#weedfoot

Downstar was old. While StarClan had healed her wounds from the SlugClan battle, the shock of it clung to her body. It wasn't ready for the fight with LynxClan. There wasn't much more the clerics could do for Downstar, save give those she loved time to sit beside her and say goodbye.

Sunset bounced off the wall of the medicine den behind Oilstripe as she sat beside her sleeping leader. Downstar laid stretched in her nest, tail tightly wrapped in bandages. Her claws peeked in and out as she dreamed her death dream. She'd barely been able to eat over the last few days, leading her ribs to press against her skin. She already smelled of vigil herbs; lavender and mint. Even though Yarrowclaw had a nest in the medicine den, treating a deep slash along the back of her ankle, she left the deputy to her early vigil.

"Nine lives," Oilstripe muttered. She brushed her tail against Downstar's frail side. "It must have been painful. I hope this feels better." Darkhounds, crazed leaders, humans, blizzards… and she lost her final life to LynxClan cats stealing crabs. Crabs. A leader like Downstar deserved a grander death, deep in the heart of a fearsome battle. Or perhaps a quiet one, where she drifted off in her nest. This was neither. This was… just sad.

"Mom?" Oilstripe looked back to see Troutpool standing just inside the medicine den. Behind her, RippleClan shared tongues, quietly waiting for the moment their first great leader left them for Silverpelt.

"She doesn't have long," Oilstripe sighed, turning back to Downstar. "I don't think she's in much pain."

"I know." Silence itched the back of Oilstripe's neck. "I was talking with the other clerics. It will be dark soon. We think it would be better if you and I… started the trip to StarClan's Shrine. You'll need your nine lives." Oilstripe crouched in front of Downstar's muzzle. Her soft breath stirred the small fibers of the moss underneath her.

"I won't leave until she stops breathing, Troutpool," Oilstripe said. "It wouldn't be right." Oilstripe nuzzled Downstar's muzzle. The tortoiseshell leader did not react.

"She'll go at any moment," Troutpool groaned softly. "You can only get your lives at night. And… I know you've noticed her."

Yes, Oilstripe had seen the spirit sitting just beside the den wall, watching Downstar closely. Duskkit stared at her mother, still as a hunter. With the true dusk shining through the thinnest gaps in the wood, Duskkit seemed not like a glowing spirit, visible only to Oilstripe and Troutpool, but a normal kit, a juniper-wearing black tabby waiting for her mother.

"There are a lot of cats waiting for her," Duskkit said. She moved closer to Downstar's sleeping body, peering at the gray fur lining her muzzle. "I want to be the first face she sees when she wakes up." She turned back to Oilstripe and added "She'll see you there, Oilstripe. It's alright." Oilstripe's throat closed. This was really happening. StarClan, she was going to become RippleClan's leader. Fear tightened her shoulders and pushed out her claws.

"I still need to prepare a travel mixture," Troutpool said softly. "That would give you a little more time." When Oilstripe did not respond, Troutpool slipped around her mother and to her stores. She quietly plucked drying herbs from their shelves and placed them in a stone bowl for grinding, worn to a deep dip over moons of artisanal pressure. As her paw pressed the herbs against the stone, transforming them into powder and paste, Oilstripe moved around Duskkit and Downstar. The ginger deputy placed her chin on Downstar's thin chest. Despite the end creeping close, her fur was as soft as ever.

"Maybe your gift to me will be a soft pelt," Oilstripe muttered. Duskkit giggled and trotted to Oilstripe's side. She placed her paw, half the size of Oilstripe's own, on Downstar's back. To Oilstripe's shock, Duskkit's ghostly paw did not phase through.

"That's a sign that she's close," Duskkit explained softly. She stared up at Oilstripe and asked, "What do you think she'll look like in StarClan? I try to look as old as I can, but I know most cats like looking young."

"I'm sure she'll be like you remember her," Oilstripe sighed.

"It's ready, Mom," Troutpool gently called. She placed a lid back on a small jar of water and put it back on her shelves. The herbs inside the stone bowl floated and congealed in the water.

Troutpool lapped up half of the mixture. Her face curled as she swallowed. Oilstripe groomed Downstar's neck, filling her nose with the scent of lavender. She joined Troutpool as the cream and white cleric stepped back and processed the taste of the mixture. Oilstripe's whiskers curled as she leaned down to the bowl. She tried to imagine it was a bowl of honey. She drank the strengthening slop as quick as she could. She gagged at the powerful taste. Was this what the clerics ate before their half-moon trips? Oilstripe forced herself to drink the rest of the mixture. When she was done, Troutpool placed the bowl back in its spot in the corner and nuzzled Oilstripe's neck.

"We can go if you're ready," Troutpool said. Mother and daughter, living, looked back at mother and daughter, dying and dead. Duskkit's pelt shimmered with stars and anticipation as she stared deep into Downstar's closed eyes. Oilstripe forced her mind to still. Downstar deserved to greet her daughter in private. Oilstripe nodded to Troutpool. The pair walked out of the medicine den and through the dimming camp.

Oilstripe focused on the exit. Troutpool waved off Clanmates as they stood, anticipating an announcement of the end. There were two cats, however, that wouldn't let themselves be ignored. Slushtrail and Tallowheart sat in front of the exit, catching Oilstripe and their older sister before they could leave. Slushtrail adjusted the crown of juniper needles that decorated her head as she hurried in front of Oilstripe.

"Is she gone?" Slushtrail gulped.

"Soon," Oilstripe sighed. "We're going to StarClan's Shrine. Keep Rattlepelt and your mother company while we're out."

"You can count on us, Mom," Tallowheart said, brushing against Oilstripe's pelt. "Good luck." Oilstripe touched noses with her son and youngest daughter. She licked each of their ears, breathed love into their fur, and led Troutpool out of camp.

They were not alone as they journeyed toward the border. As they pushed further and further into the forest, starry figures danced in the red shadows. Oilstripe recognized some of the figures. Ripplefern jumped from root to boulder to hilltop, eagerly racing back and forth. Puddlespeckle's blue eyes watched silently from the crook of a yellow birch. Harvest led Robinkit down a deer path, almost dancing as they went. When the sharp scent of the border hit Oilstripe's nose, most of the figures she saw were cats she couldn't recognize. The whole forest seemed to glow with the presence of a hundred glittering pelts.

"Are you always accompanied like this?" Oilstripe whispered to Troutpool.

"I think this is a special occasion," Troutpool gulped. Her head followed a pair of ghostly apprentices leaping across the branches overhead, daring each other to reach StarClan's Shrine first.

Oilstripe didn't know how to each StarClan's Shrine alone, but StarClan guided her paws in the most literal sense possible. As night overtook dusk, spirits waved her forward, directing her and Troutpool along the WheatClan border until they reached SlugClan. Troutpool's path shifted off the border and along a well-tred stretch of dead grass. The thicker hills and cliffs that marked the harsher, more rugged terrain of SlugClan bloomed around them, giving StarClan spirits more places to look and watch the cleric and deputy on their journey.

When Troutpool was an apprentice, she had eagerly described the cave that housed StarClan's Shrine to Oilstripe and Carnationspeckle the day after her first half-moon meeting. As the cave, emerging from a slowly rising cliff, appeared through the trees, Oilstripe realized her daughter described it perfectly. An unlit fire sat outside the cave. Paint smeared the walls of the cave, depicting daring figures and dramatic shapes. Some of the art was so faded, Oilstripe had to squint, but other areas had fresh paint smearing the rock. SlugClan took their responsibility of maintaining the shrine seriously, it seemed.

The StarClan spirits stopped well before they reached the cave. As Troutpool guided Oilstripe into the thick dark, the deputy couldn't help but look back at her starry companions, wishing they could continue to light the way. But if the stories were true, she would see them again soon enough.

The paintings along the cave wall guided Oilstripe further into the dark, just as the StarClan spirits outside escorted her all the way from camp. Cats ran deeper into the cave while others built the Clans; weaving baskets, hunting, cooking, singing. This was an ode to everything the Clans were, all they stood for, all leading to the end of their lives and the start of their next.

Every kit knew about the stone that sat at the end of the cave. Half of the roof had collapsed over the years, allowing the glow of the night to illuminate the sacred sculpture. A large shape bulged from the farthest wall. While bright paint surrounded this shape, nothing dared touch the symbol itself. It was a large, five-pointed object, a symbol that historians drew in the sand to teach kits about their ancestors. It was a star. Carved by cats or carved by nature, none knew which was true, but did that matter? This was StarClan's Shrine. Their symbol led the living to the dead.

"We sleep beside the star?" Oilstripe whispered, as though afraid to break the divinity of the cave. Troutpool nodded. She settled into a soft loaf on the leather-covered floor. Oilstripe forced her stiff legs to bend and place her body beside Troutpool. Questions burned Oilstripe's throat, but she could not ask them. How could she fall asleep in such a place?

"It's easier than you think," Troutpool said, closing her eyes. "It just takes time. I'll be with you, Mom." Oilstripe copied her daughter and closed her eyes, even though the wind purred along the open roof and Oilstripe's body wanted to run.

Alright, StarClan. What did you truly think of Oilstripe?

[Image ID: Oilstar stands proud and tall with Fennelspot, Mosspounce, Weedfoot, Applepelt, Rustshade, Parsley, Clammask, Locustseeker, and Downstar's ghosts surrounding her. Troutpool and Moonpaw watch from afar. Downstar says, "We hail you by your new name, Oilstar, second leader of RippleClan. You are everything we built this Clan to be. Make it more." Under Oilstar, it says LEVEL UP! OILSTRIPE → OILSTAR, + LIVES: 9.]

Oilstripe's thoughts drifted for a while. Flashes of her Clan danced behind her eyelids. Downstar, dying in her nest. Carnationspeckle, pledging to be Oilstripe's mate as long as she would have her. Rattlepelt, calling her Mom for the first time. Troutpool's birth, then Slushtrail and Tallowheart. In so many ways, Oilstripe had never lost a single friend, while in others, she could never forget them. Perhaps this was why she was given her strange sight, as some supernatural preparation to lead RippleClan. Was Downstar even dead yet?

"Don't worry, Oilstripe. She's here."

Oilstripe startled, rolling onto her side. The cool leather floor of StarClan's Shrine had vanished. Sand mixed into Oilstripe's ginger pelt. A bright, cloud-dappled sky stretched above her, shining with the brilliant glow of the sunrise that burned against the ocean behind Oilstripe. The forest and the steepening cliffs beyond it lined the horizon beyond the ethereal beach. It smelled like every season at once; the warmth of summer, the colors of autumn, the chill of winter, and the growth of spring. It was home, it was RippleClan, but it wasn't. It was RippleClan at its best.

Troutpool stood beside Oilstripe and helped her mother to her paws. A sparkling white molly stood at the edge of the grass and sand, purring. Oilstripe had not seen this figure in many, many moons. Her appearances in the living world dimmed as more and more RippleClan cats quietly watched their descendants. But she had never left them, had she?

"Mom," Troutpool whispered, bowing before the white molly. "This is—"

"Moonpaw," Oilstripe purred. "It's been a long time."

"You've met our StarClan guide?" Troutpool gasped, jumping back up.

"I knew you would be leader some day," Moonpaw laughed, trotting up to the living cats. Stars trailed in her wake. "I don't just mean because I'm RippleClan's guide, either! It just felt right."

"Thank you," Oilstripe sighed, dipping her head. Suddenly, Moonpaw jabbed her nose against Oilstripe's forehead. Her nose was cold, like diving into the ocean.

Oilstripe's life flashed before her eyes. Literally. She saw WheatClan's camp from the eyes of a kit at Sunstrike's side, Rustshade beckoning her close. She saw RippleClan's shipwreck for the first time and spotted the little brown kit waiting within for her mother. She saw Moonpaw for the first time, saving her from an early demise. She saw Troutpool at Carnationspeckle's belly, she saw her Clan grow, she saw Weedfoot's spirit nod in approval, she saw death and battle and birth and love. Her life collapsed into a single moment of unending memories.

Oilstripe's legs buckled as Moonpaw stepped away. Troutpool threw her head under Oilstripe's chin, helping her back to her feet.

"What did you do?" Oilstripe gasped, reminding herself she could still breathe.

"A few things," Moonpaw said with a chuckle. "I'm RippleClan's guide. I have to make sure they have a good leader. Very official." She cleared her throat and stood a bit taller. "I have taken your old life from you, Oilstripe. Your body is no longer breathing. It now has room for nine new lives to guide RippleClan through the seasons to come. I have searched through your life, and I approve of your right to rule." Oilstripe nodded dumbly. She knew this would happen; stories of past leader's ceremonies made up more than a few legends. The process was known, even if the details were kept secret until a leader's final passing. But to actually have that happen…

"What now?" Oilstripe gulped. Moonpaw looked back to the forest.

"Now Troutpool and I settle down and bear witness," Moonpaw purred. Moonpaw bunted Troutpool's shoulder like an old friend. Troutpool stumbled to the side, eyeing Oilstripe as Moonpaw shoved her away. Oilstripe breathed slow as she stared into the trees. Downstar wanted this. StarClan wanted this. It would be alright.

The first life-giver's golden eyes peered from underneath a giant pine. He emerged slowly, eyeing Moonpaw as he stepped into the light. Oilstripe's heart lightened. Even in his afterlife, Fennelspot was a consistent presence in the medicine den, watching the clerics work and standing over patients. It felt not like a long-awaited reunion, but a visit with a good friend.

"Can you believe I thought you were mean as a kit?" Oilstripe laughed as Fennelspot approached. The petals he stuck into his pelt were bright and soft as though they still grew on their stems.

"I had a lot going on," Fennelspot hummed, whiskers twitching in humor. "Now Oilstripe, this will be a lot. You'll feel like you're dying. I won't lie to you. But you can handle it. Trust yourself."

"I do my best," Oilstripe said. Fennelspot touched his pointed muzzle to Oilstripe's forehead.

"With this life," he said, voice echoing with supernatural power, "I give you unity. Unity across the Clans made RippleClan possible. It's your job as leader to foster unity within RippleClan. It can be hard, but the Clan depends on you now."

Oilstripe did not feel very united in that moment as slicing pain ripped through her mind. She could feel herself break apart, her body tearing into large, bleeding chunks. She tumbled away from herself, helplessly reaching out. Yet before she could lose herself, mental twine latched itself to her soul. Stitches pulled her pieces back together. She would not let herself fall apart. Disjointed parts slipped back together, their bonds stronger than ever before.

Oilstripe's legs shook as Fennelspot stepped back. Oilstripe laughed weakly, licking her dry lips. Fennelspot wasn't lying. The dead cleric peered at Oilstripe like he was ready for her to fall over. Oilstripe sat and swallowed vomit that crawled up her throat. Fennelspot still studied Oilstripe like a good cleric should, but he moved to the side for the second life-giver.

This life-giver marched out of the forest like he ruled it all. Oilstripe couldn't help it, she startled at the sight of black and gray fur and earthy green eyes.

"Mosspounce?" she gasped.

"Congratulations, Oilstripe," Mosspounce chirped, sitting with a plop in front of the ginger molly. "I'm really excited to give you your second life."

"I have to be honest," Oilstripe said, chuckling at the shock of it all, "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Think about it," Mosspounce chuckled. "I was born… under not so good circumstances. I mean, my father had me in some strange attempt to connect with your mate. It's disturbing." Mosspounce's tail curled around his front leg. "Still, Carnationspeckle nursed me. And you, you didn't treat me bad. You always treated me like my own cat."

"I tried my best," Oilstripe explained with a lick to her chest. "I can't say it didn't feel strange, but you were a kit. It wouldn't have been right to treat you poorly. You aren't Shadowdrop's mistakes."

"That's why you'll be a good leader," Mosspounce purred. He touched his nose to Oilstripe's forehead and said, "With this life, I give you the gift of adventure. Don't be afraid to reach far and go where the wind takes you. Risks have the best rewards."

Oilstripe was flying. The world bent below her. Trees and mountains and oceans curled in on each other. She hovered in a black void, stars twinkling far, far away. A blue and green ball, sprinkled white, danced before her. There was no limit to what she could do. She never wanted to come down.

Yet come down she did as Mosspounce stepped away. Oilstripe's eyes blurred from the leftover effect. Mosspounce's form rippled like a reflection. Oilstripe rubbed her eyes. It was like clearing out sand and salt. By the time her vision returned, the figure standing in front of her was no longer Mosspounce… but Weedfoot. She had made only a few appearances in camp since her passing; Oilstripe hadn't realized how young her former mentor truly looked in StarClan.

"I am so, so proud of you, Oilstripe!" Weedfoot cheered. She rubbed against Oilstripe. She smelled like dandelions and salt. The smell grounded Oilstripe against the sand of Silverpelt. She licked Weedfoot's neck, purring in return. "James wanted me to tell you not to let the power go to your head."

"What's it like to have Paleshade and James in StarClan together?" Oilstripe asked as Weedfoot moved back.

"Let's just say they keep me busy," Weedfoot hummed. With that, she touched her nose to Oilstripe and declared, "With this life, I give you courage. By StarClan, you'll need it."

Oilstripe was afraid. Her body ached and burned. Darkness intensified the pain. No one was coming. No one would help. It was forbidden. But that wasn't the worst pain. The worst was the cooling body pressed against her own. She could have lived, you foxhearts. She wouldn't cower before them. Even if she died right then and there, Weedfoot would not let AshClan win.

Oilstripe reflexively sobbed when the pain ended and she returned to the present. Troutpool hurried forward, but Moonpaw stepped in front with a soft shake of her head. Weedfoot licked Oilstripe's cheek as she shook. Just that simple touch, both dead and alive, rekindled the newfound strength left within Oilstripe's bones. Her mentor had faced that horror and live. Oilstripe would be honored to carry that courage with her.

Weedfoot joined Fennelspot and Mosspounce, who sat to the side with Troutpool and Moonpaw. Oilstripe peered into the forest. Who would visit her next? She couldn't see any iridescent eyes or sparkling pelts—

Something slammed into Oilstripe's shoulder. Oilstripe fell on her jaw. Sand flew into her nose. A mad cackle clued her into her next life-giver.

"I can touch you, I can touch you," Applepelt sang as their soft paws batted Oilstripe's exposed belly. Fennelspot groaned and Troutpool's eyes went wide. Everyone else just laughed.

"You're bird-brained, Applepelt," Oilstripe laughed, getting back to her paws. She snorted like a horse, blowing out sand.

"Aww, but didn't you miss this?" Applepelt cooed. She thrust her head into Oilstripe's chest. "I mean, I know I talk to you all the time, probably more than I'm supposed to if I'm honest, but isn't it nice to actually do this?" Applepelt suddenly reared up and nibbled Oilstripe's ear. Oilstripe laughed like an apprentice and headbutted Applepelt off.

"You'll get in trouble with Carnationspeckle if she hears about this," Oilstripe giggled.

"Well when I get the chance, I'll flirt with her, too!" Applepelt declared. "You can't stop me."

