose glanced over at him, blinking. “Should who be doing what?”
“Weaselfur and Leaftail.” Crouchpaw looked down, feeling hesitation clumping up in his throat. “It sounded like they were making fun of their Clanmates.” He knew the pair had a reputation for being abrasive, and he’d heard Weaselfur in particular make rude remarks in camp before. But this seemed worse, somehow, as though they didn’t respect the Clan deputy at all.
“Oh. I wouldn’t worry about that.” Whiskernose sounded unconcerned. “They were only joking.”
“It didn’t sound like jokes. They were being mean.”
The other tom only shrugged, his expression still neutral. After a moment he quickened his pace, disappearing into the trail of cats up ahead.
Quickly Crouchpaw realized that there was no one else behind him; he’d slowed down too much while talking with Whiskernose. He sprinted forward, determined not to be the last WindClan cat to arrive at the Gathering.
There were already cats padding across the tree-bridge when they reached it a short while later. Crouchpaw paused close behind Onestar as WindClan waited for the other cats to finish crossing. His ginger pelt beginning to prick, he took in the other cats’ thick pelts and broad shoulders. He knew they had to be RiverClan—he could faintly smell their scent drifting across the water, blending with the similarly fishy tang of the territory around them.
As the last RiverClan warrior trotted over the bridge, Onestar flicked his tail, signaling for WindClan to move forward. Ashfoot hopped up onto the massive beam of wood first, striding confidently across with sure, quick steps. One by one, the WindClan warriors began to follow behind her, some taking more time to cross than others.
When his turn came, Crouchpaw approached the base of the tree-bridge carefully. He shivered slightly, and a small nervous pit formed in his belly. He’d been told about the tree-bridge already, of course, and he’d seen it from the far shore when Gorsetail had taken him on hunting patrols near the lake. Yet the bridge was still far more enormous than he’d ever expected—it was nearly as high as the Tallrock that had daunted him as a kit.
But he’d also heard other cats mention how often apprentices delayed the entire Clan on their first time crossing to the Gathering, either so paralyzed with fear that they stopped dead in the middle of the bridge or so eager to rush across that they slipped and fell into the lake. Crouchpaw was determined not to be one of those apprentices.
Taking a deep breath, he gazed across to the Gathering island. Gorsetail had already crossed, and was staring back at him, her blue eyes patiently supportive.
I’m not going to fall in. He leapt up onto the bridge and determinedly put one paw in front of the other, forcing himself not to pay attention to the waves below. I’m not going to stop in the middle.
Suddenly he was across, jumping down onto the smooth pebbles of the island’s shore. Stunned, he looked back at the fallen tree, wondering how he’d crossed it in what felt like no time at all. I swear it looked longer before.
Larkpaw came running up to him, her eyes sparkling. She’d crossed ahead of him without his noticing. “Great! You made it!” She prodded him in the side with a forepaw. “Let’s hurry up and explore the clearing!”
Crouchpaw turned to Gorsetail, feeling the tingle of excitement return to his paws. “Can we?”
The warrior nodded, amusement playing across her features. “Just don’t go getting under every cat’s paws. We want to show the other Clans how well-behaved WindClan’s apprentices are, right?”
He nodded and dashed off after Larkpaw, who had already begun wriggling under one of the bushes hiding the island’s center from view. Pushing through after her, Crouchpaw tried to ignore the twigs sticking in his pelt.
His head was still under the bush when he heard his sister gasp. Surging with excitement, he crawled through the last layer of leaves and stopped cold.
The Gathering clearing was even larger than the WindClan camp. The ground was covered in soft grass which seemed to catch the moonlight on every blade. Already ThunderClan and RiverClan cats had spread through the clearing, the two groups mingling together even as the first few WindClan cats moved in to join them. Trees of various sizes ringed the area, but Crouchpaw’s eyes were immediately drawn up to the massive oak in the center—the Great Oak, he knew it was called.
He and Larkpaw padded forward, side by side. He didn’t feel scared by any means, but something about being in the presence of so many cats he’d never seen before—cats who smelled different, who he knew hunted and fought in different ways—was making him more hesitant than he’d expected.
“We should find some other apprentices to talk to,” Larkpaw suggested.
Crouchpaw blinked. “What would we talk to them about?” But his sister had already started off towards a pair of young ThunderClan cats, her brown tabby pelt rippling in the cool night wind. Sighing, he padded after her.
Larkpaw wasted no time. “Hi!” she meowed, eyes bright. “I’m Larkpaw, and I’m from WindClan.” She jerked her muzzle briefly at Crouchpaw as he caught up with her. “This is Crouchpaw. He’s my littermate.”
Both of the ThunderClan apprentices were quivering with excitement, seemingly just as eager as Larkpaw was to make friends. The ginger she-cat on the left opened her jaws in reply first. “My name’s Cherrypaw!” Her tail was sweeping restlessly through the grass.
“And I’m Molepaw,” said the tom beside her, nodding vigorously. “We’re littermates, too.” His thick brown-and-cream fur was somewhat messy; both cats looked as though they’d been chasing rabbits, and Crouchpaw guessed that they’d run around the clearing in their eagerness.
“Cool!” Larkpaw exclaimed.
He felt as though he should add something. “Do you like being in ThunderClan?”
Molepaw shrugged. “Why wouldn’t we? ThunderClan’s the best.”
“Of course you’d say that,” Larkpaw said, her tone still friendly. “But WindClan has the fastest runners. I think that makes us the best Clan.”
Crouchpaw gave his chest fur a quick lick. I should’ve known it was a dumb question.
A rustling sound from the bushes made him turn, Larkpaw and the other apprentices following suit. The four of them watched as more cats began to emerge into the clearing. The new arrivals weren’t as strongly-built as RiverClan, and they didn’t seem to possess the same agility as WindClan cats, but there was a sleekness to their movements that set them apart.
“ShadowClan,” Cherrypaw hissed with distaste.
“You don’t like them?” Crouchpaw asked.
The ginger apprentice rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Every cat knows ShadowClan are all a bunch of fox-hearts.”
