Story Untold [🦋]

                                    

                                          
(TW: mentions of death and su!c!de)
In the lush, shadowy depths of the sprawling forest of SwarmClan, where the whispering winds danced through the branches and the moonlight spilled silver across the glade, Palawanfeather roamed with a heaviness in his heart. 
The flickers of unease that had coiled around him for seasons now seemed to tighten their grip. He had always felt an unsettling sensation, as if eyes brushed against his fur, lingering like the breath of a ghost. 
But the unease had escalated into a gnawing fear—especially after the sudden death of Newtblossom.
Newtblossom had been a radiant presence in his life, her fur like moonlight dappling the forest floor. The two had become inseparable over the past few moons, their bond blossoming amid the vibrant chaos of clan life. 
Newtblossom's laughter vibrated through the thickets like a joyous melody not even birds could replicate, and even the oldest of elders had noted the way Palawanfeather would beam when their gazes met across the clearing. 
Yet, that happiness had unravelled tragically when he found her lifeless body lying amidst the ferns, her once-bright eyes dull and lifeless as her lifeblood seeped from the deep gash in her belly. 
The thunder in his heart had echoed through his soul, punctuated only by the agonizing howl that escaped his throat.
The day of Newtblossom's death had been on a day both stormy and foreboding, the eternal skies cloaked in heavy clouds that mirrored Palawanfeather's heart. 
He had found her during a morning patrol, her intricate fur matted with blood. Panic had sent him racing back to camp, calling for the medicine cats while his heart quaked in disbelief. 
Memories of their joyful hunts, shared secrets, and stolen moments flashed before him like a haunting memory reel, each one pricking at his heart with the sharpness of thorns.
But as the clan mourned, whispers soon carried through the camp like thunderclaps. Some members spoke of a foul play—a predator, they said who lurked in the shadows, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey. 
Others tended toward superstition, murmuring that the Dark Forest had sent a spirit to reclaim what was theirs. Yet amidst all these murmurs, Palawanfeather felt the weight of a more sinister truth creeping through his mind. 
He had heard a rustling of bushes and the echo of paw steps behind him, felt the weight of eyes watching him in the dead of night. Was there truly a hidden stalker waiting in the wings, drawing closer as each day passed?
The days turned into nights, and each dawn brought with it the flickering memory of her absence. Dark nights stretched long, where Palawanfeather would stare into the moonlit clearing, searching for the flicker of Newtblossom's silhouette. 
But the evanescence of her spirit left a chasm, hollower than any warrior would dare speak of. As he lay beneath the gnarled branches, he thought he could hear her, teasing him softly, telling him to remain strong, to keep fighting. 
Yet there was an opposing voice, darker and more insistent, that told him the truth: someone wanted him broken, someone who was willing to do whatever it took to ensure that he never felt joy again.
To keep himself from spiraling into despair, he began to investigate. Late nights were spent under the cover of the starlit sky, seeking the tender yet jagged edges of the forest. 
He retraced Newtblossom's last steps, sniffing the dew-coated earth for any hint of a feline scent that wasn't his. Palawanfeather's heart raced at the thought of how close he might've been to the predator who had taken her life.