"The life, Applepelt," Fennelspot snapped. Moonpaw shushed the (ironically) younger StarClan cat.

"I'm getting to it," Applepelt scoffed as Oilstripe tried to dam her giggles. "Alright, alright, time for the serious stuff." Applepelt purred as they touched Oilstripe's forehead. "With this life, I give you confidence! I've always cheered you and Carnationspeckle on, and I've always tried to make you as confident in yourselves and each other as I am. Now you have to be confident!"

If Oilstripe thought the life for adventure was intoxicating, Applepelt's life was something else entirely. Oilstripe's body floated. She was on fire, but the fire did not hurt. She could do anything. She could face an entire enemy Clan. She could feed all of RippleClan. She could, and would, do it all! Everything would be okay, because Oilstripe was the one in control. She was the Clan leader, and she could do it!

The release was not as painful as

Oilstripe expected. Instead, as Applepelt trotted over to the other StarClan cats, Oilstripe felt refreshed. The horror of Fennelspot and Weedfoot's lives seemed distant, echoing against the trees. Oilstripe breathed deeply, throat stinging with salt. She waited for her next visitor, glancing along the beach and through the trees. Her pelt prickled as every moment passed without sight of a new life-giver.

"Rustshade, don't keep her waiting!" Weedfoot yowled into the trees. Oilstripe's heart stopped. Red paws slipped into the light. Rustshade's sharp heather eyes bore into Oilstripe. Oh. So this was what these reunions were meant to feel like.

"Dad," Oilstripe whimpered. Rustshade slowly made his way to his oldest daughter. He looked younger than Oilstripe did. Oilstripe stretched her head forward, shaking. She cried when Rustshade's nose touched her forehead. Oh to be a kit again, the focus of Rustshade's attention.

"With this life, I give you…" Rustshade said, "the gift of breaking the warrior code." What? Oilstripe nearly steppd back to oggle her father, but she feared to break the powerful ritual. Rustshade was considered the Celestial of RippleClan Codekeepers! Oilstripe literally heard cats like Cobaltchaser and Wolfgaze pray to him to pass their assessments! How could he suggest breaking the code in front of his fellow StarClan warriors?

"Do you think you would be leader if we didn't break the code and turn against our old Clans?" Rustshade scoffed. "The right thing isn't always what the code says. It's up to you to recognize that."

Wind buffeted Oilstripe's pelt. She was certain she'd be flung upward, destined for a gruesome landing. Stabbing pain consumed her body. The glare of a hundred righteous faces burned into her. But she burned too, not out of shame, but pride. They could say what they wanted. This was right.

"Don't go!" Oilstripe cried as the connection broke and Rustshade stepped away. She reached for her father's slender tail as he turned, but her claws barely reached his fur. Troutpool's gaze was stuck on her grandfather as he sat beside Fennelspot. Oilstripe's jaw ached. Couldn't Rustshade spare a single comforting word her way?

"Now this is exciting!" A red and gray tortoiseshell trotted toward the beach. The stump that once formed her tail wiggled like an excited apprentice. Unlike the other StarClan cats, who usually looked far younger than they were when they died, Parsley still looked like an elder, with aging gray around her muzzle and thin patches of fur. Oilstripe tried to ignore Rustshade's presence and relaxed at the sight of Parsley. She was around the nursery so much in her afterlife, it was sometimes like she had never passed.

"I am very honored to be giving you a life, Ms. Oilstripe," Parsley chirped. "I hope I can do right by you and Carnation."

"You always did, Parsley," Oilstripe hummed as Parsley touched her forehead.

"With this life, I give you new beginnings," Parsley purred. "That's what RippleClan is all about, and it's what I grew to embody. Give them out whenever you can."

Oilstripe blossomed. Her body grew taller, faster, stronger, shining brighter and brighter with a fire in her belly. The beach was too small to hold her. Her bones snapped under the sudden pressure, yet they rebuilt themselves just as fast. All the while, the sensation of her tail attached to her flank faded, numb and ghost-like. Had Oilstripe not been in extreme pain, she would have laughed.

"Enjoy it, Ms. Oilstripe," Parsley purred. Oilstripe's head spun when the tortoiseshell moved back. Parsley plopped herself in front of her fellow StarClan cats.

Oilstripe barely had a moment to collect herself before the seventh life-giver emerged from the forest. Clammask! She seemed more at ease than Oilstripe could ever recall her being. Her dull golden fur was brighter than ever. She must have been enjoying her time in StarClan, since Oilstripe had only seen her at the vigils of her daughters in recent moons.

"You're almost done, Oilstripe," Clammask promised. Oilstripe had no time to greet her sister before Clammask touched her nose to Oilstripe's forehead. "With this life, I give you strength—strength in mind, heart, and body. I don't think you could ever hope to be a leader without strength."

Heavy waves pounded against Oilstripe. Her paws flew out from under her. She choked on salt and foam. Her eyes burned. She was certain she was about to vomit. Something pushed her up, pushed her to find air, to keep going. She wasn't going out like this. StarClan, was she living through Clammask's final moments? Was this what death felt like?

Oilstripe gagged as the connection broke. She was not about to throw up in front of StarClan itself, especially not her own daughter. Oilstripe swallowed hard as Clammask ran to Rustshade. The pair bunted heads and Clammask settled at her father's paws.

"Oilstripe! Over here!" A cream figure jogged along the beach, racing right at Oilstripe. The ginger molly braced herself to be tackled once more. Yet instead of a violent reunion, Locustseeker simply bunted their head against Oilstripe's side, purring deeply.

"I had to fight Burdockcreek and Twinekit for this spot," Locustseeker laughed. "Hope you don't mind they aren't here. I'm sure they'll visit you later." Oilstripe purred too and licked her lost sibling's head. "Don't be mad at Dad and Clammask, they love it up here. I'm trying to convince them to go see you more."

"Don't get in trouble on my part," Oilstripe hummed as Locustseeker moved in front of her. Even though they died young, they still matched Oilstripe's height, making it easy for them to touch their nose to her forehead.

"With this life, I give you endurance," Locustseeker declared. "Don't give up, Oil. I hope this keeps you going."

Oilstripe's heart beat wildly. Battle yowls pierced her ears. Claws danced through her skin, but Oilstripe returned every blow. Endurance seemed to be the same as strength, but as Oilstripe's body weakened and that strength left her, her endurance remained. It was the force that encouraged her to perform until her body gave way.

Locustseeker's release was like a deep sigh. Oilstripe no longer shook and swallowed bile. Locustseeker joined Clammask and Rustshade, shooting sassy looks to the both of them. Oilstripe heard many stories of leader ceremonies, their details revealed to historians after their passing. She knew how nearly all of them ended. There was only one candidate left to give her her final life.

Downstar emerged triumphantly from the forest. She looked just as she did in Oilstripe's oldest memories. Her soft fur glistened and shined with the newly gained glow of Silverpelt. There was a spark to her amber eyes Oilstripe had never seen before. Cats, both known and unknown, trailed behind her. Duskkit. Shadowdrop. Trumpetspore. Tempestshade. Scrubmask. More and more spirits followed Downstar to the beach, all staring at Oilstripe.

"You look good," Oilstripe said. She was shocked to find a lump in her throat as she spoke.

"I feel better than I have in a very long time," Downstar purred. "Now that I'm here, there's something very important I need to tell you." The lump in Oilstripe's throat grew as Downstar touched her forehead. "I picked a good, good deputy. With this life, I give you leadership in the darkest times. My only hope for you is that you fare better than I did."

The weight and emotion of Oilstripe's eight other lives crashed into her. Battle cries, crashing waves, breaking bones, glaring eyes, intoxication, darkness, flight, falling apart and coming togther again. All of these experiences pulled themselves together in Oilstripe's chest and burned against the shadows of the sunset.

"We hail you by your new name, Oilstar, second leader of RippleClan. You are everything we built this Clan to be. Make it more."

Triumphant yowls filled the land as Oilstar stood before StarClan. The ghosts she so often saw on the horizon now stood proud and alive, bright as the moon. Troutpool joined the cries of the dead, her voice giving way under the strain. Oilstar's new name filled the sky.

"Oilstar! Oilstar! Oilstar!" StarClan cheered.

"Oilstar? Are you Oilstar now?" Dovekit asked.

Wait, Dovekit?

Oilstar woke on the cool leather floor of StarClan's Shrine. Dovekit stared directly into her face, a whisker's length away. He blinked innocently, like he didn't know how wrong this all was.

"Dovekit!" Oilstar snapped, standing on shaking legs. "How are you here?"

"I followed you," Dovekit said as Troutpool stirred behind him.

"All the way from camp?" Oilstar gasped. How in StarClan's name could a kit get out of camp and travel across two territories with no one finding him? "Dovekit, there are dangerous things in the forest, especially at night. An owl could have swooped down and grabbed you!"

"But no one saw me," Dovekit huffed. Troutpool opened her bleary eyes and suddenly startled at the sight of the gray and white kit. Oilstar shook her head, hiding a purr deep in her throat. Now it would be her job to find the chaotic tom a mentor next moon. It would be her job to find mentors for every kit in RippleClan, bestow names on every new warrior. She'd be the one speaking for RippleClan at Gatherings. She'd be the one deciding the fate of her Clanmates.

If she could handle Dovekit in that moment, perhaps she'd handle all of that as well.

(Oilstar: 99, female, leader, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Downstar: 154, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Troutpool: 56, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sight)

(Duskkit: 4, female, kit, troublesome, quick witted)

(Slushtrail: 31, female, mediator, wise, clever, talented weaver)

(Tallowheart: 31, male, historian, nervous, good swimmer)

(Moonpaw: 10, female, mediator apprentice, childish, good hunter)

(Fennelspot: 113, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Mosspounce: 52, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Weedfoot: 122, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Applepelt: 31, she/they, historian, rebellious, lore keeper)

(Rustshade: 102, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Parsley: 156, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

(Clammask: 82, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Locustseeker: 12, nonbinary (they/them), historian apprentice, troublesome, moss-ball hunter)

Carnationspeckle and Wildclaw grieve Downstar, but Oilstar still appoints Wildclaw as her deputy.

[Image ID: Oilstar faces Wildclaw and Carnationspeckle. Under Wildclaw and Carnationspeckle, it says + CONDITION: GRIEVING.]

(Oilstar: 99, female, leader, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Wildclaw: 87, female, deputy, fierce, trusted advisor, good fighter)

Weedfoot woke up with a sudden, violent gasp. Her memory flashed, blood spasming to catch up to the present. Phantom pain pressed her into the moist grass. Breathe, breathe, breathe. No, not just that, move. Where was Downstar? She had been right next to Weedfoot, the two on their first patrol alone in ages, a flash to the earliest days of RippleClan… where had she gone? What had happened?

The creature. Weedfoot remembered it now. It had come out of nowhere. It was no dog, no wolf or bear or human. Something… thin, hollow, and hungry. Weedfoot grit her teeth so tight she thought her fangs would pierce into her brain. She forced herself up, the memories of claw and tooth sharp against her pelt. 

Weedfoot wanted to be sick. All she saw was blood on the grass, vibrant green turned dull purple in the late evening glow. It splattered along the tall pine trunks and pooled under Weedfoot. The stench of innards and exposed muscle twisted her stomach. But the worst part of it all was Downstar, laying with her back against an oak tree, battle wounds covering her bicolored pelt and a large chunk of flesh missing from her stomach.

“Downstar!” Weedfoot whined, scrambling to her friend and leader. Downstar’s chest shivered slightly. Her paws twitched. Her half-open amber eyes stared hazily at the horrific scene around her. Weedfoot skidded in front of Downstar, keeping her eyes away from her awful wound. Had she already lost a life? If she hadn’t, she was close. But she had five to spare, Weedfoot could get her to the clerics. She would be fine. Yet could she move Downstar with a wound of that severity? 

“I’m here, Downstar,” Weedfoot moaned, setting her paw against Downstar’s bloodied shoulder.

Her paw phased through Downstar’s body.

“She’s already lost one life. It’ll take another before we can heal her, and she’ll still be in danger.” That voice. Weedfoot squeezed her eyes tight, trying to fight back the wave of misery and hopelessness that flooded her face. Weedfoot heard that voice whenever her daughter shot out a clever remark or insightful comment. She heard it in her memories, both good and bad.

Puddlespeckle and Applepelt’s spirits stood beside Downstar’s dying form, pelts sparkling and shining onto her bloodstained fur. Weedfoot wasn’t sure she had ever seen her father look so young. She named Puddlewhisper right; she looked just like her grandfather. It had been so long, Weedfoot had almost forgotten the resemblance.

“Not now,” Weedfoot moaned, her whole body shaking in a decisive no. “Please, not yet, Father. Lightningkit and Cobaltkit are still in the nursery. Waspdawn just lost Littlekit, he’s been so strong, he can’t lose me too.”

“Weedfoot,” Applepelt warned, “as someone who cares about you, I’m telling you now, do not look at your body. You don’t deserve to remember yourself like that.” They walked around Weedfoot, pushing her head forward as it instinctually looked back. Weedfoot only caught a glimpse of her own bloody paw, claws splayed out in the heat of battle.

“Applepelt is here to take you to StarClan,” Puddlespeckle explained. “I… wanted to come with for this.” For a moment that disgusted Weedfoot as soon as it passed, excitement sparked through her chest. She would see Ripplefern again. Fennelspot and Burdockstream, Lavenderleaf, Wasppaw, Paleshade… but she would leave so many behind. The dozen different emotions battling for control in her chest fused together into a single clear thought.

Downstar needed help.

“I’ll go,” Weedfoot choked out, backing up, “but not before I save my friend!” She shut her eyes as she spun around Applepelt and ran in the direction of camp. She knew if she saw herself, she would lack the strength to do what needed to be done. She was still RippleClan’s deputy, and she would do her job!

“Let her go, Puddlespeckle,” she heard Applepelt snap behind her. “This will be better.”

As Weedfoot ran home, she noticed a strength in her muscles that had, day by day, left her in recent moons. She felt like she could run across all five Clans without so much as a single pant. Even her fur, translucent as she now saw it to be, looked brighter than it had since Scaleripple’s birth. The world, settling down into a cool summer night, was more alive than ever before. And all Weedfoot had to do to see that was die.

“Oilstripe!” she yowled, voice catching against the trees. “Oilstripe!” She had always wondered what it was like for her former apprentice to see the spirits of StarClan as they roamed their old home. How she hated to be one of them that day.

Weedfoot could see the shipwreck now. The decaying wood looked golden in the setting sun, with huge shadows of spruces, elders, and rowans dappling the rocky walls of camp. Puddlespeckle and Applepelt had somehow beaten Weedfoot to camp, but they sat on the Resting Place, watching quietly. Leathermask sat guard outside of camp, unflinching to Weedfoot’s call. Weedfoot slowed at the crest of the trees when Oilstripe hurried out of camp, wild eyes meeting Weedfoot’s. Weedfoot’s soul broke just a bit more; how often did Oilstripe have to learn of a Clanmate’s death in such a way? If there had been any better option, Weedfoot would have spared her dear friend the pain. But instead she squared her shoulders as Oilstripe bolted at her.

“No no no,” Oilstripe cried as she reached her old mentor, legs weakening with every frantic step.

“Stop,” Weedfoot barked. Oilstripe gasped, paws digging into the sand and dirt. “Oilstripe, I’m sorry, but you need to listen to me right now. You can’t save me, but you can save Downstar.”

“How—” Oilstripe whined. She panted so hard, she could barely speak.

“Just listen, please,” Weedfoot begged. “I need you to find Spikecrash, Rapidleaf, and Honeybuzz. It has to be Honeybuzz, not Troutpool, do you understand? I know your daughter, she won’t be able to focus on Downstar. Get those three cats and have them bring a long pelt and whatever medicine Honeybuzz needs to treat a gaping wound. Only bring those three, nod if you understand.” Oilstripe swallowed hard, but nodded. “Do not let anyone else come with you, especially not my family. Have the patrol follow you, and I’ll lead you to Downstar. Oilstripe, when I tell you to stop, you stop. Don’t go any further, just send the patrol forward and tell them to cover my body. Don’t look at me, I am begging you, Oilstripe, do not look. Do you understand?” Oilstripe nodded once more, paws twitching, ready to run. “Now go!” Oilstripe was off like lightning, scrambling back into camp with a yowl. Leathermask jumped as she soared past him. He followed the heartbroken molly back into camp.

Applepelt and Puddlespeckle were silent witnesses as Weedfoot led her Clan to Downstar’s rescue. She could see them, sitting, watching, waiting for Weedfoot to acknowledge them once more as she made sure Honeybuzz could save Downstar’s remaining lives. Weedfoot ignored her father as Oilstripe begged Weedfoot for answers that she could not provide. She stayed silent as Rapidleaf and Honeybuzz hurried Downstar to camp. She watched over RippleClan’s camp as one by one, everyone she cared for crumbled under the news.

As midnight crept closer, Weedfoot found herself tucked into the shadows of the medicine den, staring at Honeybuzz, Troutpool, and Weevilpaw as they sat around Downstar. Bandages wrapped around Downstar’s belly, clean moss stuffed into the healing wound. Cobwebs concealed Downstar’s smaller scars, turning her calico. Weedfoot stared into her dear friend’s tired eyes and prayed once more that she could offer some comfort. Firelight dapped the den floor.

“If you don’t rest, you’ll lose three lives rather than two,” Honeybuzz muttered, testing the tightness of Downstar’s bandages. 

“Regardless, I need to gather the Clan,” Downstar sighed. “They need to hear from me before midnight.”

“That won’t be hard,” Weevilpaw gulped, glancing out of the den. “I don’t think anyone’s asleep tonight.”

“I promise, Downstar,” Troutpool said, touching her leader’s nose, “we’ll try a few rituals to figure out what attacked you. As soon as the half-moon comes around again, we’ll petition StarClan for more information.”

“Help me to the edge of the den,” Downstar said softly. “Weevilpaw… call the Clan for me.” Weevilpaw stiffened, nodding solemnly. Honeybuzz and Troutpool got on either side of Downstar, trying to scoop her nest with her. With Downstar providing what strength she still possessed, the three inched the tortoiseshell leader close to the entrance of the medicine den. 

“Downstar’s calling a Clan meeting,” Weevilpaw called hesitantly into the camp clearing. “Over here.” All of RippleClan sat before the shipwreck, sharing tongues and caterwauls. There was no body to sit vigil for; the look in Spikecrash’s eyes when she insisted on immediate burial silenced even the most curious of cats. Weedfoot’s family all sat together, piled on one another in shared misery. James was almost hidden under his sons and daughters. Even Scaleripple joined in, hiding his head in Waspdawn’s pelt. Lightningkit, Cobaltkit, and Waspdawn’s litter snuggled in where they could, their youth providing no hiding place for their grief. Stormkit, Yellowkit, and Sandkit seemed so… hollow. Oh why did Weedfoot have to be the one to bring such despair to their eyes? When did her family get so, so big?