Molepaw’s expression darkened. “The warriors say WindClan hasn’t been any better, ever since Onestar—”
“Hey,” Larkpaw cut in hurriedly. “Do you two want to hear a secret?”
The ThunderClan apprentices glanced at each other. “What kind of secret?” Molepaw asked.
Larkpaw’s eyes lit up, and Crouchpaw realized she wasn’t just trying to change the topic. She really does want to gossip about this.
“I know something I bet no other cat in WindClan does,” his sister breathed. “It’s about Furzepelt.”
“Her mentor,” Crouchpaw added helpfully. He scanned the clearing, locating Furzepelt sitting with Harespring and a small group of RiverClan cats. He flicked his tail in their direction. “The gray-and-white she-cat.”
Larkpaw glanced from side to side, checking for other WindClan cats nearby. Satisfied that there weren’t any, she leaned in close, her meow dropping to a low whisper. “Furzepelt’s in loooove.”
“Really?” Crouchpaw jerked back, surprise rolling over his pelt.
“With who?” Cherrypaw asked, amber eyes gleaming.
Larkpaw looked as though she’d just caught a large rabbit. “Sunstrike.”
Sunstrike? He didn’t know the tortoiseshell she-cat very well. “What makes you say that?”
“It was obvious when she was training with us,” Larkpaw sniffed. “I could see it in both of their eyes.”
Molepaw flicked his tail. “Do WindClan warriors usually need to do their training with apprentices?”
“No, they don’t,” Crouchpaw told him firmly. He turned to Larkpaw, bewildered. “What kind of training were you—?”
“Cats of all Clans!”
The call rang out from high in the Great Oak. With ShadowClan’s arrival, the Clan leaders had jumped up into the branches—it was time for the Gathering to begin. The mystery of Sunstrike and Furzepelt forgotten, Crouchpaw sat back on his haunches attentively, as beside him the others did the same.
It was RiverClan’s leader, Mistystar, who had issued the first yowl to the clearing. Her pelt shone a deep blue in the moonlight as she opened her jaws again. “I will begin. RiverClan is prospering. The dry weather hasn’t affected the water levels in the lake or the stream, so fishing is good.” She let out a purr. “Also, we have two new warriors. Mossypaw and Hollowpaw are now Mossyfoot and Hollowflight.”
Larkpaw raised her muzzle to cheer at once. “Hollowflight!”
Eagerly Crouchpaw joined her. “Mossyfoot! Hollowflight!” he called along with the rest of the Gathering.
Firestar spoke next. “Prey is running well in ThunderClan. Two days ago a fox appeared in our territory, but our warriors chased it off.” The ThunderClan leader squared his shoulders proudly. “And we have two new apprentices, Cherrypaw and Molepaw.”
Crouchpaw yowled even louder this time. “Cherrypaw! Molepaw!” He was pleased to see moonlight reflecting in the other two young cats’ eyes as they basked in the Gathering’s approval. An eager shiver ran from his muzzle all the way down to his tail-tip as he waited for Onestar’s turn to speak. They’ll be cheering our names next.
But before Firestar had even sat down, Onestar was on his paws, his fur standing on end as he swung his muzzle towards his fellow leader accusingly.
“I noticed you haven’t mentioned the way your warriors hang around on the WindClan border. Are you plotting an invasion?” the tabby tom hissed.
Immediately Crouchpaw exchanged a stunned look with Larkpaw. Invasion?
Above them, Firestar was facing Onestar down, his mew sharp. “No! You’re being ridiculous!”
Onestar began to hiss a reply, but Crouchpaw couldn’t make it out—the tabby tom’s words were drowned out as Larkpaw pressed herself in close to him. “Furzepelt didn’t say anything about ThunderClan attacking!” she whispered hurriedly.
“Neither did Gorsetail,” he whispered back, uncertainty crawling along his pelt. “I haven’t heard any warrior talking about it.”
Off to one side, Weaselfur was hissing with rage, his eyes slitted as he gazed up at Firestar. Beside him, a few other WindClan warriors lashed their tails back and forth, ears laid flat. Whiskernose, Crouchpaw noticed, was one of the cats in the mix, as was Leaftail.
He gazed back at Larkpaw helplessly. Around them, the voices of the other Clans were rising in consternation, but Crouchpaw couldn’t tell if the Gathering agreed with his leader or ThunderClan’s.
“I would always defend my Clan against an unfounded accusation,” Firestar growled. “Onestar, I think you’d better give us your Clan news and sit down, before you fall any further into the hole you’ve dug for yourself.”
Crouchpaw felt a stone drop deep into his belly. He could hear the crowd murmuring in agreement. Onestar was wrong, he realized. He’s picked a fight with Firestar for no reason. Shame washed over his fur, and he wished he could sink deep into the grass. Every non-WindClan cat in the clearing seemed to be irritated with Onestar.
For an agonizingly long moment, his leader stared back at the crowd, amber eyes blazing as if he was about to challenge them all. Then he huffed, his tail lashing with displeasure. “WindClan has two new apprentices,” he muttered. “Crouchpaw and Larkpaw.”
Horror growing in his chest, Crouchpaw squeezed tightly against Larkpaw. It felt as though every pair of eyes in the clearing had turned towards them all at once—and few were friendly. Crouchpaw’s fur stood on end, and he saw Larkpaw work her claws in and out anxiously.
In desperation, he swung his gaze back towards Cherrypaw and Molepaw, hoping they, at least, would be supportive. But the ThunderClan apprentices had already backed away, their expressions furrowed with distrust.
The night air grew cold. Distantly, he could hear his name being chanted. But the only cats calling it were WindClan.
Chapter 4
Crouchpaw raced across the moor. His pelt flared with terror. “Larkpaw!” Fear stronger than he’d ever known coursed through his veins, and he forced himself to run faster. Each pawstep that pushed against the grass felt like time slipping away; every moment that he couldn’t see her increased his sense of panic.
He knew Sedgewhisker was safe. His mother had been assigned to defend the hollow and had managed to come away with only minor injuries. And Emberfoot, along with Gorsetail, had been part of the patrol sent to aid ShadowClan during the battle; they’d reported back to camp not long ago. One by one, the Clan was coming back together, licking their wounds and murmuring thanks to StarClan for their safety.
But Boulderfur was dead. His body lay in the center of the hollow; the pale gray warrior had been killed trying to keep the Dark Forest cats from threatening the elders. And, unthinkably, Ashfoot had fallen in battle, or so Whitetail had gasped as she limped back into camp soon after the fighting ended. If it was true, Onestar would need to choose a new deputy before the next dawn.
There was surely more tragedy to come. Many cats were still unaccounted for. So Crouchpaw knew, with a horrible certainty, that there was something terrible waiting for him when he found Larkpaw.
Or her body. He tried to shove the thought out of his mind as he sprinted faster and faster. The grass became a blur as his eyes darted back and forth, sweeping the moor for any sign of his sister. As long as he focused on finding her, he might be able to stave off the awful fear pressing into every corner of his mind. He couldn’t feel his legs. He didn’t even know what it would feel like if they were tired. He just had to run.
He crested the next slope and all at once her brown tabby fur sprang into vision. She was sitting upright, and her ears were perked. It was like waking from a dream, one that he had been starting to believe was real. She’s alive! The frantic energy fading from his pelt, Crouchpaw began to slow his run as he approached her. “Larkpaw!”
At the sound of his voice, Larkpaw turned, eyes widening. “Crouchpaw!” She got to her paws and met him eagerly, pressing her muzzle into his shoulder fur. He did the same, running his tail down her spine, still hardly able to believe how fortunate he was. She’s alive. Their entire family had survived.
He drew back and met her gaze. Her pale amber eyes glistened with relief, but he could see scratches on her face. His gaze drifted down to her pelt, and he gasped. Larkpaw’s fur was torn and matted all over. Large tufts looked to have been ripped out, and on her left flank he saw a fierce claw-mark.
The urgent, tingling feeling returned to his paws, and he slid his claws in and out anxiously. “We have to get you to a medicine cat!” He flicked his tail in the direction of the WindClan camp.
Larkpaw blinked at him, her mew neutral. “No, it’s fine. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I don’t care! You’re hurt.” Impatience was building up in his belly. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! Weren’t you listening when Ashfoot told all the apprentices to stay away from the fighting and carry messages between the camps?”
“I know.” A shudder seemed to roll over Larkpaw’s pelt, and she dropped her gaze. “But I felt like I owed it to my Clanmates to help fight, and… I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Crouchpaw stared back at her. Confusion was pricking at his fur, and something worse crept into his thoughts behind it. “What do you mean?”
Slowly, his sister raised her muzzle level with his. The joy of seeing him alive and well had vanished from her eyes, and they were shadowed with fear. “The Dark Forest cats… targeted us. I tried to stay out of the battle, I really did. But they just kept coming after me, because…”
His stomach tightened. “Because you trained with them.”
Wordlessly, Larkpaw nodded, shame overtaking her expression.
Crouchpaw squeezed his eyes shut, the terrifying feeling rising out of his gut and into reality. He remembered the wave of horror and rejection that had swept over the WindClan camp when Onestar had made his announcement, warning them of the battle to come. It had been hard enough to believe that the spirits of the Dark Forest—cats long dead—were returning to wreak vengeance. But even more disturbing was the claim that some of their own Clanmates had been secretly training in the Place of No Stars for moons.
That was when the horrible thought had settled itself in the shadowy corners of his mind. I knew the truth from the moment I heard those words. A breeze passed over him, ruffling his already-tingling fur. I just didn’t want to admit it until now.
“We—we didn’t know what the Dark Forest was planning, I swear.” Larkpaw’s mew grew desperate, and as he blinked his eyes open again he saw her shivering with nervousness. “We thought we were training to help our Clanmates. To become better warriors. If we’d known what they were going to do—we never fought any Clan cats—”
He stepped forward quickly to brush against her flank, compassion for his sister overwhelming him. “I know. It’s okay.” Larkpaw seemed to stiffen for a moment, then relaxed, leaning into his shoulder and returning the gesture. They pressed together in silence, and gradually Crouchpaw felt his sister’s heartbeat slow to a steady pulse.
“Can I ask…” he started, a moment later, curiosity itching beneath his fur. “Who’s we?”
Larkpaw flinched as if stung. Then, haltingly, she swung her muzzle to the side. Following her gaze, Crouchpaw realized what her attention had been focused on before he arrived. A few fox-lengths away, at the center of a small hollow in the moor, a gray-and-white shape lay flat against the earth.
It was Furzepelt. Her pelt was crossed with more wounds than Larkpaw’s, and in the gray morning light he could see just how severe some of them were. The warrior was so still, Crouchpaw thought she must be dead.
Then he saw the gentle rise and fall of her flank, and he realized she was lying atop another cat’s body.
Cautiously, he padded closer. Beneath Furzepelt he could make out patches of brown and black fur. Larkpaw remained still behind him, but he could hear her claws scraping against the dirt. He rounded the hollow, trying to get a better look. Furzepelt’s head, he noticed, was pressed directly against the other cat’s cheek, and he moved to see their faces.
A shock of bright white flashed into view, and Crouchpaw staggered.
Furzepelt’s eyes were closed, but the cat beneath her stared widely into the distance. Brilliant emerald eyes gazed back at him, unfocused and unseeing. There was no mistaking the distinctive white mark above them on the cat’s forehead—like the sun just beginning to rise over the moor.
“Sunstrike,” he whispered.
As he watched, Furzepelt’s jaws opened, and she let out a low wail.
He turned back towards Larkpaw. Her gaze reflected as much sorrow as he could feel spreading through his own pelt.
Her voice came out barely loud enough for him to hear. “We fought off the Dark Forest cats that did this. I looked at Furzepelt’s injuries after they were gone. I think she’ll be alright, but…” Her shoulders heaved. “I don’t know how she’ll be able to live after this.”
Crouchpaw moved back to her side. “I think all that matters for now is that you’re both okay.”