All of RippleClan slowly made their way around the medicine den. Weedfoot sat beside Downstar, midnight cold sinking through her ghostly fur with every stare that passed through her. Oilstripe could not look away from her, gathered tightly beside Carnationspeckle, Rattlepelt, Tallowpaw, and Slushpaw. It was all Weedfoot could do to nod at her old beloved apprentice.

“What happened, Downstar?” James asked. Weedfoot had never heard such monotone from her mate before. 

“I wish I could explain it,” Downstar sighed, groaning as she shifted to look over her Clan. “My memory is foggy. I barely saw it coming. Whatever attacked us did so with brutal efficiency.”

“Was it another Clan?” Paleseed whined. “Downstar, what did they do to my mother?” Downstar flinched at Paleseed’s cry. Darkkick crept from the back of the crowd, and Paleseed pressed her head into the older molly’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to scare you,” Downstar said. “However… from what I remember, I don’t believe what attacked us was any living creature.”

“A Spirit of Shadow,” Trumpetspore yowled from somewhere in the back of the crowd. “It was a Spirit of Shadow! Not again! Not again!” Trumpetspore’s panic swept through the crowd. Estherfern’s kits seemed half their age as they pressed into their mother, whimpering. Currentpaw wailed as Elmsprout wrapped her tail over him. Rattlepelt slunk behind Carnationspeckle. 

“Please, everyone, we can’t panic,” Downstar called. She groaned as her stomach twitched, strained from the effort of yowling. “There’s a lot we don’t know about what happened, or why. We’ll take every precaution when leaving camp until we have this situation sorted. I will not abandon you. StarClan will not abandon us. We will figure out what happened, drive out this threat, and recover, as we always do.” The cooler heads in the crowd groomed the fur of their terrified kin. The Clan’s voices died down as Downstar took a few slow breaths.

“This Clan would not exist without Weedfoot,” Downstar sighed. “She and Paleshade were the spark that gave us life. When we formed RippleClan, we all wanted her to be our leader. She would have led us well. But she asked me to take my nine lives instead so she could grieve for her first mate and find her footing once again. I regret all the times my mind turned my heart against her, and I will always see her as my sister. It will be many moons before another deputy can match her in skill and wisdom.” Had Downstar always thought that of Weedfoot? Some moons it felt like the pair were always disagreeing on how to run the Clan. But that wasn’t the truth of their relationship, was it? “Despite that, we need a new deputy.”

“We’ve never had to do this before,” Carnationspeckle muttered. “We don’t have to follow the traditions of the other Clans. We can pick a new deputy in the morning, Downstar. It… it might be better.”

“I don’t want to wait long,” Downstar said, glancing at her wound. “I’ll be recovering for the rest of the moon, and the Gathering is in two nights. We need a deputy. And I know who I want at my side.” Downstar cleared her throat. “I say these words before StarClan, so that Weedfoot’s spirit may hear my words and approve my choice. The next deputy of RippleClan will be Oilstripe.” Weedfoot rose, the weight in her heart relaxing ever so slightly. Oilstripe stayed sitting, blinking rapidly.

“But…” Oilstripe gulped. “You don’t like me. You never have.”

“There’s a lot that we disagree on,” Downstar admitted, bowing her head. “Yet your intelligence and compassion have won you many friends. You are a major part of this Clan, and I trust you to lead it when I’m gone.” Oilstripe stared at Weedfoot, mouth half open in utter surprise.

“She’s right,” Weedfoot purred. She stood in front of Oilstripe, the soft glow of her transparent body shining against Oilstripe’s ginger fur. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to follow in my pawsteps.” Sparkling light danced behind Oilstripe. Puddlespeckle and Applepelt waited at the edge of camp, sitting patiently. Weedfoot blinked and found herself standing beside the pair just as the Clan began to chant Oilstripe’s name.

“Let’s make this official,” Applepelt chirped. She touched her nose to Weedfoot’s. Warmth flooded Weedfoot. Her pelt exploded in white light. Stardust sprinkled her body in vibrant patterns. Her blue eyes burned bright. Suddenly, she knew. She knew what happened to her. She knew what attacked her, where it came from, and what lurked over RippleClan’s head.

“We have to tell them,” Weedfoot said, turning back to her family.

“You can’t,” Puddlespeckle said softly. Just as quickly as the future unraveled before her, so too did Puddlespeckle’s meaning. She couldn’t. She literally, physically, could not tell them.

“Will they be alright?” Weedfoot gulped, forcing herself to look away.

“Life goes on,” Puddlespeckle promised. He gently nosed Weedfoot’s forehead. “You were a good daughter to have, Weedfoot. Now come along. It’s time to go.”

(Weedfoot: 122, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Downstar: 132, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Puddlespeckle: 156, male, elder, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

(Applepelt: 31, she/they, historian, rebellious, lore keeper)

(Oilstripe: 77, female, deputy, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(James: 149, male, elder, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Paleseed: 39, female, mediator, insecure, incredible runner, steady paws)

(Trumpetspore: 34, female, warrior, nervous, excellent potter, good storyteller)

[Image ID: Honeybuzz and Downstar speak with Weevilpaw, Anchovypaw, and Wolfpaw. Honeybuzz says "We call it the Rule of Three. When times of intense peril approach the Clans, it is said the All-Seeing pulls water from the river of space and time and blesses three kits. It explains everything.”]

---

“Anchovy! Anchovypaw, wake up.” Anchovypaw opened his eye half-way. Weevilpaw stared at him, nose inches from his face. He smacked her muzzle back with a groan.

“I’m tired, Weevilpaw,” he groaned, rolling over. “Can we do this later?”

“Downstar wants to talk to us,” Weevilpaw whispered. “She’s with Honeybuzz. Come on, it’s important!” Anchovypaw dragged his head up. Wolfpaw was already awake, fidgeting outside the apprentice’s den. The crest of the sun peeked over the sea, turning the sky purple. The sleeping forms of the other apprentices rose and fell with the soft pattern of the waves. Anchovypaw groaned as he got out of his cozy nest, warm from his body heat, and snuck around Billowpaw and Ravenpaw. Weevilpaw jumped over Silverpaw and followed her friend out.

It was the morning after the Gathering, and everyone was exhausted. Halibutdusk limped back to the warrior’s den, finally relieved from guard duty as Oilstripe guided Clammask and Drumtooth out on patrol. The purple light of the early dawn unnerved Anchovypaw that morning, even though he had seen that sunrise a hundred times. Weevilpaw led him and Wolfpaw across camp to the leader’s den. Anchovypaw could see Downstar’s eyes gleaming from inside her sheltered nest. Honeybuzz sat beside her, fiddling with a cicada wing under his paw. While the bandages around Downstar’s torso were no longer so blood-stained, black ichor still stained them like a hole in the world. Anchovypaw focused on his leader’s face instead.

“What’s wrong?” Wolfpaw asked.

“I spoke with the other clerics last night,” Honeybuzz explained, waving the trio closer. “I may have an explanation for your abilities.”

“Finally,” Weevilpaw groaned, kneading the leather-lined floor. “I knew we weren’t the first. I just knew it. Why else would there be so many stories of powerful cats?”

“There’s a reason those cats come in threes,” Honeybuzz sighed. Anchovypaw moved closer, almost forgetting to breathe. “We call it the Rule of Three. When times of intense peril approach the Clans, it is said the All-Seeing pulls water from the river of space and time and blesses three kits. It explains everything.”

“Intense peril?” Anchovypaw said, no longer able to keep his gaze from Downstar’s wound. “Like now?”

“We’ve come across two Spirits of Shadow in the span of three moons,” Downstar sighed. “Think about your powers. They are designed in just such a way to prove effective against spirits and their powers. You see their influence. You predict their moves. You can even trap them in place.” Downstar pulled a paw over her muzzle. 

“I don’t like using apprentices in this way, but I need all three of you on alert and ready to help. You may be all that stands between our safety and another of our kin leaving us, just like Weedfoot did.”

(Weevilpaw: 8, female, cleric apprentive, adventurous, curious about StarClan)

(Anchovypaw: 8, male, warrior apprentice, playful, curious about StarClan)

(Wolfpaw: 8, female, codekeeper apprentice, thoughtful, curious about StarClan, confident with words)

(Honeybuzz: 21, male, cleric, daring, skilled toolsmith)

The Clan was a hive of chatter when Weedfoot and James returned from their slow walk around the territory. Weedfoot’s pregnancy weighed on her aging bones, but she wouldn’t let that stop her from taking some time to be with her mate. That meant when the pair entered camp once more, a light dusting of snow clinging to their heels, winter’s final push, they had no idea what was going on.

Paleseed, recovered from her bought with whitecough, raced past her mother, her tail weave of red feathers smacking Weedfoot in the face. Spikecrash hurried behind her, ducking between Weedfoot and James. Before Weedfoot could ask them what was the matter, they were gone.

“That’s not like Paleseed,” James muttered. “Do you suppose something’s happened?”

“Our Clan is riled about something,” Weedfoot sighed. Cats sat throughout the camp, eagerly explaining the unknown situation to their kin. A large crowd stood around the nursery. They peered into the nursery with soft gasps and excited whispers. Oilstripe, Lemmy, Clammask, and Harvest herded their kits into one group, keeping them entertained as whatever happened in the nursery unfolded. 

“Mom, we should really get Rattlepelt away from the nursery,” Anchovykit whined. He tried to run past Harvest, but the reddish-brown molly blocked his escape.

“She’s allowed to look,” Harvest huffed. “Why are you so worried about Rattlepelt?”

“Well, um,” Anchovykit gulped, “she, uh…”

“She can get really angry sometimes,” Robinkit said as he paced in front of Clammask and Lemmy, who worked as a team to stop Robinkit and his little patrol of friends from causing mischief. 

“Rattlepelt is having a rough time,” Oilstripe said, taking a break from her story with the well-behaved kits. “None of you need to concern yourself with her. Rattlepelt will be alright.”

“Just sit down!” Lemmy groaned. She jumped in front of Vervainkit before she could squirm around her guards. Weevilkit acted on the gap in their defense before anyone even realized there was a gap. She charged out of the swarm of kits. Clammask swiped at her tail, but the young tortoiseshell acted too quickly for her. She scampered to the dirt place, free from the queens’ imprisonment. Lemmy groaned, but did not chase her daughter.

“Oilstripe, if you’re all out here,” Weedfoot muttered, approaching the chaos, “then what is everyone looking at by the nursery?” Oilstripe’s troubled gaze brightened at the sight of her former mentor.

“It would be better if you went to look for yourself,” Oilstripe chuckled.

“Congratulations,” Slushkit chirped from her spot beside her mother. Weedfoot chuckled, for that was all she could think to do. 

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“And here I thought you were the wit in our relationship,” James chuckled. “Weed, it’s the nursery.” The spark of truth danced in Weedfoot’s mind a moment later. She quickly looked through camp. Paleseed had left, no need to count her. Puddlewhisper spoke to Downstar by the leader’s den. Lavendertwist and Scaleripple were a part of the crowd around the nursery. One kit missing. 

“Waspdawn?” Weedfoot muttered, paws leading her to the nursery. James trotted after her, tail high. As the mates neared the nursery, Scaleripple, who stood near the back, took note of their approach.

“Let my mom in,” Scaleripple said. Though he spoke softly and to no one in particular, the rest of the Clan took notice of Weedfoot’s arrival. They quickly scampered to either side, purring and giggling and staring. Lavendertwist stayed where he was, kneading the sand, dry for the first time in moons.

“Come look!” Lavendertwist cheered in a whisper. Weedfoot’s heart thrashed in her throat as she and her kin entered the nest-covered den.

Leathermask was with Waspdawn inside, constructing a new nest lined with leather. Neither noticed the change to the crowd outside. Waspdawn sat on the edge of Lemmy’s nest, looking down into Weedfoot’s freshly prepared nest. Four little drops of pale honey squirmed in her nest. Weedfoot’s whole face melted at the sight. The four kits couldn’t have been much older than a quarter moon, their fur just beginning to grow out. Each kit was a mixture of gold and white, from the darkest honey to the palest yellow.

“They’re quite cute, Waspdawn,” Leathermask chuckled, turning from his task. He froze when he saw Weedfoot and James staring inside.

“I’ll be good to them,” Waspdawn promised. He dipped a paw into the nest, gently petting the largest of the four kits. The yellow spotted kit mewed loudly and cuddled closer to their father. “I’ve had good mentors in parenthood.”

“I thought Lavendertwist would give us our first grandkits,” James said. Waspdawn’s ears perked up, paw retracting. He turned to the beaming faces of his parents and brothers.

“Wait, you did?” Lavendertwist said. James gently smacked his tail over his son’s face and let it rest there.

“Waspdawn…” Weedfoot whispered. She crept closer to the four kits in her nest. She couldn’t look away.

“Leathermask, could you give us a moment?” James asked.

“A fair request,” Leathermask said awkwardly, ducking his head. He squeezed around Scaleripple, who backed out of the den entirely to give the other warrior room to leave.

“They look just like you,” Weedfoot breathed. She stuck her muzzle into the nest. The darkest colored kit squealed, blind face angling toward the new scent as best she could. The litter was an even split; two toms, two mollies, gold and white splashed equally between them all. The biggest molly looked exactly like Waspdawn had when he first laid nursing at Weedfoot’s belly, a tiny blob named after the apprentice that never got to shine.

“I know you have questions,” Waspdawn sighed, laying beside the nest. “I want to answer them as best I can.”

“The code says you don’t have to,” Scaleripple said, creeping back into the den and examining Leathermask’s newly crafted nest.

“I remember how hurt and confused everyone was when Shadowdrop and Wildclaw brought Tempestshade, Trumpetspore, and Mosspounce to camp,” Waspdawn said. “I don’t want anyone to believe I’m repeating his mistakes.”

“We’re listening, then,” Weedfoot said. She moved closer to her son. Scaleripple sat in the new nest. James and Lavendertwist watched from the nursery’s edge.

“About two months ago, I was by the southern border,” Waspdawn began, “when a loner called me over. Her name was Gwen. She was new to the area and wanted to meet her neighbors. Regardless, we talked for a while. As you might be able to guess, instincts overtook us, and we mated.” Scaleripple draped a paw over his muzzle at the thought, unable to look at his brother. “Soon after, a monster slowed to a stop beside us. Gwen decided to approach them. The humans inside picked her up and took her into the monster before running down the path. I would have thought nothing of it if I didn’t reunite with Gwen half a moon ago.

“Around that time, one of our patrols told Downstar of a confused queen they escorted off the territory. I overheard them. Their description matched that of Gwen. I decided if she had come back after over a moon, she was likely looking for me, so I set off to find her. It didn’t take me long. She was taking shelter with a few of the barn cats in the nearest farm. She had deteriorated since I saw her last. Her fur was poorly kept and she was far too thin for how pregnant she was. She took a while to recognize me. Eventually, I learned the humans she had left with were of the wicked kind. They took her to a small human den with a Clan’s worth of cats trapped inside. They couldn’t leave and had little food.”

“I heard tales of humans like that in my youth,” James sighed, sneering. “Waspdawn, your friend was taken by a human we call cat-minded. They believe themselves to be cats and feel compelled to bring as many cats into their den as possible. Those dens become graves for the unfortunate cats they claim.” Lavendertwist squirmed, shoulder rubbing against his collar. 

“Gwen and another pregnant queen eventually managed to escape,” Waspdawn explained. “I agreed to offer some of my Clan training to further Gwen’s recovery. I’ve spent much of my free hours there, learning from the barn cats just as much as they learned from me. They were able to safely deliver Gwen’s litter a quarter moon ago.” Waspdawn set his chin on the nest with his kits. “When I realized how much they looked like me, I began to see them as mine, not just Gwen’s. The kitting made Gwen’s mind clear, and we were able to discuss what had happened between us. Gwen has no interest in living in the Clans, or any packed colony again. That’s when I offered to claim the litter and raise them here. Gwen decided that it would be better for them to grow up in stability rather than with a wanderer like herself. When they were strong enough to travel, I asked Puddlewhisper and Honeybuzz to assist me in bringing them home.”

“You could have told us,” Weedfoot said. Her paw touched Waspdawn’s.

“I only made the decision to claim them a few days ago,” Waspdawn admitted. He sat up and added, “I made sure I didn’t break the code by helping Gwen. I only provided her with my time and knowledge and took none of the Clan’s resources. I’ll stand trial if I have to and declare my innocence to the entire Clan.”

“You’re not going to trial,” Lavendertwist scoffed. “Really, Waspdawn, everyone knows Rustshade had his second litter with his old WheatClan mate, and no one did a thing about that. Nothing about your story sounds wrong to me.” Lavendertwist made his way around the many nests in the den and bunted heads with his brother.

“Alright, let’s not make that rumor into history,” Weedfoot reminded her brown and white son.

“Paleseed and Spikecrash went to WheatClan to ask for someone to nurse them,” Waspdawn explained. “With no one having milk, I wanted to make sure they ate well. Puddlewhisper is still discussing the situation with Downstar. She… may be annoyed that I didn't tell her about the kits.”

“She will get over it as soon as she sees these cute furballs,” Lavendertwist laughed. He waved his tail over the kits’ tiny noses, drawing their limited attention.

“They’re old enough for names,” Scaleripple noted with a twitch of his ears.

“I let their mother name them,” Waspdawn said. “Her last gift to them.” He carefully stepped into the nest with his kits. He nosed each one, naming them as he went. “Yellowkit… Sandkit… Littlekit… and Stormkit.”

“I like those names!” Lavendertwist cheered. “I might take naming inspiration from you when I have kits of my own!” Lavendertwist’s expression softened as he stared at his nieces and nephews. He hummed softly, thoughts unknowable. Eventually, he puffed up his chest and said, “I’ll be back soon.” 

He marched out of the nursery like a warrior on a mission. He quickly found his target by the warrior’s den. Weedfoot looked outside; Lavendertwist was staring at Elmsprout.

“Elmsprout!” Lavendertwist called, tail hooked overhead. Elmsprout, who had been making the finishing touches on the Clan’s evening meal with Rabbitjoy, looked up quickly. “How would you like to have my kits someday?” Weedfoot groaned, turning her head from the disaster. Scaleripple, in an uncharacteristic show of playfulness, snorted. James shook his head, sighing.

“Why would you phrase it like that?” Elmsprout yowled across camp as the entire Clan stared at her and Lavendertwist. Their heads flicked back and forth as though watching birds flutter through the trees.

“Because I want to have a family with you someday!”

“And you ask me now?”

“Why not?”

“Why yowl at me from the other side of camp?”

“I didn’t want to wait!”

“If you want to be my mate, just ask me that!”

“Okay! Do you want to be my mate?”

“Is this really working?” James muttered, sticking his head out of the den.

“I’ve wanted that for moons,” Elmsprout laughed. She bounded away from the oven and joined Lavendertwist outside the nursery. The Clan cheered as they rubbed pelts, laughing all the while. James joined his son, bunting his shoulder in congratulations.

“Now you’ll say you’re planning to have kits,” Weedfoot purred, looking over at Scaleripple.

“I don’t,” Scaleripple said, literal as ever. “I don’t think Tempestshade and I ever planned to have kits. I just wanted to be their companion.” Weedfoot could think of nothing to say. She turned back to her grandkits. Her first grandkits! StarClan, did that make her feel old. How much of the gray in her pelt was from her age? 

“Sandkit looks more like you than me, I think,” Waspdawn hummed as his kits searched for a warm belly. “Who knows? Maybe one of them will be like you, Scaleripple.” Scaleripple left the nest and joined his kin by the newborns. He stared at the four golden lumps, squirming and settling into deep sleep. Something in his eyes sparkled.

“I would kill for them,” he said. He locked his eyes on Waspdawn with a more focused stare than Weedfoot had ever seen from her youngest son.

“I think we all would,” Weedfoot purred. She nuzzled her grandkits, bathing in the warm joy of their tiny bodies.

(Weedfoot: 118, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(James: 145, male, elder, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Anchovykit: 4, male, kit, charming, curious about StarClan)

(Harvest: 57, female, queen, nervous, good fighter)

(Robinkit: 4, male, kit, unruly, avid play-fighter)

(Oilstripe: 73, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Lemmy: 46, female, codekeeper, cold, deep StarClan bond)

(Weevilkit: 4, female, kit, bullying, curious about StarClan)

(Slushkit: 5, female, kit, polite, quick witted)

(Scaleripple: 22, male, warrior, lonesome, formidable fighter)

(Lavendertwist: 35, male, historian, playful, great singer, good storyteller)

(Leathermask: 17, male, warrior, nervous, great speaker, good fighter)

(Waspdawn: 35, male, codekeeper, strict, learner of lore, clue finder)

(Yellowkit: 0, female, kit, noisy)

(Sandkit: 0, male, kit, self-conscious)

(Littlekit: 0, male, kit, skittish)

(Stormkit: 0, female, kit, know-it-all)

(Elmsprout: 36, female, caretaker, charismatic, helpful insight)

While showing Harvest around the territory, helping her find a place in the Clan as she raises her kits, a kittypet asks about joining the Clan with her five kits.

[Image ID: Estherfern, a brown tabby with sunlit eyes, says “It seems your ancestors have an interest in me.” Under her, it says NEW PLAYER: ESTHERFERN, 103, FEMALE, BLOODTHIRSTY, GREAT MEDIATOR, PROPHECY SEEKER, + CONDITION: RECOVERING FROM BIRTH. Beside her are five kits. The solid lilac molly reads NEW PLAYER: THUNDERKIT, 1, FEMALE, BULLYING, MOSS-BALL HUNTER. The dark brown kit says NEW PLAYER: BOUGHKIT, 1, FEMALE, QUIET, CONSTANTLY CLIMBING. The gold tom reads NEW PLAYER: BRIGHTKIT, 1, MALE, SHY, LOVER OF ART. The ticked kit reads NEW PLAYER: FOAMKIT, 1, FEMALE, UNRULY, ALWAYS WANDERING. The last brown molly reads NEW PLAYER: WOLVERINEKIT, 1, FEMALE, SKITTISH, ALWAYS ASKING QUESTIONS.]

---

When Oilstripe was a WheatClan kit, she spent a lot of time asking the various cats of the Clan whether she would make a good warrior or artisan or whatever role they held. Considering how much she loved hearing their stories, the path of a historian seemed obvious to her now. Yet if that worked for her, perhaps Harvest, who had yet to declare herself in any official role beside a humble queen, needed that same chance to hear what it was like to follow a certain path through the Clans.

Oilstripe, Puddlewhisper, Carnationspeckle, and Halibutdusk sat with Harvest on a hill in the open southern lands, where sunhigh reminded them all of spring’s return as they bathed in its yellow beams. It was the perfect spot to survey the territory. While cold air still nibbled at their pelts and the trees showed no sign yet of newborn buds, the longer days left rich mud and life across the land. Harvest sat with her tail twitching while everyone else lounged about, sinking into the dull, tan grass.

“If you choose to be a warrior, there isn’t much you have to learn,” Halibutdusk explained, stretching out his front legs. “You’ll help out where needed and go on patrols. Your old friend taught you how to fight, so you won’t need extra training.”

“It sounds nice,” Harvest admitted, head tucked down, “but Oakface would brag about the other positions in Clan life. I feel I’d be dishonoring him if I didn’t consider them.”

“If you want to spend more time in the nursery,” Carnationspeckle purred, laying in an awkward looking yet shockingly comfortable heap, “you can become a caretaker. Some caretakers choose to spend all their time in the nursery as permanent helpers. Would that interest you?”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” Harbest gulped, “I love raising my kits, but I don’t want to be stuck in the nursery forever.”

“If you have an interest in order and justice, you should become a codekeeper,” Puddlewhisper pointed out as she itched her back paw. “We spend a lot of our time assisting Downstar and Weedfoot in organizing the Clan and honoring the code.”

“Don’t forget historians!” Oilstripe chirped, stretched out in an arch along the grass. “There’s a lot to learn, but our stories are important.”

“It’s just as overwhelming as when Oakface described them,” Harvest laughed awkwardly. “It’s so strange to say I’ll only do certain tasks the rest of my life.”

“That’s not what we’re saying, don’t worry,” Carnationspeckle promised. She tapped her paw against Harvest’s. “You can always make a change later on. No one will blame you if you take more time deciding!”

“You might need to join some patrols, though,” Puddlewhisper pointed out. “It’s important to contribute.”

“Of course,” Harvest said. “There’s so much to do now that I’m here. I hope to experience as much as I can.”

“And I hope we can fulfill your dreams,” Carnationspeckle chirped. Puddlewhisper lifted her head, ears turning south. She squinted, pupils narrow in the shiny sunlight.

“Someone just crossed the border,” she said, getting to her paws. Oilstripe, Carnationspeckle, and Halibutdusk followed her lead, claws out. “You can see them in the distance.” The Clan cats quickly followed Puddlewhisper’s gaze.

The intruder was nothing more than a speck in the grass from that distance. Oilstripe couldn’t even smell if they were a tom or a molly. Their dark fur was a shard of dull ocean rock thrown into the middle of the land, smooth from moons upon moons battered by the waves. They wandered deeper into RippleClan as though they were on patrol.

“If this is one of the same barn cats that keep trespassing,” Halibutdusk sighed, “we might have to show force.” 

“Something feels different about them,” Puddlewhisper muttered, eyes narrowing even more. “I can’t explain it.”

“I can,” Oilstripe said. As the intruder drew closer, Oilstripe saw another shape slipping through the grass. His ginger fur and white-wrapped torso were stuck in Oilstripe’s memory. He seemed to lead the newcomer toward the small gathering. Now why was Fennelspot leading a stranger over the border?

Carnationspeckle was the first to trot downhill, silky fur swaying softly. The others followed single file, all eyes on the stranger. The wind carried a molly’s scent to Oilstripe’s nose. The brown molly had bright bicolored eyes, coolly watching the incoming patrol. Fennelspot stopped when the patrol grew close. He looked to Oilstripe, familiar eyes easing any concerns she had of the intruder. With a low nod and a quick blink, Fennelspot vanished, leaving just the brown molly to tackle.

“Excuse us,” Carnationspeckle coughed. The brown molly sat undisturbed, eyes drifting over each cat. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’re trespassing on our Clan’s territory. You’ve crossed our border by the horse path.” The others spread out around Carnationspeckle.

“I’m aware,” the stranger purred. Her tone was light and airy, a whispering wind or tuft of smoke blown from an oven where stew simmered and watered the mouths of passersby. 

“Then you know you’ll be escorted out,” Puddlewhisper huffed. “We don’t allow outsiders to wander into our land as they please.”

“I believe there is supposed to be an exception for me,” the stranger sighed. “My name is Esther, though from what I know, my name will change slightly when I join you. It seems your ancestors have an interest in me.” The patrol shared glances, shifting awkwardly, wondering if any of them had a good answer to Esther’s odd declaration.

“How would you know that?” Harvest asked, back arched slightly.

“I would be happy to tell you,” Esther said, getting up, “but first, would you help me with my kits?”

“Your kits?” Carnstionspeckle gasped, peering about like the kits would suddenly pop out of the grass.

“I’ve left them just by your border,” Esther explained. She flicked her tail the way she came. She sauntered off, but paused when no paw steps followed behind. “I didn’t wander into one of those territorial Clans, have I? The sort to leave a queen and her kits alone?”

“We’ll help,” Oilstripe promised. She gave everyone a cautious, knowing look. That was all Carnationspeckle needed to follow Esther toward the border. Harvest, Halibutdusk, and Puddlewhisper lingered behind while Oilstripe joined her mate. If Fennelspot was leading Esther into RippleClan (whether or not anyone knew he was there), then Esther couldn’t be a danger.

Esther led the patrol to the horse path, quiet of any rolling monsters. Esther was just another patch of mud in the recovering grass, a spot of brown in a sea of tan. Oilstripe could smell the kits before she saw the small dip in the ground some ways beyond the horse path. Esther crawled into the dip and nuzzled the tiny bodies tucked within.

“Hello, my darlings,” Estherfern purred. Five kits mewed with delight at their mother’s return. They were all earth-colored, ranging between brown and pale tan. Almost all of them sported Esther’s sunlit eyes. There was only one tom in the bunch. All five stared wide-eyed at the Clan cats. The tom and the brown tabby hopped over Esther and hid behind her. The dark brown kit stood on Esther to get a better view of them. The two pale mollies, however, scurried out of their makeshift nest and stared down Oilstripe.

“So many kits…” Puddlewhisper muttered as Esther pawed at her wayward daughters, urging them back to her side. 

“Tom cats!” the brown tabby gasped, peeking out from behind Esther. “Are you tom cats? Momma, you brought tom cats!”

“I’m a molly,” Puddlewhisper huffed, tucking into herself. “Halibutdusk isn’t a tom, either. They’re separate from toms and mollies.” Where Puddlewhisper seemed like she’d rather sink through the grass at the comment, Halibutdusk simply nodded, tail sagging.

“You can be something else?” one of the pale colored kits gasped, eyes sparkling. 

“Wolverinekit, don’t ask rude questions,” Esther warned, “and Thunderkit, don’t pester them.” Thunderkit stuck her tongue at her mother. A sharp glare from Esther sent Thunderkit scrambling toward her dark brown sister.

“They have Clan names,” Oilstripe realized. “How do you know how we name our kits?”

“I asked,” Esther purred. She glanced at the thin clouds above. “I’ve named my kits Thunderkit, Boughkit, Brightkit, Foamkit, and Wolverinekit.” Each kit jumped up at the sound of their name. Thunderkit and Foamkit were the pale mollies, one solid, one ticked. Boughkit was the dark brown kit, Brightkit was the golden-brown tom, leaving Wolverinekit as the curious long-furred tabby.

“I need an explanation before I lead you to our camp,” Puddlewhisper huffed, taking the lead. “It’s fine to ask to join our ranks, Harvest here did the same with her kits only a few moons ago.”

“Hello,” Harvest said with an awkward twitch of her tail.

“But claiming you’ve spoken to StarClan?” Puddlewhisper scoffed, unable to stop her ears from going flat. “I just don’t trust it, kits or no kits. So before I feel comfortable helping you, I want to understand what you’re suggesting.”

“Take a deep breath, Puddlewhisper,” Oilstripe said. She touched her tail to Puddlewhisper’s side. “Believe me when I say, there’s at least some truth to what Esther is saying.” Oilstripe turned to Esther and added, “She is right, though. I want to know what led you here.”

“Are you expecting my life’s story?” Esther sighed. Her son crawled under her chin. Esther groomed Brightkit’s head, earning a purr.

“Tell us how you know about StarClan,” Oilstripe said, sitting at the edge of the dip.

“Where I come from,” Esther sighed, “far to the west, prophecy is commonplace, if not more straightforward than what your ancestors love to craft. A prophecy is no more than a message from our God. When my God told me to travel east and find the five Clans, who was I to say no? I am needed here, apparently. I would have been here moons upon moons ago, if not for the human who snatched me in my sleep and threw me into her den. It was not the sort of place one could escape from, all filth and violence and too many cats in too small a space.”

“That…” Puddlewhisper muttered, pacing to the other side of the dip, “sounds familiar.” She studied the five kits, who all watched her like she would become a fearsome bear, ready to strike at any moment. “Esther, do you know a cat named Gwen?”

“She and I found a way out of that cesspool close to a moon ago,” Esther said. “By then, I had fallen pregnant, but I made do. They’re quite cute, after all.” Boughkit slid off Esther’s back with a small squeal, earning Thunderkit’s mockery. “While I rotted away, however, I began to hear more from your ancestors in my dreams. I was thrown off guard by their way of speaking, but I grew to find the meaning in their metaphors. Their prophecies told me how to find you, how to escape, and how to name my kits.” Wolverinekit stared bug-eyed at Puddlewhisper as the gray molly thought through Esther’s story.

“Do you believe her, Oilstripe?” Puddlewhisper asked. Oilstripe loafed at the dip’s edge, carefully staring at Esther.

“Can you describe any of the cats from your dream, Esther?” Oilstripe wondered. 

“Oh, there were a few over the moons,” Esther sighed. “None gave me their name. The most common sight in the last few moons has been… a tailless tortoiseshell, gray and ginger.”

“Parsley?” Carnationspeckle gasped. While Harvest was unphased by the name, everyone else paid a bit more attention to Esther. 

“If StarClan has called you here,” Halibutdusk asked, “then you must have some idea as to why.”

“I can give you their last prophecy to me,” Esther purred as Wolverinekit and Brightkit started nibbling at each other. “But I need to know you’ll escort me to your camp. I need to secure a safe home for my kits.”

“There’s no reason we wouldn’t, right Oilstripe?” Harvest said with a friendly cock of her tail.

“If you have so much experience with prophecies,” Oilstripe said as Foamkit once again left the dip and sniffed around the Clan cats’ legs, “RippleClan could use your expertise as one of our clerics.”

“I want to hear this prophecy, first,” Puddlewhisper huffed. Foamkit pawed at Puddlewhisper’s leg. Puddlewhisper peered down, curious. Foamkit wiggled her flank and launched at Puddlewhisper. She clawed up Puddlewhisper’s leg and stood on Puddlewhisper’s back. Puddlewhisper could only stand stunned for a moment before she suddenly started laughing. “Oh, do you want a horse ride?”

“What’s a—” Foamkit said, but she wasn’t fast enough. Puddlewhisper kicked and bucked like a frantic horse. Foamkit dug her claws in, squealing and laughing the whole way. The other kits wooed and awed at the sight, running toward Puddlewhisper. They chased after her as Foamkit held on for her short life.

“Well, while you’re busy mangling my daughter,” Esther sighed, “I’ll give you the prophecy.” Esther climbed out of the dip and cleared her throat. “Ferns spread spores across fertile soil. There is much to learn from their growth, good and bad.”

“Sounds like your average prophecy,” Oilstripe admitted. “I don’t think Downstar and Weedfoot will have any issues with you joining the Clan as another cleric. I’m sure Honeybuzz and my daughter, Troutpool, would appreciate the extra paws.”

“I know you gave your kits Clan names,” Carnationspeckle pointed out, “but you don’t have to change your name if you don’t want to. There are plenty of cats who keep their old names in RippleClan, like James!”

“Thank you, but I actually decided on a Clan-like name while I was recovering from my kitting,” the strange brown molly said. “I was hoping to be called Estherfern. I believe the name to be appropriate

(Oilstripe: 73, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Halibutdusk: 60, nonbinary (they/them), warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Harvest: 57, female, queen, nervous, good fighter)

(Carnationspeckle: 71, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Puddlewhisper: 35, trans female, codekeeper, righteous, natural intuition, ghost sense)

(Fennelspot: 113, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Estherfern: 103, female, cleric, bloodthirsty, great mediator, prophecy seeker)

(Wolverinekit: 1, female, kit, skittish, always asking questions)

(Thunderkit: 1, female, kit, bullying, moss-ball hunter)

(Boughkit: 1, female, kit, quiet, constantly climbing)

(Brightkit: 1, male, kit, shy, lover of art)

(Foamkit: 1, female, kit, unruly, always wandering)

Rattlepelt eavesdrops on Wolfkit.

[Image ID: Anchovykit says to Wolfkit, “She scares me, Wolfkit! My mom won’t believe me!” Rattlepelt listens in from the side.]

---

A kit just couldn’t get any privacy in RippleClan, it seemed. 

The first place Anchovykit tried to speak to Wolfkit was between the Shiprock and the medicine den. It was blocked off enough, so cats would have given them a bit of privacy. But new arrival Estherfern was causing a fuss in the medicine den, complaining about the herbs inside (“How can I focus on developing my relationship with your higher powers when you want me to crush leaves and roots all day?”). So that wouldn’t have been a good place to talk.

Anchovykit tried the quarantine den next. No one was there, so no one would interrupt. Except he then remembered just how many cats passed by to make dirt…. Not the right place.

He didn’t even stop to consider the nursery. Clammask and Lemmy were still talking to the visiting WheatClan queen about whether she needed to stick around and nurse Waspdawn’s kits, or if Estherfern could assist in the task. With well over a dozen kits of all ages inside, Anchovykit wouldn’t have been able to think, let alone talk to Wolfkit.

That was when he remembered that Mitepaw was the only apprentice in the Clan, and she had just left to collect wood with Rabbitjoy. The apprentice’s den was completely empty. The perfect place to talk.

“Anchovykit, why do you need to be so secretive?” Wolfkit sighed as Anchovykit led her into the apprentice’s den. The setting sun cast the entire den in deep shadow, better hiding the pair.

“Because this is really important!” Anchovykit huffed. With just the one nest inside, the den felt rather barren. The planks covering the roof seemed hollow in comparison to the secure stone walls of the nursery. Regardless, Anchovykit sat to the side, urging Wolfkit deeper into the darkness.

“So what is it?” Wolfkit asked. Anchovykit held his breath, trying to build up his courage and words.

“Did you talk to Spikecrash last moon about seeing things that weren’t there?” he gulped. Wolfkit pinned her big ears flat.

“How do you know about that?” Wolfkit whined.

“I overheard Spikecrash and Paleseed discuss it while I was making dirt,” Anchovykit admitted. “Wolfkit, I need to know! Do you see things glow, too? Do you see what’s wrong with Rattlepelt?” Anchovykit’s ears were as flat as Wolfkit’s.

“What’s wrong with Rattlepelt?” Wolfkit gulped.

“The ooze!” Anchovykit cried, stamping his paw. “The black stuff! The… oh what did she call it? The ichor! It’s all over her! She scares me, Wolfkit! My mom won’t believe me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wolfkit whined.

“You know how mad she gets sometimes!” Anchovykit groaned. “Didn’t you see her yell at Mitepaw and Elmsprout yesterday?”