“No!” She ripped at the grass with one paw. “This is our fault! Sunstrike would still be alive if we hadn’t all betrayed our Clan!”
He brushed his tail against hers, unsure of what to say. Everyone’s still shaken from the battle. Maybe Larkpaw will feel less guilty after we’ve all had more time to accept what’s happened.
His whiskers twitched as familiar scents reached his nose. Turning, he saw a pair of cats appearing over the nearby slope, and his spirits brightened. Who better to help comfort Larkpaw?
Sedgewhisker reached them first, eyes shining brightly despite the scratches along her neck. “Oh, thank StarClan, Crouchpaw, you found her!”
“We’re so grateful you’re both alright,” Emberfoot said. His gray pelt was heavily dusted, but he seemed to have escaped injury.
Both their parents circled around them, purring. Crouchpaw raised his tail and inhaled deeply, taking in their scents with relief.
Larkpaw seemed to hesitate, her expression still distant. But after a moment her shoulders slumped, and she leaned against Sedgewhisker, burying her muzzle into their mother’s pelt. Her eyes closed. “Sunstrike’s dead,” she whispered.
Sedgewhisker’s head snapped up, turning straight towards Emberfoot. Crouchpaw saw grief form in his mother’s eyes, clearly directed at her mate.
Ears drooping, Emberfoot took a step backward. “Sunstrike?” His mew came out soft, more vulnerable than Crouchpaw had ever heard from his father.
Instinctively Crouchpaw hurried to his side, unsure why the mention of the tortoiseshell she-cat had weakened him so much. “Over there,” he said gently, indicating with his tail where the fallen WindClan warrior lay, Furzepelt still crouched low over her body. Then he pressed against Emberfoot’s flank, realizing as he did so that he wasn’t seeking comfort for himself—instead, he was offering it to his father. The thought surprised him, but it didn’t feel wrong. I’m nearly as big as him now, too.
Emberfoot leaned into his side for a moment, before straightening upright. Stiffly, he took a few pawsteps in the direction Crouchpaw had indicated, staring silently across the moor at the two she-cats.
Out of the corner of his eye, Crouchpaw saw Sedgewhisker twitch an ear at him. He turned towards her as she opened her jaws in a quiet mew. “Sunstrike was his apprentice,” his mother said somberly.
Understanding spread across Crouchpaw’s pelt. His father had trained Sunstrike—had watched her grow—and now had to face her death. It must feel almost as though he’s lost a kit—lost one of us. Quietly he padded back to Sedgewhisker and Larkpaw, not wanting to interrupt Emberfoot’s mourning.
Another spate of heartbeats passed before he heard Sedgewhisker draw in a deep breath. Paws tensing, she turned towards both him and Larkpaw, resolve darkening her eyes.
Then she spoke. “Swallowtail was killed in the battle, too.”
His mother’s littermate. “I’m sorry,” Crouchpaw murmured, not sure what else to say. He’d never gotten to know the dark gray she-cat well—certainly not like Thistleheart, his mother’s other sister, whose hunting style he’d spent so much time practicing. He struggled to imagine what Sedgewhisker must be feeling. She’s lost a littermate, and Emberfoot’s lost his apprentice. And Larkpaw was consumed by guilt.
He felt lucky, and he hated it.
Beside him Larkpaw jerked her head in a nod, trying to express the same sympathy. Her muzzle opened, but no sound came out.
They remained there for a while, standing together as a family, bound in silent grief. Emberfoot padded back towards them, his dark paws landing gingerly on the grass.
Then Crouchpaw heard the steady approach of another cat, coming from atop the slope in the direction of the WindClan camp. Wrapped in the comforting scents of Larkpaw and his parents, he hadn’t taken notice of the newcomer’s equally familiar scent on the breeze.
Gorsetail waited to speak until she had reached them. Blue eyes solemn, muzzle closed, she took in the scene calmly, pausing as she noticed Furzepelt and Sunstrike in the hollow. Then, after a gentle nod in his direction, Crouchpaw’s mentor stepped towards Sedgewhisker, nuzzling her daughter’s cheek softly.
“I’m so sorry,” Gorsetail said. Something caught in her voice, but Crouchpaw wasn’t sure what she meant.
Neither, apparently, was Sedgewhisker. Stroking her tail across Gorsetail’s flank, the brown tabby she-cat murmured, “We’re all safe, mother.”
The older warrior hesitated for just a moment, and Crouchpaw felt his stomach tighten. There was only one kind of thing his mentor could be about to say.
“Thistleheart is dead.”
Time seemed to slow down as the words pulsed through Crouchpaw’s mind. Even as he took them in, he saw Sedgewhisker gasp. A shudder rolled across his mother’s pelt, and her legs buckled. Before she could fall, Crouchpaw rushed to support her. Larkpaw and Emberfoot did the same, and Crouchpaw felt the warmth of all their pelts crowd in near Sedgewhisker as she fought with the news, claws working desperately in and out.
“No…” his mother gasped. Her eyes squeezed shut. “Not Thistleheart, too!”
And Crouchpaw hated even more what he knew would come next.
Gorsetail’s gaze twisted with fearful confusion. Before she could put a voice to it, Emberfoot locked eyes with her, and spoke in a quiet apology. “We lost Swallowtail as well. I’m sorry.”
Crouchpaw had never thought of his mentor as old, even though he knew she was one of the most senior warriors in WindClan. But now, as Emberfoot’s words faded away, every stretch of Gorsetail’s gray-and-white pelt seemed to grow thin and ragged—her frame sharp and fragile, her eyes wracked with an experienced torment.
“No.” Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. But the single word echoed across the moorside, possessed of an uncanny resilience.
And Gorsetail matched it. Even as the silence returned, hanging in the air between them all, the older she-cat appeared to be fighting to stay on her paws. Her eyes had closed and her breath was coming in heavy spurts, and her claws had dug deep into the soft earth. Her shoulders shook—but they didn’t crumple.
Finally Gorsetail’s eyes snapped open again, and at the same moment Crouchpaw felt Sedgewhisker shake out her pelt gently, brushing him and the others away. The two she-cats locked gazes, blue and amber eyes alike filled with sorrow and something more.
Then they moved in towards each other, whiskers brushing, tails intertwining, nuzzling pelt against soft pelt lovingly. Small, indecipherable mews reached Crouchpaw’s ears from both their muzzles.
Emberfoot flashed him and Larkpaw a cautious look, but Crouchpaw already understood. Let them share their pain. His mother had lost the family she’d grown up with, and her mother in turn had lost the family she’d raised. For the moment, there wasn’t room for anyone to help them except each other.
“We have lost so much,” Gorsetail finally murmured, her eyes low. “But we haven’t lost everything.”
“Never,” Sedgewhisker breathed, licking her mother’s shoulder. “Thistleheart and Swallowtail will always be with us.”
Crouchpaw stepped towards them, hope running down his spine. He lifted his tail. “And so will all our fallen Clanmates.”
Sedgewhisker turned around to face him. Her face was still weary with sadness, but in her eyes he could see a spark of hope. “Of course, Crouchpaw. You couldn’t be more right.” Gorsetail, too, was gazing at him affectionately; he could feel pride and love for him streaming off both their pelts.
Her fur fluffing out slightly, Sedgewhisker beckoned with her tail at Larkpaw and Emberfoot behind him. “Come here, both of you.” They drew in closer, and Crouchpaw’s heart swelled, feeling each of his family members around him.
“I still have so much here to be thankful for.” Sedgewhisker’s gaze held nothing but affection now. “I couldn’t have asked StarClan for two more wonderful kits. You’ve both been so brave, to endure a terrible battle like this at your age—so strong and clever. I know that you’ll both make fine warriors. WindClan will survive, and you two, not the Dark Forest, will shape our future.”
Crouchpaw froze, knowing immediately that his mother had said the wrong thing. There was a sharp intake of breath from Larkpaw beside him, and he quickly pressed against her flank, praying to StarClan that his worst fears wouldn’t be realized.
It wasn’t enough. He could feel Larkpaw’s fur stand on end as his sister’s tense guilt spilled over into panic. In the heartbeat that it took her jaws to part in anguish, he braced himself for the storm about to unfold.
“I won’t ever make a good warrior!” she burst out. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!”
Confusion swelled in the three warriors’ eyes. It was Emberfoot who responded, his tone cautious. “What are you talking about, Larkpaw?”
“I—” Larkpaw gasped. Fear-scent was coming off her pelt, as though she didn’t want to speak but couldn’t stop herself. “I—we—we trained there. None of us knew—or that’s what I thought, but now I don’t know—it was a horrible mistake. We didn’t think we were betraying our Clan. I’d never do it again! I was so, so stupid!”
Sedgewhisker’s nostrils flared, and when she spoke, she, too, seemed to be struggling to find the words. “You were training in the Dark Forest?” The brown tabby she-cat lashed her tail. “How… how could you? How could you help them—”
“We didn’t fight on their side!” Larkpaw begged. “Once we found out what they were planning…” She trailed off, her mew despondent.
Emberfoot’s worried gaze flashed from his daughter to the nearby hollow, then back. “You trained there… with Furzepelt?”
She jerked her head in a nod. “And Sunstrike.”
The gray tom recoiled as if stung. “Sunstrike?”
Larkpaw gazed at him helplessly. At his side, Sedgewhisker’s expression was still a mix of grief and anger. Her ears began to flatten.
Crouchpaw took a step forward, desperately trying to keep his voice light. “It’s not Larkpaw’s fault. Any of us could have made the same mistake.” He made eye contact with each of his parents in turn, putting as much love as he could into his gaze in the hopes that they’d return it. “And look at how many injuries she has—she fought harder than any other WindClan warrior in the battle!”
Please, StarClan, let them forgive her! Larkpaw already blames herself enough. She doesn’t deserve our parents’ anger too!
But Sedgewhisker slid out her claws. “My sisters are dead!” she hissed. “And you —” Her gaze swiveled back to Larkpaw. “You helped kill them!”
The young she-cat’s eyes swam with pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Tell that to Swallowtail,” Sedgewhisker spat.
Frantically Crouchpaw tried to think of something more he could say in Larkpaw’s defense. But nothing seemed like it would be enough to dull their mother’s intense grief.
Then his ears pricked up as another cat found their voice first. “No,” Gorsetail croaked. “We cannot let this tragedy divide us.”
The old she-cat’s pelt was as haggard as it had been a moment before, and her face had lost none of its sorrow—but there was a quiet determination in her blue eyes. “We have lost so much, as I said.” Her mew grew more firm. “What’s left is too precious to spurn.”
Sedgewhisker’s fur bristled as she turned to face her mother. But Gorsetail touched her tail lightly to the younger warrior’s shoulder and carried on speaking. “I know you’re angry,” she said softly. “And you know I feel every bit of that anger just as fiercely as you. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to bring Swallowtail and Thistleheart back.” She blinked compassionately. “But turning our anger on Larkpaw won’t do that. Crouchpaw is right. This is not her fault.”
“And what else am I supposed to do?” Sedgewhisker ground out, a hint of a snarl still edging her mew. “What else is there?”
Crouchpaw took another tentative pawstep toward her, running his muzzle through his mother’s shoulder fur. “We can keep going,” he said. “We all move forward, together.”
Gorsetail nodded. “One pawstep after another. That’s all we can do.”
For a moment Sedgewhisker seemed to soften. Her eyes closed. Her tail lowered ever so slightly. The jagged fur along her spine relaxed. Crouchpaw thought he could even hear the pulse of her heart grow calm.
Please, he begged her silently.
And then, painfully, he felt her pull away, shrugging off both his and Gorsetail’s touch. Horrified sadness crept down his chest as he watched her eyes grow wide again, her muzzle swinging back and forth from him to Gorsetail to Larkpaw with wild distrust.
Emberfoot sidled up to her, draping his tail across her shoulders, and for a moment Crouchpaw dared to hope that his father would succeed where they had failed. But the gray tom simply inclined his head in the direction of the slope towards the WindClan camp, and Crouchpaw realized dejectedly that he wasn’t even going to try.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say, even though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Please don’t go.