Anchovykit didn’t know what started the fight. He had been with Robinkit, Silverkit, and Vervainkit, learning a hunter’s crouch from Scaleripple. Mitepaw and Elmsprout had been talking about AshClan woodwork, the former showing off some of her pieces to Ravenkit. She had carved a bird’s wing out of a chunk of fallen wood, much to Ravenkit’s awe. It was in the midst of this happy moment that Rattlepelt appeared, giving into her own rage like a fire devouring the last of its fuel and surging upward in defiance. In Anchovykit’s unique eyes, Rattlepelt’s gaze shifted between the dark copper described by others and a burning, hateful yellow, her ichor smearing the sand. Oh how she had raged against Mitepaw and Elmsprout, screaming of traitors and false loyalty. It took both Puddlewhisper and Waspdawn to drag Rattlepelt away from the terrified mollies, the mediators hot on her trail, ready to uncover the truth of the outburst. 

But Anchovykit knew. He’d known for moons.

“There’s something wrong with Rattlepelt, and no one will believe me,” Anchovykit groaned. “It’s more than anger. I think she’s cursed! I thought you saw it too!”

“That’s not what I talked to Spikecrash about,” Wolfkit muttered, staring at her paws. “I see something else.”

“Do you see the future too?” Anchovykit and Wolfkit jumped, backs arched comically high. Weevilkit stood at the den’s entrance, shaking sand out of her pelt.

“It’s not nice to eavesdrop, Weevilkit!” Wolfkit huffed as her sister joined the duo inside.

“I only heard the last little bit,” Weevilkit insisted. “Now tell me what it is you see!”

“No, wait,” Anchovykit said, trying to smooth out the surprise prickling his pelt, “did you say you see the future?”

“Well, I’ve been keeping it a secret,” Weevilkit chuckled with a cocky sway of her flank. “I want to shock the clerics when I become an apprentice. I don’t want them to be jealous of how special I am.”

“Do you get visions from StarClan?” Wolfkit asked.

“Not like the clerics,” Weevilkit purred. “I see things just before they happen. Like when Estherfern arrived today! I saw her enter camp just before she actually entered camp. I’ve been seeing things like this for a while now. I didn’t know what it was at first, but now I know that it’s just what makes me special!”

“Oh, I know the word for that!” Wolfkit gasped. “Premonitions!”

“That’s it!” Weevilkit chirped, bouncing. “Do you have them too?”

“I see something else,” Anchovykit said, a bit more confident than when Weevilkit first interrupted. “I think it’s… influence. I see what StarClan touches, I think. If they like a place or person, it glows. I think I uncurse cats, too! I had a dream where a StarClan cat helped me uncurse Tempestshade so they could go to StarClan.” Wolfkit and Weevilkit looked at Anchovykit like they would look at a great hero of the Clans.

“So we’re both special,” Weevilkit gasped. She shoved Wolfkit and said, “What do you see, what do you see?”

“I don’t know if I actually see anything,” Wolfkit gulped, sitting with a plop, gaze stuck downward. “There was just something weird that happened last moon. I don’t think it’s happened since.”

“Well, try to make it happen again,” Weevilkit insisted. “What was it?”

“Um…” Wolfkit muttered. “I was playing with Yarrowkit, and I ran in front of her and glared at her like this.” Wolfkit lifted her eyes and stared at Anchovykit.

There was no moment between Wolfkit’s stare and what happened next. Anchovykit was on the ground, Weevilkit standing on his shoulder, smacking his head. Wolfkit crouched in on herself, shaking.

“Anchovykit!” Weevilkit yowled. She smacked Anchovykit’s face again. Anchovykit shoved her off.

“What was that?” he snapped.

“You weren’t breathing,” Wolfkit whined, swallowing hard. “You wouldn’t answer us. You weren’t doing anything. It was just like with Yarrowkit.”

“I don’t remember anything,” Anchovykit huffed, shaking out his pelt.

“Wolfkit, stare at me this time!” Weevilkit chirped, bounding away from Anchovykit and sitting in Mitepaw’s nest.

“Okay,” Wolfkit gulped. She turned her fearful gaze to Weevilkit. 

Anchovykit stared, waiting for something to happen. Except nothing did. Anchovykit quickly realized that was the point. Weevilkit did not move a single whisker. She did not blink. She did not breathe. Her eyes seemed hollow, frozen in a memory, a moment that had passed her by but that she could not leave.

“How do you stop it?” Anchovykit gasped. Wolfkit blinked hard. Weevilkit snapped back to life, once again wiggling with anticipation for something that already happened. She realized what she had missed as soon as she looked over at Anchovykit.

“We’re all special!” Weevilkit cheered. She ran to Wolfkit, nuzzling her sister. “We’re all special! I love it! You freeze people, Wolfkit! You’re special!” Wolfkit beamed in her sister’s praise. “Let’s go, let’s go! Let’s celebrate! We’re special!” Weevilkit charged out of the apprentice’s den. Caught up in the moment, Anchovykit and Wolfkit ran after her.

Rattlepelt was sitting directly next to the apprentice’s den. Anchovykit skidded in the sand at the sight of the furious, unnatural yellow eyes that only he could see. The ichor that pooled around Rattlepelt’s legs stained the leather she had been mending. Her claws poked through the leather. Anchovykit’s legs went numb. How much had she heard?

“This way!” Weevilkit snapped, nipping at Anchovykit’s scruff. The excitement and joy that had consumed her a moment before had vanished, replaced with a stiff terror. Weevilkit led Wolfkit toward the dirt-place. Anchovykit ran after them, just as Rattlepelt got to her paws.

Weevilkit skirted around the shipwreck and dove into the empty quarantine den. Anchovykit and Wolfkit scrambled to keep up, panting as their little hearts beat hard.

“I had another pree-me,” Weevilkit gulped.

“Premonition,” Wolfkit said softly.

“Rattlepelt was about to get really, really mad at us,” Weevikit said, shivering. “Is she following us?” Anchovykit glanced outside. The dirt-place was empty. No sign of Rattlepelt.

“There’s something wrong with her,” Anchovykit huffed. “Special cats always use their powers for good in stories, right? I think we need to use ours against Rattlepelt.”

“Maybe we should tell an adult,” Wolfkit suggested, glancing outside. 

“They won’t believe us,” Anchovykit huffed. “Waspdawn’s litter is so small! We have to keep them safe from Rattlepelt.”

“Would she hurt them?” Wolfkit gulped.

“You don’t see her like I do,” Anchovykit huffed, trying once more to be brave. “I think with her curse, she’s capable of anything.”

(Anchovykit: 4, male, kit, charming, curious about StarClan)

(Wolfkit: 4, female, kit, polite, curious about StarClan, confident with words)

(Weevilkit: 4, female, kit, bullying, curious about StarClan)

Clammask and Lemmy both announce their pregnancies.

[Image ID: Clammask and Lemmy both sit with + CONDITION: PREGNANT under them.]

---

It was a day after Lemmy’s pregnancy announcement that Clammask entered the medicine den with complaints of weight gain and nausea. Thank StarClan that Honeypaw had been out collecting herbs with the caretakers, because Clammask would not have been able to meet her son’s eyes as she later left with Troutpool’s diagnosis.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. Halibutdusk may not have been a tom, but they had been born one. There was no reason they couldn’t get Clammask pregnant. Yet she had forgotten that, too busy finding a new beginning with playful flirting and a few fun outings (and one particular night where Clammask said goodbye to the pain and vengeance in her heart and oh StarClan was that when it happened oh no). It wasn’t supposed to be so serious. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

It still felt like summer as Clammask squinted in the brilliance of sunhigh. Lemmy and Mosspounce had a crowd around them, eager to share tongues. While Lemmy mostly kept to Mosspounce, Splashpaw, and the codekeepers, she chatted with her Clanmates with the skill and grace of a mediator, letting everyone know that she felt well and would nest in the nursery when she was ready. Clammask had already had a litter once, why wasn’t she as confident as Lemmy? Why did she have to feel like a scared kit?

Spikecrash was one of the cats sharing tongues with Lemmy. Clammask caught bits of their conversation, mixing their old faith in the Other Side with their new home’s focus on StarClan. Clammask lingered at the edge of the crowd, searching for the right words to draw Spikecrash’s attention. She didn’t have to say anything, luckily; Spikecrash glanced around camp as Lemmy listened to Oilstripe and Carnationspeckle share pregnancy tips. Thank StarClan she saw the fear in Clammask’s silver eyes.

Spikecrash crept around her Clanmates, making her way to Clammask. No one seemed to notice the pair, much to Clammask’s relief. She flicked her ears toward the camp exit. Spikecrash nodded and led her outside. 

Autumn had smacked RippleClan upside the head in the last few days. Before Clammask realized it, the trees that lined camp to the west had exploded in tortoiseshell color. The wind coming off the ocean was no longer pleasantly cool, but cold enough to make the golden molly shiver. The bugs had gone silent and heat no longer pushed against Clammask’s lungs; rather, the cold ocean air soothed her tense heart. 

Not by much, however.

“I’ve lived here long enough to know when someone needs a mediator and doesn’t know what to say,” Spikecrash sighed as the pair left camp. “What do you need to talk about?”

“Let’s find somewhere we won’t be overheard first,” Clammask gulped.

Clammask and Spikecrash entered the forest. The trees and falling leaves would provide some privacy, just in case the sunhigh patrol wandered past. Spikecrash tried not to stare as they walked further and further from camp. Clammask wasn’t sure if her nausea was from her nerves or the life growing inside her. She tried to soak in the crisp, early autumn smell, but the remnants of summer and the weight in her chest made her nose-blind.

“I saw you leaving the medicine den,” Spikecrash said when they were far enough away from camp for Clammask to stop. “Did Troutpool have bad news for you?” Could she even define what was happening as “bad news”? She loved being pregnant with her sons, after all. Maybe if this was another litter with Scrubmask, she would be yowling the news across camp, celebrating with Lemmy, laughing at jokes about stealing attention from the former Witch Hunter.

“I’m pregnant,” Clammask said, the word dying part-way out of her mouth. Spikecrash’s face did not reveal her reaction; instead, she cocked her head slightly and studied Clammask, the way her whiskers fell and her eyes looked hollow.

“This doesn’t sound like something you planned,” Spikecrash noted.

“I was still testing how I felt about Halibutdusk,” Clammask moaned, pacing around Spikecrash without realizing it. “I didn’t want to have as serious a relationship as I had with Scrubmask at the start, we started a family as soon as we became mates, I only wanted to move on! Halibutdusk talked to me when they realized they weren’t a tom, they didn’t like what it meant to be a tom, how will they feel knowing they sired kits? I haven’t told my sons I’ve been seeing them! They’ll think I’m betraying their mother! Does Halibutdusk want kits? Do I want more kits? My sons haven’t even graduated! What if I lose another kit?” Spikecrash threw out her paw and stopped Clammask’s spiral.

“One thought at a time,” Spikecrash purred. “It seems you’re nervous about a serious relationship with Halibutdusk.”

“I’m not ready for that,” Clammask whined, sitting. Her tail stirred the leaves around her. “Halibutdusk has always been there for me, but… I don’t know, this is so much more than I was expecting!”

“And you think they’ll be upset they’ve sired kits with you?” Spikecrash asked, nodding.

“When Drumpaw told me he was a tom, he went on and on about how much the idea of pregnancy made him sick. Does Halibutdusk feel that way about siring kits? Does it make them feel wrong?”

“Have you asked them?”

“I didn’t want to be serious, why would I ask them that?” Spikecrash rolled onto her back, signaling her surrender at Clammask’s suddenly curled lip. Clammask smoothed her face.

“All I’m saying is that if you haven’t asked them about that topic, you can’t know how they’ll feel,” Spikecrash explained, face upside down. “The same goes for your sons. Paleseed deals with grief more than I do, but from what I’ve seen of your kits, they’ve each found their way forward from Scrubmask’s death. They might be happy for you.”

“Maybe. I don’t know what to think right now.”

“Do you want a practical response or an emotional one?” Spikecrash got back to her feet. Clammask thought it through, fur growing hot. 

“Practical,” she eventually decided.

“Do you want to have these kits or not?” Spikecrash asked. Clammask’s stomach suddenly flipped.

“Move,” she managed to gulp just before she threw up. Spikecrash skittered up a fir. Clammask shivered as the taste settled in her mouth. Her nose curled at the stench of her own bile. Spikecrash jumped from the fir to a tree behind Clammask before she risked climbing down. Leaves fluttered with Spikecrash’s fall. Spikecrash groomed Clammask’s neck as the pregnant molly shivered. 

What did Clammask want? Forget Halibutdusk, forget her sons, forget Scrubmask and whatever her spirit must think of her. Did Clammask want these kits or not?

“I want these kits,” Clammask finally whimpered. “I want to be a mother again. I want my sons to have more kin. I want to raise a litter that has two parents at their graduation ceremonies.”

“Alright then,” Spikecrash purred, touching Clammask’s nose despite the stench in her mouth. “I can help you tell Halibutdusk.”

“Whether we’re actually in love or not,” Clammask gulped, forcing herself to take a deep breath, “I’m raising these kits, and I’ll help Halibut be a part of their lives. They’ll be a good influence.”

“Let’s get you some water back at camp,” Spikecrash suggested. “We can wait until you feel a bit better before you tell anyone else about this.”

“I’d like that,” Clammask said with a sniffle. She let her paw dangle near her belly.

Her four sons were big personalities in their own rights. Who would these lovely kits become?

(Clammask: 57, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Lemmy: 39, female, codekeeper, cold, deep StarClan bond)

(Spikecrash: 38, female, mediator, good speaker, lore keeper)

Terracottafoot helps Paleseed, Weedfoot, and Darkkick dream of the Dark Forest during Harvest Moon.

[Image ID: Weedfoot, Darkkick, and Paleseed stare down Newtstream, who is a Dark Forest spirit. Newtstream says,  “I just want to spend my damnation in peace, and Autumnstar wants me to help make his curse worse.”]

---

This Harvest Moon was shaping up to be a lively one. As RippleClan settled around the Leader’s Stone in the early dawn light, setting up the decor of black pelts and with the other Clans, everyone found something to start their day with. Clammask, Lemmy, and Oilstripe joined a gaggle of queens, pregnant and nursing, all bonding over nursery experiences while some of Halibutdusk’s warrior friends teased them for their sudden relationship change. Mosspounce argued with the LynxClan artisans and caretakers over how to construct a temporary stove while Tempestshade and Elmsprout eagerly brought out the massive fish Carnationspeckle and Darkkick caught the night before. Rabbitjoy and Rattlepelt reunited with their artisan friends and explained their plans for RippleClan’s show about Leatherwaste and their careless deeds. Rapidleaf explained to her old Clanmates that no, she didn’t feel comfortable returning to LynxClan when her only living kin were distant RippleClan apprentices. Downstar happily shared tongues with Gorgestar and Ospreystar while Gentlestar and Eelstar (who bore a wrap over his nose) made sure everyone was settling in for the day.

And Paleseed? She was preparing for the fight of her life.

Most of the clerics were setting up spiritual protections around the clearing, guarding the five Clans from the Spirits of Shadow that would roam the territories that day. Terracottafoot, however, stood far from the rest of the Clans with Paleseed, Weedfoot, and Darkkick. 

They had a jar of black dye on one side and a pile of early autumn leaves on the other. They rubbed their paw in the dye and gently nudged Weedfoot’s chin up. Terracottafoot ran their dyed paw from the base of Weedfoot’s chin to the center of her chest, a long black stripe like burnt meat. They did the same to Paleseed and Darkkick.

“Now I just need a spark to ignite these leaves, and we’ll begin,” Terracottafoot gulped, rubbing their black paw into the grass. “When you fall asleep, your souls will be transported to the Dark Forest. As many of the spirits there wander the forest tonight, you shouldn’t encounter as many enemies as you typically would. The burning of the leaves acts as a calling ritual. When you enter the Dark Forest, Autumnstar will feel called to you, even if he doesn’t realize it. You’ll find each other eventually.” Darkkick nodded along. Did she know of this ritual from her cleric days? What sort of dark powers did clerics hold in their hearts?

“What do we do when we find Autumnstar?” Paleseed asked.

“Make him stop hurting his Clan,” Terracottafoot sighed. “Convince him, fight him, do whatever you have to do. If he’s not stopped, the older generations of AshClan will all be dead by winter’s end.” Paleseed glanced back at the AshClan delegation. Save for Eelstar and Barkfur, every AshClan cat present was no more than a few years old. Would Paleshade leave them to die? No, Paleseed couldn’t keep asking what her namesake would do. But that was easier said than done.

“If Autumnstar is powerful enough to project a curse on AshClan,” Weedfoot muttered, “he’ll be a formidable foe in the Dark Forest.”

“He might have powers,” Paleseed said, “but he’ll still think like himself, won’t he? If we can’t outstrength him, we can outsmart him.” Hmm. Paleshade wasn’t much of a trickster. She would just give some grand speech and take Autumnstar down, if Weedfoot’s stories had any truth to them. Maybe Paleseed could bring more to the battle than a helpless mediator ready to be slaughtered.

“I’ll be right back,” Terracottafoot said, nodding with more enthusiasm than Paleseed had ever seen in the young cat. They hurried toward the main crowd, who continued to bicker about the stove as the sun battered the trees and fought its way into the clearing.

“It might be selfish to say this,” Weedfoot gulped, resting her tail on Paleseed, “but I’m glad you’ll be with us. I could use your support. Just promise me you’ll run if things get too dire.” Paleseed hesitated. Leave her mother and Darkkick to fight off Spirits of Shadow?

“That isn’t a request,” Darkkick huffed. “I still think you should stay here. The Dark Forest is no place for a non-combatant.”

“I really think I can help,” Paleseed said, raising her tail with false confidence. “If StarClan saw me with you, there’s something I can do to stop Autumnstar, something the two of you can’t.” To her surprise, Paleseed found herself believing her own words.

“You put more faith in what StarClan chooses to say than I do,” Darkkick muttered, fluffing her coat against a sudden breeze, “but so be it. I don’t doubt there’s something you could bring to this patrol.” Paleseed’s heather-blue eyes brightened at the compliment. Darkkick rolled her eyes, earning a chuckle from Weedfoot. At that moment, Terracottafoot slunk around the Leader’s Stone with a glowing stick in their jaws. Out of sight of most of the crowd, they ran back to Paleseed, Weedfoot, and Darkkick. They angled the stick against the leaves. The breeze sent sparks onto the dry tinder. The orange leaves began to glow.

“Lay down, quickly!” Terracottafoot ordered, setting down the stick. 

“Wait,” Weedfoot huffed as smoke drifted from the leaves. “How are we supposed to get out of the Dark Forest once our job is done?”

“Do you know how you wake yourself up from a bad dream?” Terracottafoot grunted, nudging Paleseed’s flank down. “It’s just like that. Hurry, the leaves won’t burn long!” The three RippleClan cats laid around the smoldering leaves. Terracottafoot sat beside the tiny fire, eyes closed tight. It was hard to imagine falling asleep with the fire in her blood, but Paleseed closed her eyes as well, praying that the Ashes in the Water were standing beside her, guarding her spirit as it shifted from one world to another.