Slowly, with jerking pawsteps, Sedgewhisker let Emberfoot guide her away from them, staggering back towards the slope. After a little while, she seemed to regain her normal gait, and her mate withdrew his tail, the two of them padding side by side up the grassy incline.
Crouchpaw watched until they were out of sight, sure that one of them—Emberfoot, at least—would take one last glance back.
It didn’t happen.
The silence around them grew cold. Somehow Crouchpaw managed to turn his head enough to look at Gorsetail, countless terrified questions welling up in his throat. The old white-and-gray she-cat was his mentor, but just at that moment he could feel she was so much more than that.
She tipped her head in Larkpaw’s direction, and at once any thought of his own pain vanished from his mind. His sister’s amber eyes were wide, unblinking; her whole body was trembling dreadfully. Whatever he was feeling, he knew Larkpaw’s experience would be worse than he could imagine.
Tenderly he brushed against her flank, letting his scent drift into her pelt. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her body. Gorsetail joined them, tail circling around both their pelts. He let his whiskers creep across Larkpaw’s muzzle, and licked her cheek as softly as he could, and twined his tail with hers—and slowly, mercifully, he felt her shaking stop.
The three of them clung to each other for as long as they could. Crouchpaw registered, just barely, that the sun had climbed more than halfway to its peak. The early morning was gone, replaced by what seemed like an unfairly bright-skied midday. The only sounds were the muffled cries still arising infrequently from Furzepelt’s vigil.
Furzepelt… Sunstrike…
Instinctually his thoughts grabbed hold of something. Possessed of an urgency he couldn’t explain, Crouchpaw drew back, his pelt spiking with alarm.
“Larkpaw,” he murmured, still conscious of the need not to upset her, but needing to ask all the same, “Who else trained in the Dark Forest?”
She blinked groggily. “Besides… us?” Her eyes darted briefly in Furzepelt’s direction. “B-Breezepelt. Harespring. Whiskernose. And… Antpelt, before he…”
He hardly noticed as her voice trailed off. As though moving on their own, his paws began to carry him away from the two she-cats, in the opposite direction from camp, ascending the far slope and rapidly picking up speed.
“Crouchpaw!” he heard Larkpaw call, confusion echoing through her voice.
Still he ran on, the fear from what felt like several sunrises ago returning to grip his legs and spine. From somewhere far off, the scents left by the battle were calling him. The sickening tang of the Dark Forest cats, and the fresh heather of a WindClan pelt.
His vision blurred. He heard multiple sets of paws thrumming after him—Larkpaw and Gorsetail both. He ignored their panicked fear-scents and ran even faster. In one corner of his mind the fear took on another shape—blame, pointed straight at himself. If my shoulders weren’t so wide. If my legs were longer.
What if I don’t get there in time, when another WindClan cat would have?
He had only a vague feeling. He still didn’t know what he was running towards.
He found out a moment later, when Whiskernose’s bloody, ravaged body slammed into his vision from behind a tussock.
Somewhere just behind him, Larkpaw and Gorsetail skidded to a halt, shock streaming from both their pelts. Not slowing down, Crouchpaw dashed over to the light brown tom and gazed with horror at the wounds crisscrossing every part of his pelt.
Desperately, he checked Whiskernose’s head and neck. His friend’s eyes were closed, but he was barely—just barely—breathing.
“Get—get help!” Crouchpaw screamed back at the she-cats, not knowing or caring which one of them he was addressing. “Someone fetch Kestrelflight! Please—hurry!”
Chapter 5
“I, Onestar, leader of WindClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down on these two apprentices. They have trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend them to you as warriors in their turn.” The brown tabby tom’s gaze swept briefly across the circle of cats gathered in the center of the camp. Then he returned to staring straight ahead at his subjects.
“Crouchpaw, Larkpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend this Clan, even at the cost of your lives?”
“I do.” Crouchpaw poured every bit of determination he could into the words. As much as he’d ever meant anything, he knew he meant this. I would give anything for my Clan. It was the truth.
But it was Larkpaw’s truth, too, and it seemed horribly wrong to ask the same vow of both of them, when she had already given so much. It was easy, Crouchpaw knew, for him to say the words, standing here in front of the entire Clan. For Larkpaw it had been painful just to step forward, letting their gazes fall on her, feeling the cold harshness of their silence. In the four days since the battle had ended, their parents hadn’t spoken a word to her.
He broke eye contact with Onestar just long enough to glance over at her, resisting the urge to give her a reassuring touch with his tail. Instead he let his gaze carry his love for her, hoping she’d notice and find strength in his expression.
Her head didn’t move, but he thought he saw her blink in acknowledgment. Then, tabby fur trembling—whether from fear or excitement or both he wasn’t sure—his sister opened her jaws and repeated the words. “I do.”
“Then by the powers of StarClan,” Onestar said, his mew resonant, “I give you your warrior names.” He turned to Crouchpaw first, and Crouchpaw felt a flash of joy spark in his stomach. He was worried for Larkpaw, and hesitant about their parents, and unsure about the future of the Clan. But even still… I’m about to be a warrior!
“Crouchpaw, from this moment you will be known as Crouchfoot. StarClan honors your resilience and your loyalty, and we welcome you as a full warrior of WindClan.” Onestar stepped forward, his muzzle coming to rest gently atop Crouchfoot’s head. Pride flowing down his back, Crouchfoot licked his leader’s shoulder gratefully.
Then he straightened up. Around him the Clan had begun to chant, yowling his new name into the crisp morning air. “Crouchfoot! Crouchfoot!”
Feeling as though his shoulders had grown broader and his legs longer all at once, Crouchfoot stepped back, finding a place in the crowd beside Nightcloud and Gorsetail. The black she-cat nodded at him approvingly, and his former mentor rubbed her muzzle briefly into his cheek.
“Well done,” she whispered.
His pelt grew hot, and he felt his chest swell with appreciation. “You were the one who did all the work,” he murmured back. Silently Gorsetail flicked her tail in good humor.