Paleseed thought she would feel the transition. She was literally traveling to another level of existence, why would she not notice when she left the clearing and entered the Place of No Stars itself? But she still felt the small warmth of the burning leaves. She still heard the happy crowd, just beginning to play a few instruments to welcome in the festive day. She could even smell Carnationspeckle’s fish! So how would she know when she arrived?

“Open your eyes, Paleseed,” Weedfoot whispered. “We’re here.”

When Paleseed obeyed her mother, the warmth and music and scent of freshly-caught fish evaporated. The sound of the Harvest Moon still rang in her ears, as though occurring deep within the ocean. Yet the grass was gray, like life and light had been sucked out from the roots. Paleseed looked up. Barren branches criss-crossed over a black sky. A huge, yellow full moon watched the land like a vengeful eye. There were no stars in that black ocean, no glow to the world but the harsh, biting moonlight that refracted off the fog. Said fog clung to the ground, nipping at Paleseed’s paws as she stood. The scent of wood-rot and fungus filled her lungs. 

The Dark Forest was indeed that; dark, cold, absent of all the good in the world. Not a single conifer needle or leaf clung to the trees around the three RippleClan cats; instead, every branch poked and prodded at its neighbor for more room. There wasn’t even leaf litter to show there had ever been a summer in that barren land. Instead, mushrooms claimed the trees as their territory; flat, wide things of white and tan and brown. Even more mushrooms whose names Paleseed could not hope to guess sprouted from mounds poking out of the fog. Those mushrooms were the only life in the land. Bramble bushes speckled the shadowy landscape, thorns reaching out like fangs. Paleseed’s claws dug into the dry, red earth as a caterwaul echoed from somewhere deep within the forest. 

“The stories were right about this place,” Darkkick scoffed, shaking out the mist and dust collecting on her fur. Paleseed instinctively pressed into Weedfoot. All three cats gathered around each other, taking in the cursed trees and the sharp shadows. Autumnstar was out there, somewhere, instinctively drawn toward the living cats, unaware of the fate that awaited him.

“Where do we start?” Paleseed gulped.

“You could start by leaving, if you’re smart.” Weedfoot and Darkkick jumped between Paleseed and the stranger’s voice. Paleseed followed the sound up into a dead pine. A black, mud-like ooze dripped from the ginger molly lounging on the branches overhead. A solid, glistening layer of ice covered her extremities and dulled her monotone fur. 

“Newtstream,” Darkkick growled. She soothed her bristling fur and huffed, “It’s alright. She’ll pose no threat to us.”

“Terracottafoot sent you here, didn’t they?” Newtstream huffed. She jumped out of the tree and landed beside Darkkick. “The black marks on your chests, the sudden arrival on Harvest Moon… yes, it’s like I taught them. Why send RippleClan cats, however?”

“We’re here to stop Autumnstar’s curse,” Weedfoot explained, eyes stuck on Newtstream’s black goop.

“You were trying to save your Clanmates when you were alive,” Paleseed gulped, taking a risky step closer to the Dark Forest spirit. “There’s no reason for you to stop us.”

“What makes you think I’m trying to stop you?” Newtstream scoffed. “I’m just trying to spare you. It may be Harvest Moon, but deadly things still wander these woods.”

“We won’t be here any longer than we have to be,” Weedfoot said. “We’ll take care of Autumnstar and go.”

“I can’t say I’m too surprised to see you here,” Darkkick couldn’t help but grumble. “You did spit in StarClan’s face, after all.”

“I didn’t do enough to forgive myself, apparently,” Newtstream sighed, looking at the starless sky. “I just want to spend my damnation in peace, and Autumnstar wants me to help make his curse worse. The only thing keeping him from becoming as terrible as the worst Spirits of Shadow is his hurt ego. He feels his Clanmates, that StarClan himself, gave up on him and the virtues he tried to uphold. He could have led AshClan for many more moons if he let himself be wrong about your Clan. Instead, he spreads his frost across the Dark Forest and curses his Clanmates’ names. He’ll turn you into ice when he finds you.” As Newtstream monologued, Paleseed examined the dry grass around her. The entire forest looked like the aftermath of a great fire, destroying everything green in the world.

“Frost…” Paleseed muttered, looking back at the icy death wounds covering Newtstream’s extremities. “Autumnstar’s frostbite scars were some of his most famous characteristics. That’s why his curse is some form of eternal frostbite. The power of the Dark Forest exacerbates that legend. But frost has a big weakness. If… yes, if we don’t draw the attention of Spirits of Shadow…” Paleseed ran her paw against the harsh, rugged bark of a dead tree.

“What are you thinking, Paleseed?” Weedfoot asked. Paleseed turned back to the group, her eyes the brightest thing in the land.

“I have a plan to take care of Autumnstar,” Paleseed said.

(Paleseed: 29, female, mediator, insecure, incredible runner, steady paws)

(Weedfoot: 112, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Darkkick: 123, trans female, lonesome, talented swimmer, understands nature)

[Image ID: Downstar (now in an elder sprite), Rattlepelt, and Splashpaw look at Gentlestar, a brown tabby with a maple seed accessory, who introduces Asterpaw, a gray apprentice. Gentlestar says, “We’ve decided that if Asterpaw is going to give prey to every loner and kittypet he comes across, he would do better in the Clan that’s more supportive of that behavior.” Under Asterpaw, it says NEW PLAYER: ASTERPAW, 10, MALE, THOUGHTFUL, HAS LOTS OF IDEAS.]

---

As Paleseed, Weedfoot, and Darkkick dreamed unbeknownst to all but a trusted few, Downstar cheered with the rest of the Clans as WheatClan finished their performance on Shardlings, the broken pieces of destroyed souls fulfilling dark desires on loop. The young apprentices were a great decision to play the part of the Shardlings, even if they lacked an artisan’s acting skills. For who could get mad at excited youths performing with their friends and kin?

“Maybe we should have asked you to help with our Leatherwaste performance, huh Splashpaw?” Rattlepelt, who sat near Downstar, laughed to the purple-ribboned apprentice.

“I suppose you should have,” Splashpaw laughed, “but I’m almost a historian. I don’t think I would have the same effect as the six moon old apprentices.” Someone on the other side of the swarm of Clan cats called for a race. Suddenly, dozens of furry forms shoved past Downstar, ignorant of her position. 

“A lot of energy, considering how close we are to sunhigh,” Downstar chuckled, smoothing out her disturbed pelt. “I’m ready for the feast.”

“It smells amazing,” Splashpaw purred, tasting the air. “We have this every Harvest Moon?”

“Hopefully you’ll have a lot more of these feasts in the years to come,” Rattlepelt chirped, picking up her fox pelt from where the excited crowd had shoved it off her back.

“Downstar! A moment, if you would!” Gentlestar weaved through the excited crowd, her maple seed necklace bouncing on her chest. The bright sun made her brown pelt look yellow. A small gray tom followed her, staring at Downstar.

“Your Clan put on an excellent show, Gentlestar,” Downstar purred as the WheatClan leader approached.

“So did yours,” Gentlestar chirped, touching noses with the RippleClan leader. “Hopefully we can share tongues some more later today. First, though, I wanted to introduce you to Asterpaw.” The gray apprentice stood beside Gentlestar, studying the three RippleClan cats before him. His fur was choppy, with a few small tabby markings along his face and tail. He was sleek compared to most WheatClan cats, who enjoyed the extra fat from their various herbs and crops in the bountiful moons.

“Greetings,” he said quietly, nodding to each RippleClan cat in turn.

“Are you a new apprentice?” Splashpaw asked. Asterpaw shifted back.

“He’s been an apprentice for over a season now,” Gentlestar explained, “but he hasn’t been allowed at Gatherings. I heard you used to be a troublemaker in your youth, Downstar. Asterpaw would want to challenge you for that title. He’s been the subject of three trials in the span of four moons.”

“What in StarClan’s name have you been doing?” Rattlepelt gasped as Asterpaw straightened up against the shocked expressions of those around him.

“I’ve been helping cats,” he huffed.

“Asterpaw has been caught numerous times stealing WheatClan resources and giving them to the southern farm cats,” Gentlestar said. A curt glare from the brown leader shut Asterpaw up. His yellow eyes screamed to talk back. “No matter how many times we’ve explained to Asterpaw that our prey and tools belong to us, he’ll still give what he can away.” 

“That’s not something a leader would usually admit to another,” Downstar noted as Asterpaw grew stiff as wood, fighting back the urge to defend himself. “That sort of theft is a serious issue, Asterpaw.” The flood inside of the gray WheatClan tom broke free.

“I don’t always take things from camp!” he cried. “I make some of my own stuff, too. The farm cats have their own society to the south, and they don’t have our freedom to act with humans constantly watching them. If they’re struggling to hunt for themselves, I give them a spare mouse or my share of a meal. I only want to take care of them!”

“Except you’re supposed to take care of your Clanmates, not those outside WheatClan,” Gentlestar reminded him. This time, Asterpaw did not back down, glaring back at Gentlestar with righteous strength. Gentlestar simply sighed, looked back to Downstar, and said, “We’ve decided that if Asterpaw is going to give prey to every loner and kittypet he comes across, he would do better in the Clan that’s more supportive of that behavior.”

“Wait,” Rattlepelt said, “do you mean you want Asterpaw to join RippleClan?”

“He’s shown WheatClan that he cannot be trusted,” Gentlestar sighed. “The only other option after so many repeated offenses in so little time was exile.”

“RippleClan loves to help outsiders, right?” Asterpaw said, stepping away from Gentlestar. “You’ve invited a dozen loners to join your ranks at this point. You understand what I’m trying to do.”

“We’re kind to loners, yes,” Downstar said, glancing toward Lemmy in the gaggle of queens, “but we’re still wise with our resources. There’s a border between helping others and hurting your Clan. If you want to be a RippleClan cat, you need to understand that.”

“If you can teach him that lesson, WheatClan will be impressed,” Gentlestar said. “Beyond his issues, Asterpaw is a good caretaker and minds the camp well. While we will miss him, he and the Clan all agree this is for the best.” Asterpaw nodded along.

“Another caretaker apprentice from another Clan…” Downstar hummed. She couldn’t help but chuckle at history repeating itself. “I trained Elmsprout when she left AshClan. It seems only fair that I train another caretaker.”

“So I can join?” Asterpaw asked, standing as tall as he could despite his short stature.

“You can’t be stealing from us, though,” Rattlepelt noted. “I’ll know if you steal my leather.” She adjusted her fox pelt, rubbing her face into the red fur lining the outer side.

“If you’re as troublesome as Gentlestar claims you are,” Downstar chuckled, touching noses with Asterpaw, “you need a more experienced paw to guide you. If this is what you want, you can return to RippleClan with us at the end of Harvest Moon.” Asterpaw hooked his tail high, purring at his new leader.

A hiss slipped through the happy noise of the Harvest Moon. A sharp yelp spun Downstar’s head around. Far away from the rest of the crowd, Weedfoot, Paleseed, and Darkkick slept beside one another. Terracottafoot looped around them, using them as a wall between themself and Waspdawn, whose shortened tail thrashed violently and who bared his teeth like a dog.

“What did you do to Paleseed?” Waspdawn yowled. He tried to get around the sleeping cats and strike Terracottafoot, but the nimble cleric led the codekeeper on a loop, staying far from Waspdawn’s angry claws.

“Please, you can’t disturb them!” Terracottafoot begged. “This is more important than you realize!” Downstar ran toward Waspdawn and Terracottafoot, but Troutpool beat her there.

“Waspdawn, you can’t attack a cleric!” Troutpool yowled, grabbing Waspdawn by the scruff and pulling him back. Waspdawn squirmed out of Troutpool’s weak grasp.

“They did something to them!” Waspdawn hissed. Cats slipped away from the excitement of the distant race and formed a crowd of onlookers, all eyes on Waspdawn. “None of them will wake up!” Terracottafoot crouched by Darkkick, who did not wake up despite the chaos around her. Eelstar shoved his way to the front of the crowd. He shivered as he stood, even though the coming sunhigh made it feel almost like summer again.

“Terracottafoot, what is going on?” Eelstar huffed. Terracottafoot rose, gray eyes hardening as they stood down their leader.

“I did what your pride wouldn’t let you do,” they snapped. “I got help!” Downstar slipped beside Weedfoot. She nudged her deputy’s shoulder. Weedfoot did not stir. Downstar put her ear to Weedfoot’s mouth. She was still breathing. Downstar shook her again, harder, but to the same result.

“What’s on their chests?” Rattlepelt called from the crowd. Troutpool joined Downstar and Weedfoot. She lifted Weedfoot’s heavy head. Black dye smeared the bottom of her chin, a trail running down her chest. Darkkick and Paleseed had the same marks. Troutpool gasped and dropped Weedfoot’s head. Her whiskers pushed back and her wide eyes stared at Terracottafoot.

“I know this ritual,” Troutpool muttered as Rattlepelt joined her little sister, offering a comforting weight at her side. “Every cleric learns it, even though it’s incredibly taboo. Terracottafoot… why did you send them to the Dark Forest?” Fearful gasps and yowls rippled around the Leader’s Stone. Codekeepers instantly fought to keep RippleClan and AshClan cats alike from swarming the scene, pushing and smacking them back with sheathed claws. Downstar shivered just like Eelstar. 

“Because they’re going to save my Clan,” said Terracottafoot, whose characteristic insecurity vanished like morning mist against the outrage of the five Clans, whose gray eyes continued to stare down Eelstar, almost taunting him to speak against his only cleric.

(Downstar: 122, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Rattlepelt: 46, female, artisan, fierce, leather artist)

(Splashpaw: 11, male, historian apprentice, bold, never sits still, lover of art)

(Asterpaw: 10, male, caretaker apprentice, thoughtful, has lots of ideas)

(Waspdawn: 29, male, codekeeper, strict, learner of lore, clue finder)

(Troutpool: 24, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

[Image ID: Darkkick and Weedfoot face down Autumnstar, a Dark Forest soul. Weedfoot says, “You couldn’t rest in peace, could you Autumnstar?”]

---

Paleseed would be the one to spring the trap. It was her idea, after all, and it would keep her out of the fight. Newtstream had wandered off, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to assist anymore than she had. That left Weedfoot and Darkkick standing among the trees. Waiting. Watching. Holding their breath at the slightest shift in wind.

“Are we sure Autumnstar will come this way?” Weedfoot asked.

“Terracottafoot’s performance of the ritual was sound,” Darkkick huffed. “Autumnstar’s spirit is being pulled our direction as we speak.” Weedfoot peered into the moonlit fog. The trees grew hazy the farther she looked. A distant howl filled the silence between the pair.

“Darkkick,” Weedfoot said softly, “if I don’t wake up, make sure my family knows why I did this.”

“If I don’t,” Darkkick said, “tell Spikecrash I’ve enjoyed growing closer to her.”

“I’ll tell her you loved her,” Weedfoot purred.

The moonlight in the distance glinted against yellow eyes. Weedfoot froze, and not just out of fear. A thin coat of frost crawled under the fog, lurching from the shadows. It stung at Weedfoot’s pads and forced her back. Darkkick shivered through it. Ginger and white paws, sticky with goo and shimmering with frost, stepped out of the haze. Ice ate at his scar tissue. The face that came into view was not one of malice, but shock.

“Is that you, Weedfoot?” Autumnstar gasped. The frost grew thicker and thicker where he stood. The frost collected over Weedfoot’s paws, trying to glue her to the dead grass. Weedfoot kept moving, shifting her stance and breaking the ice. “You’re not a cat I expected to see here. Especially not alive. And Darkkick, of all cats! I never expected to see your face again. So you’ve joined up with Weedfoot and her kin. Did you send the pair of you here?” Darkkick raised her hackles, hissing.

“You couldn’t rest in peace, could you Autumnstar?” Weedfoot growled. “Do you even realize you’re hurting your Clan? Your Clanmates are dying, you’ve cursed them. You need to undo it.”

“I wondered if my anger held the power so many artisans and historians claimed it did in this place,” Autumnstar muttered, lifting a paw and allowing his cursed goop to drip onto the dead grass. “If that is how their betrayal manifests, so be it. May StarClan judge their foxhearted ways just as they judged me.”

“I would have thought you’d curse RippleClan,” Darkkick scoffed.

“You may not believe me, but I know the truth about your Clan now,” Autumnstar snapped. A flick of his tail sent ice sprinkling onto the side of a withered oak. “Our ancestors decided five Clans can exist around StarClan’s Shrine. My fight is not with RippleClan.”

“AshClan is full of your friends, your kin,” Weedfoot yowled. “I remember how much you cared for them. Why hurt them?”

“Why do you care?” Autumnstar groaned like an impatient apprentice. “You’re not AshClan anymore. The culture and traditions I fought to uphold mean nothing to you now.”

“I did care!” Darkkick yowled, marching closer. A flash of frost shot out from around Autumnstar. It struck at Darkkick’s legs, leaving crystals on her long fur. She hissed, gritting her teeth as her legs buckled. “I cared about AshClan up to the moment you exiled me for following StarClan’s decree! How is that ‘upholding tradition’?”

“I exiled you because I thought you were lying,” Autumnstar growled. “Why would I believe StarClan would suddenly side with the cats sewing discord into my Clan, working against so many of the values I held dear? I thought it was a conspiracy, that you had been won over. I stopped the war when I learned the truth. I respected RippleClan’s land, became civil to Downstar. And what did I get for changing my ways? StarClan struck me down. The friends and kin I spent my life defending began to curse my name. Of course I cursed them back!” Weedfoot couldn’t feel her paws. Her skin burned from the cold. Ice pinned her fur to her skin. It grew thicker and thicker. Pulling away grew harder and harder until all Weedfoot and Darkkick could do was squirm in their crystal chrysalis. “I fight for my Clan, only to be spat on for my efforts. If they’ll call me a curse on their Clan, that’s just what I’ll be!”

“Paleseed!” Weedfoot yowled. Her eyes turned to the treetops over Autumnstar. Flames danced in front of the giant moon. It licked at the end of a pointy gray branch. Paleseed stood defiant in the lifeless tree, holding the stick high, teeth dug tight into the bark. The fire brightened her spotted fur and burned her heather eyes.

Paleseed set the flame to the tree. The fire eagerly jumped to the dry tinder. Brilliant orange light exploded against the fog. Paleseed ran and jumped from one tree to another, setting each aflame.

“Are you mad?” Autumnstar roared. “You’ll kill yourselves before you kill me!” Blood pooled in Weedfoot’s paws in response to the sudden heat. Frost turned to dew. Darkkick lifted herself from the grass, shaking the quickly melting ice off her long black fur like dust. In the shining firelight, Autumnstar seemed like any other opponent Weedfoot had overcome before.