The Clan grew quiet again as Onestar turned to the other cat remaining in front of him, and Crouchfoot felt his fear return. She deserves this just as much as I do—more than I do. Please.
“Larkpaw,” Onestar began. Then he hesitated, blinking for a moment as though overcome with sudden doubt. Anxiety screamed up Crouchfoot’s spine; he unsheathed his claws and dug them into the hollow’s soft grass. What are you waiting for?
The moment passed, and Onestar’s voice returned. “From this moment you will be known as Larkwing. StarClan honors your skill and your bravery, and we welcome you as a full warrior of WindClan.” He touched his muzzle to Larkwing’s head, and she lowered it in response. Crouchfoot could see awe glimmering in her eyes as she licked Onestar’s shoulder; her own shoulders had sagged with relief.
“Larkwing!” Crouchfoot shouted, chanting his sister’s new name before any other cat could. “Larkwing!” Quickly other voices joined in, welcoming the brown tabby she-cat as a warrior.
The call wasn’t as loud as it had been for his name, Crouchfoot could tell at once. He yowled all the louder for it, fighting to suppress memories of that Gathering mere moons ago. This won’t go that way again. Larkwing would feel every bit as celebrated as he had.
He didn’t look over to see if his parents were helping cheer. There was nothing to gain from it, and everything to lose.
As the calls died down, Larkwing rose back to her full height and turned, her eyes cautiously flicking across the gathered cats. For a moment her gaze rested on the opposite side of the clearing, where Sedgewhisker and Emberfoot sat. Then she blinked and padded in Crouchfoot’s direction instead, so quickly that he almost thought he’d imagined the other glance—but he knew better.
“Congratulations,” he purred. He brushed his cheek against hers warmly.
“To both of us,” she whispered back. Lovingly, she returned his gesture, but he still saw sadness shading her eyes. At that moment, he knew, she’d have given anything to have their parents welcome her as a warrior too.
Around them the Clan began to stir. Some cats got to their paws, tentatively taking a few steps away from the camp’s center.
But Onestar flicked his tail commandingly. “Wait,” he meowed, not moving from where he stood. “This meeting is not yet over.”
Puzzled, Crouchfoot shot a look at Gorsetail. His former mentor only shrugged, apparently not any more aware of what was happening than he was.
Onestar turned to the cat sitting just a short distance behind him, in the shade of the Tallrock. “Harespring. Fetch him.”
The brown-and-white tom leapt to his paws so quickly Crouchfoot thought he might fall over. “Yes, Onestar!”
Crouchfoot watched as, tail raised high, Harespring padded briskly away from the clearing. The warrior—no, Crouchfoot reminded himself, the new deputy—moved with an almost unsettling hurriedness, jarringly removed from the measured confidence that had always surrounded Ashfoot.
It feels strange to even compare them. Ashfoot had been deputy since well before Crouchfoot was born, and he’d never thought to imagine what WindClan would have been like without her calm reason to contrast Onestar’s more polarizing decisions. Part of him sympathized with Harespring—it couldn’t be easy to fill Ashfoot’s pawsteps, especially for a cat who had trained in the Dark Forest. But the overwhelming fervor with which he was undertaking his every action seemed to send the opposite message it was intended to: Rather than reassuring the Clan that he could be just as effective as Ashfoot had been, Harespring was inadvertently making it clear to every cat just how little confidence he truly had.
Paws still moving quickly, Harespring skirted the camp’s edge until he came to the boulder that held the medicine den, then ducked inside. When he emerged a moment later, it was with another cat propped up against his flank, leaning heavily on him with each pawstep they took together.
Crouchfoot drew in a sharp breath. Whiskernose! It was the first he’d seen of the brown tom in the days since the battle’s end. When they’d found him that morning, badly bloodied, Larkpaw had run to get Kestrelflight at once. Then, at Crouchpaw’s insistence, Gorsetail had helped him lift Whiskernose onto his own back, and together they’d begun to carefully carry him back to the WindClan camp, meeting Kestrelflight on the way.
Since then Whiskernose had been kept inside the medicine den, along with the rest of the cats whose injuries Kestrelflight had deemed too grievous to let them help bury the dead. And with so many injured cats to attend to, the medicine cat hadn’t let any others visit them inside the cramped confines of his den. But as the days passed, all of the other cats had been discharged one by one, healed enough to return to normal warrior duties. Only Whiskernose remained inside, unseen by the rest of the Clan.
Crouchfoot’s pelt pricked with uncertainty. Why had Onestar summoned the still-recuperating tom to the meeting now? He watched his friend take slow, jerking pawsteps towards the center of the clearing, pain lancing through his own heart at each stumble and gasp.
When Whiskernose, with Harespring’s support, had at last reached the stretch of empty grass at the center of the crowd, Crouchfoot was finally able to get a good look at how his wounds had healed. Patches of fur were still missing from the skinny tom’s back, and he looked even thinner than usual—probably, Crouchfoot realized, because he hadn’t been eating much while in the medicine den. But in every other way the warrior seemed to be recovering well. Tender skin showed through the bare patches, and there was no sour smell of infection. All of his wounds had begun to close.
So why is he still limping? Crouchfoot shuddered. Did Whiskernose have a broken leg? Had the Dark Forest warriors been that brutal? He looked, but none of the warrior’s legs seemed misshapen. Yet still he flinched as Harespring lowered him down to sit on all four paws on the grass, the deputy then returning to his position by Onestar’s side.
“Whiskernose,” Onestar began, his tone sympathetic but guarded. “Kestrelflight has informed me of how your injuries have progressed.”
Hesitantly, the brown tom jerked his muzzle in a brief nod. Crouchfoot looked into his eyes and saw them filled with regret.
Onestar raised his voice slightly, addressing the full Clan now. “Kestrelflight believes that, although Whiskernose’s wounds will heal, the damage to his muscles was… lasting. His strength will never be what it once was, and he will suffer when he tries to run or exert himself in battle.” The Clan leader pawed at the grass, discomfort running through his features. “As such, Kestrelflight and Whiskernose have discussed the situation, and they recognize there is only one path forward.”