Darkkick attacked first. She head-butted Autumnstar, knocking him toward the flames, now leaping to other trees of its own merit. Weedfoot struck Autumnstar upside the head before he could collect himself. They rolled through the fog, two against one. Weedfoot’s pelt grew soaked as she fell on her back, saved only by Darkkick dragging Autumnstar away.

“It’s done!” Paleseed cried. In between flashes of fur and fang, fire consumed every exit. The heat replaced Autumnstar’s supernatural chill entirely. Paleseed stood on the other side of the fire, coughing, eyes watering at the smoke that now ate at the moon.

“You’ve weakened him!” Weedfoot cheered as she freed Darkkick from Autumnstar’s strong hold. “There’s nothing else you can do here, Paleseed. You need to wake up.”

“I don’t know how!” Paleseed yowled. “This doesn’t feel like a dream!”

“You can see, but your eyes feel closed, don’t they?” Darkkick snapped, dodging Autumnstar’s strike. “You can still hear Harvest Moon in the distance. That’s how it is for us. Force your eyes open! Listen to the crowd!”

“I love you both!” Paleseed cried. Her wide gaze held Weedfoot’s attention, even as she scratched and clawed at Autumnstar. The fire blossomed, rising like the tide and receding just as fast. Paleseed was gone. Paleseed was safe.

A lucky blow; Weedfoot kicked her leg back, only for Autumnstar to lock his fangs deep into her ankle. He was a rattlesnake, injecting cold poison into Weedfoot’s blood. The deputy yowled and shivered as Autumnstar’s icy claws continued to spread his mouth’s icy venom. That close to the flesh, the fire could do nothing to stop his dark power. Weedfoot dug into Autumnstar’s face, even as her leg remained stuck in the dead leader’s vicious bite. 

Darkkick slid on her back, appearing under Autumnstar’s stomach. She pushed up, hard as she could. Autumnstar’s fangs lifted from Weedfoot’s ankle with a vibrant spurt of blood. Weedfoot’s spasming muscles kicked Autumnstar away.

Here are the fallen Ashes in the Water, the AshClan cats who stood against their Clanmates and asked for a different life; Lavenderleaf, Redcloud, Sprucespring, Wasppaw, Finstrike, Burdockstream, and Paleshade. StarClan knew of their mission and accepted their cause, welcoming the group into StarClan despite how they turned against their Clan. This is for them!

Weedfoot slashed at Autumnstar’s eyes. Autumnstar shrieked, trying to blink the blood away. Darkkick fulfilled her namesake; she kicked, hard, right against Autumnstar’s side, sending the suddenly blinded leader stumbling into Paleseed’s flames.

The effect was nearly instant. As Autumnstar caterwauled, form flailing in the fire, sharp-angled shadows bounced off his silhouette. Shardlings. The living shadows, with too pointy ears and fang-tips for tails, the broken remnants of a Dark Forest soul, dead twice-over. They scattered with the smoke, mimicking their host’s fading screams. Autumnstar grew smaller and smaller in the fire’s glow.

Weedfoot turned to Darkkick, wondering, praying, screaming inside, still absorbing the pain in her leg and everything unfolding around her. But Darkkick was gone. Darkkick was safe.

But Weedfoot bore witness. She was still a historian. This was her duty.

The last shadow of Autumnstar shifted and danced in the fire, with only its ears and tail suggesting a feline shape. But this Shardling did not bounce into the Dark Forest to search for its broken kin. No, this Shardling stared at Weedfoot. Bright yellow eyes glared at her with more hatred than any soul, dead or alive, could muster. It screeched with a sound like screaming wind. Flames reaching out to restrain it, the Shardling launched at Weedfoot.

Weedfoot was not safe.

[Image ID: Darkkick, Paleseed, and Weedfoot sit together as Rattlepelt tells Weedfoot, “I’ve got you, Weedfoot!” Under Weedfoot, it says + CONDITION: MANGLED LEG. Under Rattlepelt, it says LEVEL UP! FIERCE -> BLOODTHIRSTY.]

Weedfoot screamed. She spasmed against the gray… no. The green grass. The grass was green again. The voices that once whispered far in the distance were now up close and yowling. The sun. The sun had returned, dancing directly over the Leader’s Stone. A huge crowd surrounded Weedfoot, gasping and yowling in response to her sudden panic.

“I’ve got you, Weedfoot!” Rattlepelt sat at Weedfoot’s side. She wrapped her prized fox pelt around Weedfoot’s burning leg. It was still bleeding, even though Weedfoot’s body never entered that cursed forest. “Troutpool and the other clerics are making emergency bandages.” Rattlepelt pressed both front paws into Weedfoot’s wounds. A bit of blood stained her gray skin.

“We weren’t putting on a show here.” Darkkick! She and Paleseed sat with Terracottafoot, cleaning the black dye off their chests with wet moss rather than groom it and get sick.

“I did try to send them away,” Terracottafoot gulped.

“Move, that’s our mother!” Weedfoot’s four other kits pushed through the crowd, Waspdawn in the lead. The golden tom ran into Weedfoot. Puddlewhisper and Lavendertwist wrapped around their mother. Even Scaleripple, sensitive as he was, laid his head on Weedfoot’s tail, purring. Paleseed left Darkkick and Terracottafoot to join her family. Waspdawn tackled his sister, trying to hold both kin close. James trailed after them, lucious tail tucked under his legs.

“Where are you hurt?” James asked. He noticed Rattlepelt’s bloody paws and groaned, closing his eyes. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to look. I’m just grateful you’re awake.” Weedfoot couldn’t help but laugh; even as she awoke from a battle in the Dark Forest, James was still the snob she knew and love. James pressed into Weedfoot’s neck.

“Weedfoot.” Weedfoot’s family shifted to reveal Downstar, standing with Eelstar at the front of the crowd. “Terracottafoot told us of their vision and your quest. You should have told me about this.”

“This wasn’t your problem to solve,” Eelstar said. His voice lacked its usual bite as he stared at the fox pelt around her leg.

“I’m sorry, Downstar,” Weedfoot gulped, voice shaky from the experience, “but this was too important to let you stop us. StarClan said we were the best ones to handle Autumnstar.”

“It was terrifying to see,” Lavendertwist gulped. “Mom, you and Darkkick were just laying there, shivering! And then all these scratches and bruises began to appear, even though no one was touching you! And then your leg opened up, it was… I don’t even know what to say! What happened in the Dark Forest?”

Yes… what had happened? The Shardling had had its jaw around Weedfoot’s throat. It should have killed her. It wasn’t a thinking being, it was a bundle of lost emotion and instinct, a small piece of what used to be Autumnstar. It didn’t have the capacity to spare. So why did it? All five Clans stared at Weedfoot, awaiting her answer. What could she say? Only the truth.

“Autumnstar can’t hurt anyone anymore,” Weedfoot said.

(Weedfoot: 112, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Darkkick: 123, trans female, lonesome, talented swimmer, understands nature)

(Paleseed: 29, female, mediator, insecure, incredible runner, steady paws)

(Rattlepelt: 46, female, artisan, bloodthirsty, leather artist)

(Waspdawn: 29, male, codekeeper, strict, learner of lore, clue finder)

(Puddlewhisper: 29, trans female, codekeeper, righteous, natural intuition, ghost sense)

(Lavendertwist: 29, male, historian, playful, great singer, good storyteller)

(Scaleripple: 16, male, warrior, lonesome, formidable fighter)

(James: 139, male, elder, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

Rapidleaf talks with Honeybuzz about what it’s like to be a cleric.

[Image ID: Honeybuzz says to Rapidleaf, “It isn’t worth the pain.”]

---

Honeybuzz adjusted the long hunt pelt covering Tempestshade’s back. The black cat was asleep, one of their few peaceful naps as their leg deteriorated more and more. The thick snowfall outside sent cold air stirring between the wooden walls. Mosspounce and Carnationspeckle tirelessly tended to the fire outside the medicine den, making sure their fellow caretaker would not suffer anymore than they already did. Honeybuzz doubted it would do much, though. Whatever damage the silver jaw caused to Tempestshade’s leg, Honeybuzz and Troutpool only delayed its endgame. 

Honeybuzz groomed Tempestshade’s neck as his patient groaned softly. He muttered a soft prayer and turned to his pots and baskets of medicine. As he checked on the Clan’s supply of painkillers, paws trudged through the clumpy snow outside. Rattlepelt made her way inside, snow gathering in balls on her fox pelt. She slipped it off, seemingly unphased by the storm.

“Are you busy, Honeybuzz?” Rattlepelt asked. Honeybuzz glanced at Tempestshade.

“Not really,” Honeybuzz muttered. He peeked under the wraps on Tempestshade’s leg and sighed. “Are you staying warm, Rattlepelt?”

“As warm as I can be,” Rattlepelt sighed. She strolled by the shelves of medicine sitting along the sand and wood. “I’m hoping to find something for my mood. Something calming. Lavender, maybe?”

“Ah yes, lavender in the middle of winter,” Honeybuzz scoffed, mustering a pathetic laugh. His sarcasm soured at Rattlepelt’s sharp expression. Honeybuzz cleared his throat, further tucked Tempestshade under their pelt, and said, “There are a lot of herbs for mood. What exactly are you experiencing?”

“What am I not experiencing lately?” Rattlepelt sighed, undoing a leather lid from a pot and glancing inside. “You’re the cleric, I would think you’d notice.” Honeybuzz refrained from telling her actually I’ve been quite busy trying to save Tempestshade’s life, interpret a prophecy, and deal with the identity of my mother’s killer, but yes Rattlepelt, I’ve absolutely been studying your mood.

“Mood swings?” Honeybuzz guessed. “Anxiety?” Honeybuzz took the leather lid back from Rattlepelt and sealed the pot.

“The first thing, I suppose,” Rattlepelt huffed. “According to my mate and mothers, I’ve been acting… out of character lately. Not quite as lively as I used to be. You must have something that can bring me back to normal.”

“It might not be herbs you need,” Honeybuzz suggested. “Have you talked with Spikecrash or Paleseed?”

“I don’t need a mediator,” Rattlepelt grunted with a thrash of her tail. 

“You talked with Paleseed all the time when your mother was held hostage,” Honeybuzz pointed out. “Why the refusal?”

“It’s different!” Rattlepelt snapped. She shoved past Honeybuzz and studied the herbs on the other side of the den. “I don’t want others talking about my business. I’d rather deal with it on my own time. You really can’t spare a pot of something? I just need to chew on something so I don’t chew on someone’s head.” Rattlepelt stuck her face into a basket.

“I don’t want to waste herbs on an issue a mediator could resolve,” Honeybuzz said. “Can you please stop looting through our supplies? We need them for Tempestshade.”

“Oh, so you’ll give medicine to an omen but not to one of your Clan’s only artisans?” The curl in Rattlepelt’s lip was like an angry warrior scaring a trespasser from the border. She flung a paw toward Tempestshade’s weak form. Honeybuzz stood his ground; he was not his mentor. Only StarClan could order him around. Defiant blue pierced through angry copper. Rattlepelt’s eyes widened. She groaned, recoiling back to the shelves. “This is what I’m talking about! Can you please just give me something?”

“Rattlepelt,” Honeybuzz said, stressing every word, “I am not giving you a lick of medicine until you speak with a mediator.” Rattlepelt deflated, veiny ears falling. Her claws unsheathed for a moment, stabbing the packed sand floor. She quickly covered them with her tail. She marched to her discarded fox pelt.

“I’d better leave before I do something else I’ll regret,” Rattlepelt grumbled, sliding the wet pelt onto her back. “Good luck with Tempestshade, Honeybuzz.” Rattlepelt stared at the thick falling snow outside the den. She slunk into the gray light with nary a shiver, the fire outside bouncing off her red leather pelt. Just when Honeybuzz began to process the new problem lumped onto his back, Rapidleaf scurried inside. Really? Now, of all moments?

“StarClan, that’s cold!” Rapidleaf yelped, shivering violently. Snow tumbled off her back as she shook.

“I thought you were assisting Troutpool with a ritual,” Honeybuzz sighed, turning to his shelves and pretending to check the herbs in an empty pot. 

“We just got back,” Rapidleaf panted. “I… wanted to talk to you before Troutpool joined you again.” Honeybuzz sighed deeply, gathering his strength. He couldn’t put this conversation off forever. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something to the Clan. Why haven’t you?” Ugggghhhhh why did Rapidleaf have to do this to him?

“You said it was an accident, right?” he huffed, finally facing Scrubmask’s killer. “You didn’t even remember what happened until later. So I’m staying quiet. It isn’t worth the pain.”

“But I killed her,” Rapidleaf said, soft and slow.

“And we moved on!” Honeybuzz groaned, throwing his head back. StarClan, this was like talking to a kit. “Mom took a new mate. My brothers and I graduated. Everyone thinks a Witch Hunter did it. Why would I hurt them all over again with this?”

“Because I killed her,” Rapidleaf said again, emphasizing each word, sinking in Honeybuzz’s strong presence.

“If you want to be punished so badly, confess to a codekeeper!” Honeybuzz snapped. “I am a cleric. I help my Clan. This, what you’ve done? Knowing that now will help no one. Don’t pretend to care about the right thing when you’re just a coward.” Rapidleaf bowed her head low. The bright fire outside turned her fur dark red like dried blood.

“If that’s what you think is right,” Rapidleaf muttered.

“Do your job and we won’t have any problems,” Honeybuzz growled, his golden face burning like the sun in the fire glow. He turned back to his empty pots and said, “Get warmed up. I don’t want to have to treat you for shivers.” He kept his ears perked as Rapidleaf’s paws crunched through the snow. He only looked back when he was certain she was gone. 

Honeybuzz groaned loudly, trudging to his nest and flopping into it. If he had to take this secret to StarClan, he was more than happy to do so. It was just easier. Now he only had three problems to deal with.

Well, that wasn’t true, even if he didn’t realize it yet. He had two problems.

Because Tempestshade had stopped breathing.

(Honeybuzz: 15, male, cleric, daring, constantly fiddling with tools)

(Tempestshade: 28, nonbinary (they/them), caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

(Rattlepelt: 50, female, artisan, bloodthirsty, leather artist)

(Rapidleaf: 85, female, warrior, lonesome, prophecy interpreter)

Tempestshade dies from their mangled leg. Mosspounce tells fond stories of his littermate while Trumpetspore mourns and Scaleripple tries to push his feelings aside.

[Image ID: Scaleripple watches Trumpetspore and Mosspounce leave. Under him, it says + CONDITION: SENSORY OVERLOAD.]

---

James quietly loaded Tempestshade’s body onto his back as dawn glimmered through the snowfall. Troutpool gave up an old vole pelt from her nest so Tempestshade’s crusted, wounded leg could be covered during the funeral. The leather wrapped around their leg and concealed their deadly injuries. Dried herbs poked out from under the leather, hiding the decaying smell. 

Scaleripple could still smell it, though. He smelled every decomposing muscle and faded blood-scent that clung to Tempestshade’s pelt. He could smell Trumpetspore and Mosspounce’s sorrow, still strong after a night at vigil. He could smell the concoctions and ointments the clerics used at first to stop Tempestshade’s deterioration, then to soften the end. He could smell death clinging to the snow that drifted over camp.

“Tempestshade would probably say something silly now about how we should just talk to Oilstripe if we miss them,” Mosspounce scoffed, swallowing hard. Trumpetspore laughed softly, leaning hard into Mosspounce. The laugh was like claws tearing at Scaleripple’s ears.

“Do you three have something to mark their grave?” James asked, shifting awkwardly with the added weight.

“I do, I do,” Mosspounce sighed. He stood, groaning and stretching his back. “One of our bowls broke a few days ago. With how much Tempestshade cooked, I want to use that as their marker. What do you think, Scaleripple?”

“Fine,” Scaleripple said. He stared at the spot where Tempestshade’s body had laid all night. The snow formed a hole in their vague shape.

“Scaleripple?” Trumpetspore peeked around her brother. “I know we don’t talk much, but… thank you for being there for Tempestshade. Mosspounce and I can’t say enough how much that… I’m sorry, I can’t.” It took all Trumpetspore’s effort to get even those few words out. Mosspounce groomed his sister, purring through the pain.

“It’ll be a long walk with this snow,” James sighed. “Let’s get on our way.” Trumpetspore and Mosspounce followed James, but when Scaleripple stayed seated, Mosspounce stopped and glanced back.

“You two bury them,” Scaleripple said. “Be alone with them.” No one had any energy to argue; Mosspounce nodded after a moment and rejoined Trumpetspore on their slow procession to the graveyard. Scaleripple stayed trapped in the scent of death. It clung to his fur like salt. Scaleripple closed his eyes.

“Scale?” Weedfoot shuffled across the thick snow, catching fat snowflakes in her fur. The new scar she sported around her ankle made Scaleripple’s paws burn just from its look. Her whole body sagged like a dying weed as she slipped beside her son. “Do you need me today?”

“I’m alright, Mom,” Scaleripple said. Weedfoot’s pelt was a whisker’s length from Scaleripple’s, but it felt like she was laying on top of him. 

Scaleripple needed that.

“I would have thought you’d go with the others to the graveyard,” Weedfoot noted. 

“I didn’t want to,” Scaleripple said. His gaze was drawn back to the hole.

“Well, I won’t be sending you on any patrols for the next day or two,” Weedfoot explained softly (StarClan bless her, finally a soft voice for Scaleripple’s strained mind). “I know your sister has whitecough, but if you need someone to talk to, Paleseed can listen.” 

“I’d rather go on patrol,” Scaleripple said. His expression remained unchanged, neutral and stuck on the hole.

“I don’t think you’re truly alright, Scaleripple,” Weedfoot mumbled. She got between Scaleripple and the place Tempestshade once laid. Scaleripple blinked wildly, trying to focus on his mother’s form as his vision blurred. He knew what was coming as soon as his ears began to ring.

“Do you want the truth?” Scaleripple asked. The tensions in his shoulders made his muscles burn.

“Isn’t that obvious?” Weedfoot hummed softly.

“No, it isn’t,” Scaleripple said. There was no intended malice, yet his tone still struck at Weedfoot like a rat bite. The ringing in Scaleripple’s ears grew louder. “There’s a lot I don’t understand that others do. I understood Tempestshade, though. They understood me. Now no one understands me.” 

Scaleripple’s eyes could not focus, even with Weedfoot standing right in front of him. Color and shadow melted together like beeswax in a pot. His skin burned. Weedfoot said something, but her words were just like the camp; melted, dissolved, burning. No one understands. No one understands. No one understands No one understands No one understands No one understands NO ONE UNDERSTANDS.

Some part of Scaleripple’s mind heard his Clan gather around him, wondering just what he was muttering. He could see worried faces peering into his huge blue eyes, even if he had no way to react to them. Despite all that, all he could do was stare at nothing, pressure building in his chest, sinking deeper and deeper into himself. The caring words of his Clan blurred together, yet each phrase was clear as air, layering over the next in a bloodbath of screeching bird song.