In front of him, Whiskernose cast his gaze down at the grass, his pelt deflating. Crouchfoot had never seen such despondency in a cat before, not even when his mother and Gorsetail had learned of their kin’s deaths. To witness it on the face of the most enthusiastic warrior he knew made his stomach curl.
“Whiskernose,” Onestar intoned. “Is it your wish to give up the role of warrior and go to join the elders?”
Gasps rose from the crowd. Crouchfoot lurched. He’s barely older than me! Desperately he looked over at Larkwing. She brushed her tail across his back sadly, trying to comfort him. Her face held the same grief he felt.
A hoarse mew, barely a whisper, came from Whiskernose’s muzzle. “It is.”
“Your Clan honors you and all the service you have given us—particularly your sacrifices during the Great Battle,” Onestar said softly. “I call upon StarClan to give you many seasons of rest.” He stepped forward, raising his tail and laying it across Whiskernose’s shoulders in a gesture of honor.
Whiskernose said nothing, staring blankly ahead at the moor.
Around them, the murmurs in the crowd continued. No cat raised their voice to call out the new elder’s name. Crouchfoot felt sorrow grip his insides even harder.
Beside him, Gorsetail let out a soft sigh. “It’s not fair,” she meowed gently. “To survive the battle, only to wind up in that state…”
“At least he’ll be well cared for,” Larkwing said. There was a note of hope ringing in her voice, but Crouchfoot could tell she was forcing it for his benefit.
He scanned the crowd, trying to gauge whether the rest of the Clan held any sympathy for the young warrior. He was a Dark Forest trainee. Do they even feel sorry for him? Sedgewhisker and Emberfoot were turned towards each other, their jaws moving in low whispers. He couldn’t see any outright malice on their faces, but there wasn’t any sadness, either.
A short distance away, he could see Whitetail looking towards Whiskernose kindly. A hopeful expression played across her features, and she flicked her tail in a welcoming gesture. For the last few days, the small white she-cat had been the only elder remaining in the Clan—Tornear and Webfoot had fallen, defending the camp against the Dark Forest even in old age. Crouchfoot guessed that Whitetail was glad to welcome another cat into her den. That’s good. Whiskernose’s new denmate, at least, would be kind to him.
But the cats sitting just beside her couldn’t have been any more different in their response, and Crouchfoot winced as he spotted them. Ears laid flat, tails curled in disquieting satisfaction, Weaselfur and Leaftail were taking in the scene with complete approval. There was something almost amused about their demeanor, and were it not for the din of the crowd around him, Crouchfoot wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the two toms purring.
By now Onestar had retreated from his position below the Tallrock, and the meeting was beginning to break up. Graciously, Whitetail stepped forward, crouching down beside Whiskernose to allow him to rest against her for support. Slowly, she helped him across the clearing towards the gorse bush that guarded the entrance to the elders’ den.
But as the elders passed by Weaselfur and Leaftail, Crouchfoot saw a gleam enter the two warriors’ eyes. Leaftail straightened upright, his front paws flexing, and turned with eager zest to his companion. Weaselfur responded in kind, throwing him a sharp nod as his jaws opened. The ginger tom looked as though he was about to pounce on the juiciest rabbit WindClan had ever seen.
“It’s no surprise, really,” Weaselfur hissed, his voice oozing with contempt. “First the mouse-heart failed at being a proper WindClan warrior, so he had to go train in the Dark Forest just to feel important. Then he failed so badly at that, too, that he couldn’t even defend himself against the cats who’d taught him all their battle moves!”
Crouchfoot’s chest erupted with rage at the older warrior’s words. His claws slid out at once; his instincts screamed at him to dash across the clearing and claw the smugness from Weaselfur’s slick ginger pelt. He struggled with the desire, every breath a wave of hatred, the need to stay loyal to the warrior code pressing agonizingly against his mind. We don’t attack our Clanmates.
He’s no Clanmate of mine!
Heartbeats passed. Then, before either resolve could win out, he saw Whitetail drape her tail lightly over Whiskernose’s back. The brown tom’s eyes were filled with shame, and his tail had retreated between his legs—but he accepted the elderly she-cat’s determination as she took another pawstep forward. He matched it, and together, staring resolutely ahead, away from the pair of toms, they continued on to the elders’ den.
Weaselfur hadn’t turned away from Leaftail throughout the exchange, his gaze fixed coolly on the dark ginger tom as though he’d had no idea the elders were there. But Leaftail had abandoned all pretense, turning to stare unsubtly at Whiskernose even as his friend was speaking. His eyes remained fixed on the younger tom’s back as the elders padded away. When the two of them had at last disappeared beneath the gorse bush, Leaftail heaved his shoulders in a satisfied shrug, getting to his paws and departing. Weaselfur remained behind a moment, calmly licking one white forepaw, before following him.
Slowly Crouchfoot felt his pelt—and with it, his anger—deflate. His breathing returned to normal, and he became aware that Larkwing was the only cat still by his side. Quickly he searched the camp for Nightcloud or Gorsetail, and spotted Nightcloud leaving with a hunting patrol on the far side of the camp, which to his pleasant surprise included Furzepelt.
He nudged Larkwing, nodding in their direction. “It looks like Furzepelt’s feeling a bit better. I think she’s started doing patrols regularly again. That’s good, isn’t it?”
His sister blinked. “Yes. Yes, it is.” She sounded somewhat distracted, and her voice didn’t hold quite as much happiness as he’d hoped the news would inspire in her.
He followed her gaze to see that Gorsetail had padded over to where their parents still sat. The gray-and-white she-cat was settled onto her haunches, conversing casually with them both.
Larkwing scraped at the earth with one paw.
Crouchfoot licked her shoulder. “They’ll understand, someday,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault. Deep down, they know that. They just need time.”
Eyes wide, she regarded him hesitantly. “Do you really believe that, Crouchfoot?”
“I do.” He got to his paws. “They’re our parents. They love us. Nothing can change that.”