“Scale, come on now, what are you saying?”

“We should get him out of camp.”

“StarClan, does everyone have to stare at him?”

“Scaleripple, it will all be okay.”

“I understand you, Scaleripple!”

“Leave him alone, this doesn’t concern you.”

“How would you feel if we swarmed you after a vigil?”

“We may not understand you, Scaleripple, but we love you.”

If only Scaleripple could thank the soft, careful voices that slipped through the noise. Perhaps later. There was nothing he could say now. Only collapse into the spiral of his own, odd mind.

(James: 143, male, elder, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Tempestshade: 28, nonbinary (they/them), caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

(Scaleripple: 20, male, warrior, lonesome, formidable fighter)

(Trumpetspore: 28, female, warrior, nervous, excellent potter

(Mosspounce: 28, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Weedfoot: 116, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

Weevilkit and Yarrowkit make snow lumps at the entrance to camp.

[Image ID: Weevilkit and Yarrowkit build a snow cat as Wolfkit approaches. Yarrowkit says, “It looks a bit like a cat!” Under her, it says + PERMANENT CONDITION: ONE BAD EYE. Under Wolfkit, it says + CONDITION: BRUISES.]

---

Weevilkit couldn’t feel her nose, but she didn’t care. She rolled snowballs across the camp clearing toward Yarrowkit, who studied the large snow lump she and Weevilkit had cobbled together. The many, many kits of RippleClan had woken up from their sunhigh nap and now ruled the camp, running and screaming through the snow, entertaining one another. Yarrowkit protected the snow lump from her rampaging littermates, leaving light paw prints in its sides. Four snowballs sat along the corners of the lump like fat, lazy paws. 

“Is this big enough?” Weevilkit groaned. She shoved her giant snowball at Yarrowkit with one last mighty push. Yarrowkit trotted around the snowball, gauging just how big it truly was.

“Perfect!” Yarrowkit chirped. “Help me lift it on!” Yarrowkit and Weevilkit stood on either side of the snowball. They tucked their heads under their mound, snow crumbling into their eyes. Necks straining and muzzles aching, they lifted the snowball off the ground and threw it onto the mound. The bottom chunk of the snowball plopped off, making Yarrowkit and Weevilkit shriek.

“Pack it in!” Weevilkit cried. She and Yarrowkit scooped up snow and shoved it under their lump’s new head. Eventually, the lump no longer threatened to fall off. When Weevilkit was certain the structure was stable, she made two smaller snowballs and stuck them on the lump’s head. She bounced off the lump and admired it from the back.

“It looks a bit like a cat!” Yarrowkit chirped.

“Snow cat!” Weevilkit cheered, rearing onto her back legs like a horse.

It was at that moment that something strange occurred, something Weevilkit would not fully understand until she was older. In fact, in the moment, it felt more like a daydream than anything else, something that had come to her in the night and performed for her once more under the light of day. Yet the way she would describe it matched no daydream or typical trick of the mind.

On the other side of camp, Wolfkit eyed a snow pile a few tail-lengths behind Weevilkit. Harvest helped Robinkit and Currentkit build a mountain to scale and dig into like moles. As Weevilkit watched her sister, the gray kit’s form flickered. She stayed where she was, staring hungrily at the mountain, but another Wolfkit charged forward, slipping out of her body like a ghost. There was a fogginess to this second Wolfkit, a transparent and shiny nature that seemed like Oilstripe’s tales of StarClan cats. The real, solid Wolfkit did not react to this secondary form running out of her chest, unseeing.

But Weevilkit saw it all.

This ghostly Wolfkit darted past Yarrowkit. A misty version of Yarrowkit overlapped her living form, fur spiking and lips curling. Two cats existed in the same space, one in the other, making Weevilkit’s head hurt. Weevilkit watched as the other Wolfkit left deep pawprints behind her, even though the snow was no more disturbed than it had been. The other Wolfkit threw herself at the snow mountain. Harvest, Currentkit, and Robinkit gained their own foggy forms, stepping away from the ghost of the mountain. The nonexistent Wolfkit slammed into the mountain, but rather than the mountain collapsing into light and fluffy clumps, her head made a hole in the stiff snow. Wolfkit’s ghost collapsed at the base of the mountain. Weevilkit blinked, and the ghosts were gone.

And then it happened again.

Wolfkit darted past Yarrowkit. The brown and white kit jumped, fur spiking and lips curling. Harvest, Currentkit, and Robinkit hurried back as Wolfkit threw herself full-speed at the snow mountain. She face-planted into the unyielding snow and stumbled back with a loud groan. Weevilkit blinked again, this time shaking out her snow-dusted pelt.

A smart kit would have questioned that strange sight. However (and with no disrespect intended), Weevilkit was not smart.

“Are you okay?” Harvest asked, trying to force back her laughter at the face-shaped imprint in the snow.

“My face hurts,” Wolfkit grumbled, pulling herself out of the snow.

“That’s what happens when you run into a mountain,” Robinkit said matter-of-factly.

“It’s okay,” Currentkit promised. He slipped beside Wolfkit as the gray molly whimpered softly and rubbed her sore face.

“Wolfkit!” Yarrowkit snapped. “Don’t run past me like that! That’s my bad side!”

“Your bad side?” Weevilkit scoffed. “What does that mean?”

“You know!” Yarrowkit whined, smoothing out her fur. “Your bad side! Your dead eye! How would you like it if I scared you like that?” Weevilkit cocked her head so far to the side, her neck hurt.

“I don’t have a dead eye,” Weevilkit said. “How can an eye be dead?” While Robinkit and Currentkit teased Wolfkit, Harvest appeared behind Weevilkit.

“Mom, can you tell her about your dead eye?” Yarrowkit huffed. “Which one is it?”

“Yarrowkit, I don’t know what you’re saying,” Harvest said softly, getting to her daughter’s level. “Is something wrong with your eyes?” Weevilkit peered closer at Yarrowkit’s face. There was a droopiness to her right eye. Her pupil was huge compared to her other eye. A green haze covered the eye, depriving it of its usual sharpness. Harvest leaned in as well, staring intently at the right eye.

“Wait,” Yarrowkit gulped, “is your other eye supposed to do something?” Harvest sat up, swallowing hard. She buried her twitching tail under her flank.

“Yarrowkit,” Harvest said, “can you come with me? I want you to talk to Troutpool and Honeybuzz.”

“But I’m playing,” Yarrowkit huffed, placing a paw on the snow cat.

“You can go back to your game afterward, I promise,” Harvest stammered. “Now come along. You need to tell the clerics just what you’ve told me.” Yarrowkit deflated as Harvest looped around her and nudged her toward the medicine den. She glanced at Weevilkit as she passed, turning her head far to see her with her one good eye. 

Now, truth be told, while she would have to train around it, Yarrowkit would get along just fine with a bad eye. That was not what Weevilkit should have been concerned about.

(Weevilkit: 2, female, kit, bullying, curious about StarClan)

(Yarrowkit: 2, female, kit, noisy, stares at fire)

(Wolfkit: 2, female, kit, polite, curious about StarClan, confident with words)

(Harvest: 55, female, queen, nervous, good fighter)

(Robinkit: 2, male, kit, unruly, avid play-fighter)

(Currentkit: 2, male, kit, polite, constantly climbing)

Anchovykit wakes up with a splitting headache and can’t get out of his nest.

[Image ID: Anchovykit says to Tempestshade, now a ghost, “Do you need help?” Under him, it says + CONDITION: SEVERE HEADACHE.]

---

It wasn’t fair. All the other kits were playing in the snow, screaming and cheering at their winter fun, kept warm by the fire crackling between the elder’s den and the warrior’s den. Anchovykit should have been out there. He had to go out there and play! He was missing out on all the joys of the day!

When Anchovykit stood at the edge of the nursery, looking out over camp, his eyes burned. His head smacked him about like an enemy warrior. The snow intensified the pain. He squeezed his eyes as tight as he could, trying to fight off the headache. Honeybuzz had told him to just rest, but how could he rest when everyone else was having fun?

But then again, with a headache like his, Anchovykit couldn’t play. Especially since it made him see things.

The headache added an odd sheen to the camp. A soft sparkle danced around the medicine den like stars in the day. Weevilkit and Wolfkit, laughing over their snowbound antics, shared in this sparkle. Oilstripe, who told her kits stories by the Shiprock, had a glow to her eyes that made Anchovykit’s pelt itch. Even though the shine clawed at his eyes, Anchovykit found it hard not to look at the odd ways his head toyed with him.

Still, the soft awe of the camp was nothing compared to the sheer horror of looking at Rattlepelt. The furless artisan watched the Clan from the corner of camp, using her fox pelt as warm flooring against the snow. Her single white ear twitched casually as she watched Weedfoot return from patrol with Lavendertwist, Waspdawn, and Puddlewhisper. Her claws poked through the snow as Weedfoot laughed at one of Lavendertwist’s jokes. She groaned softly, forcing herself to look away from the family. 

It wasn’t her gray skin or odd behavior that made Anchovykit nauseous, however. Slime covered Rattlepelt’s smooth skin, slick yet dull like mud. Her legs grew black the farther down they went. Slushy pools of black gunk collected at her paws. She had become a river of dark mud, her body as its source. And then there were her eyes. Gone was the warm and cheeky copper shine everyone found so familiar in Rattlepelt. Instead, bright yellow eyes burned with unhidden, unquenchable hatred, a hatred that threatened to seep into every wrinkle and fold of Rattlepelt’s bony body.

Anchovykit ran back into the quiet shadows of the nursery. Headaches were terrifying! He crawled into his empty nest with a whine. He shoved his muzzle into the moss and leather. The sooner he took a nap, the sooner this headache would go away, and the camp would look normal again. He breathed in the leftover scent of his mother and littermates. He was always safe with them. They would protect him from the horrors of his headache.

“You’re a funny little kit, aren’t you?”

“Clammask, go away,” Anchovykit whined through the moss.

“I sound like Clammask? Huh. Isn’t that funny!” 

Anchovykit wasn’t in his nest anymore. He opened his eyes to blackness below. It was not pure darkness, though; tiny stars glimmered far, far away. The floor matched the ceiling. All around Anchovykit, Silverpelt shone in small white specks. There was no ground for Anchovykit to stand on, but regardless, he stood. He could feel something warm and soft under his paws, but when he lifted them, there was nothing but Silverpelt underneath. His mother had told him that on some nights, Silverpelt glowed with a myriad of colors, but all he saw now was black and white. The sunless land was shockingly warm, warm in the way Anchovykit imagined summer to be, that beautiful season he had yet to see. The clawing, tearing pain in his head was now a small worm, wiggling about behind his eye. Anchovykit stated at his pelt. There was no source of light, but his body was not covered in shadow. There was a dullness to him, something in between light and darkness, the pure essence of his colors untainted by the sun.

“Weird dream,” he muttered.

“I don’t like involving a kitten like this, but they shouldn’t have to suffer for long.” Anchovykit turned around. A blue-gray molly stood behind him. Dark, swirling stripes like water criss-crossed her starry pelt. A moth’s wing hung delicately behind her ear in an impossible fashion, as though the moth had perched itself just on the stranger’s head. 

“You look like Weedfoot,” Anchovykit gasped.

“I should,” the stranger laughed. “I’m her daughter! My name is Ripplefern. I’m a member of StarClan, and I need your help.” Anchovykit’s eyes widened. His mother had grown up with second-paw tales of StarClan’s power, while Anchovykit and his littermates got to hear of their glory straight from the mouth of RippleClan. Now Anchovykit was one of those blessed souls that got visited by the ancestors in his sleep, even if he wasn’t a cleric! He kneaded the invisible ground, purring.

“Am I important?” Anchovykit purred, eagerly running up to Ripplefern.

“More than I can explain now,” Ripplefern sighed. “I have a friend who will spend a long time alone if you don’t help them. Do you think you can help my friend?”

“I’ll try,” Anchovykit promised. Ripplefern purred, her blue eyes growing soft as down.

“Follow me.” Ripplefern turned gracefully and wandered deeper into Silverpelt. Anchovykit stayed at her side, eyes scanning the strange land around him. If this was StarClan, it was really empty!

“Where are all the other StarClan warriors?” Anchovykit asked.

“They wouldn’t be here,” Ripplefern explained. “Sometimes, when a warrior dies, they don’t go straight to StarClan. Sometimes they need to wait a while as we sort through some problems. This is where they go to wait.” Ripplefern looked up into the endless speckled black. “My friend was born with a problem. When they died, the problem sent them here, and they can’t leave until we fix it. But it’s not a problem StarClan can fix alone. My friend could be here for moons if we got help the normal way. But we’re lucky. You’re here.”

“What’s the normal way?”

“Rituals, visions, other calls for assistance from the living clerics. Being alive makes you special.” Anchovykit walked a little taller. He was special.

A figure appeared in the distance. It was hard for Anchovykit to see them with their black fur. Anchovykit’s paws grew heavy when he saw black mud clinging to the figure’s legs. He only managed to recognize them when he saw their dark green eyes.

“Tempestshade!” Anchovykit gasped, leaving Ripplefern behind. “Do you need help?” Tempestshade gawked at the kit. They still looked alive; a little hazy, perhaps, but alive. Anchovykit had only known them with their leg bandaged, but now it was strong and free of scars. They could stand and look down on Anchovykit, just as confused as he was. 

“Do I know you?” Tempestshade asked.

“He was born while you were fighting your death wounds,” Ripplefern explained. Tempestshade only just noticed Ripplefern. They grew as still as they had been when their body laid in camp for vigil. 

“You look better than when I saw you last,” they managed to gulp.

“Anchovykit is here to help you,” Ripplefern said. “Do you see all that black ichor, Anchovykit? I need you to rip it off, like when you tear into a fish.” Anchovykit sneered at the ooze on Tempestshade’s legs. He was supposed to touch that? With his mouth? What could he even hold onto? It was mud!

“Why?” Anchovykit groaned.

“You’re the only one who can,” Ripplefern said. Hmm. Well, if StarClan asked it of him…

Anchovykit peered at the ooze. Maybe if he just bit the whole paw…. He shut his tiny jaws around Tempestshade’s front leg. Tempestshade hissed and smacked Anchovykit.

“Alright, not like that,” Ripplefern laughed. “Just… pretend you’re removing the lid off a pot. Peel the ichor off like you peel off the leather.” Oh, that made much more sense! 

Anchovykit spat out the gunk that stuck to his teeth. He took a big breath and dug his fangs into the black ichor. He pulled at the ooze with a violent, suctioning sound. It was like a paw trying to rip itself from the mud. There was no ground to gain a foothold on, but Anchovykit dug himself in regardless. The ichor stuck to Tempestshade like some many-legged monster of the deep. Anchovykit dug deeper into the ooze and pulled harder. As it stretched farther and farther from Tempestshade’s leg, it began to take a new form. Feline ears poked out of the black. A slender form took shape, its scruff in Anchovykit’s grasp. 

It was a cat, utterly soaked in the gut-heaving black ichor, no bone or pelt to speak of. It wasn’t much smaller than Anchovykit himself. Anchovykit dropped the mewling creature and gagged.

“What is that?” Anchovykit groaned. The creature squirmed and twitched like a newborn, making the worm in Anchovykit’s skull spasm once more in a headache.

“The power of the Dark Forest made manifest,” Ripplefern said, her tone low and serious in a way Anchovykit had never heard anyone speak in his short life. “This is Tempestshade’s curse in physical form, the evil energy that struck out against those who got too close. Your special sight shows you their influence, and the influence of the stars. You are the one who can pull them from idea and ethereal being to something tangible.”

“Huh?” Anchovykit said.

“Strike it along its neck,” Ripplefern sighed, waving her paw at the creature. “Now that you’ve pulled the curse off Tempestshade, you can fight it.” Ripplefern needed to get better at explaining things. Anchovykit may have been young, but he understood what it meant to fight like a warrior.

Anchovykit jumped onto the creature with a yowl more suited to a play fight than true battle. The pathetic thing was no match for a harsh wind, let alone Anchovykit’s tiny fangs. He shoved the creature onto its back and bit into its neck. The creature stopped squirming at once. As Anchovykit tightened his jaw, the monster’s ichor dripped through the invisible floor. It tumbled through the starry abyss below, everfalling, never landing. Piece by piece the creature melted away until Anchovykit’s teeth smacked together with nothing left to hold.

“I just fought a Dark Forest cat,” he gasped softly. His flank wiggled as he cheered, “I fought the Dark Forest!”

“In a sense,” Ripplefern chuckled.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised I didn’t go to StarClan,” Tempestshade said with an awkward scoff. “Can’t really let in an omen, I suppose.”

“It’s not your fault the Dark Forest latched onto you,” Ripplefern said. She slowly approached the black tabby. Anchovykit stepped back before he even thought to give them room. “You did well with what you had to bear. But now you don’t have to wait here anymore. You can come with me.” 

Ripplefern’s nose touched Tempestshade’s forehead. A spark danced where skin met fur. Stardust shimmered over Tempestshade’s head. A glittering wave coursed over their pelt. Brilliant stars danced along the stripes in their fur. The gunk that clogged their paws was now a shimmery, sparkling mist. Tempestshade gawked at their new form, lifting each paw to study the shine.

“Oh,” Tempestshade muttered.

“StarClan is excited to taste some of your food,” Ripplefern purred, bunting Tempestshade’s shoulder. “There’s a lot I want to talk to you about.”

“I just want to know how Moss and Trumpet and Scale are doing without me,” Tempestshade sighed, touching noses with Ripplefern. They paused for a moment, then stepped back. “Actually, no, that isn’t the only thing I want to know. What’s his story?” Tempestshade looked at Anchovykit.

“I’ll tell you in private,” Ripplefern promised. She set her tail on Tempestshade’s back.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?” Anchovykit asked, marching up to Ripplefern. “I don’t know my story either!”

“I’ve shown you what you can do,” Ripplefern sighed, shaking her head, “but you’ll have to work some things through yourself. I’m afraid StarClan can’t do everything for you. Just remember what I taught you, Anchovykit. Be good to your mother.” Ripplefern touched her nose to Anchovykit’s head. It was as cold as the winter chill blowing off the ocean.

When Anchovykit woke up, he still had a raging headache, but that was nothing compared to the complete and utter confusion that made his vision spin.

(Anchovykit: 2, male, kit, charming, curious about StarClan)

(Rattlepelt: 50, female, artisan, bloodthirsty, leather artist)

(Ripplefern: 18, female, historian, charismatic, talented swimmer, good fighter)

(Tempestshade: 28, nonbinary (they/them), caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

Billowkit can’t stop sneezing.

[Image ID: Billowkit asks Troutpool, “So I’ll be sneezing forever?” Under him, it says + PERMANENT CONDITION: ALLERGIES. In the back, Currentkit calls, “Let’s see what makes you sneeze!” Under him, it says + NEW SKILL: HAS LOTS OF IDEAS.]

(Troutpool: 28, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

(Billowkit: 2, male, kit, bossy, active imagination)