The heavy wind was uttering a quiet howl as it swept through the Stonemark, carrying with it the voices of history, generations long past. Dawn’s ears turned back from the wind as he approached the gorge. His gait was casual, large paws stepping surprisingly soft. He listened to those voices, drew his eyes across the sweeping legacies etched into stone. It wasn’t as if he was going to get any validation from the past, but still, he knew he made the right decision. He needed more time with Milkpaw. She would not be getting her warrior name with her brother.

The thought still twisted his gut. It would hurt her, but she wasn’t ready. This Clan needed her heart and soul, and she seemed to view it all as a playing ground. He’d get this right. He would get her to where she needed to be, but he needed more time. He needed to shift his approach.

”We don’t come here enough,” Dawnclaw said, glancing over at Milkpaw. She’d grown, and would be the oldest in the den. ”Have you ever considered learning to read the marks? Hawthorntail offered to teach me. Perhaps they would teach you too.”

Maybe traveling the path of a historian for a time would help her connect to her roots better, even if she never chose to be one. She was adept at all her necessary skills — hunting, combat, stealth, climbing… but she was impulsive. Careless. Always somewhere else, never taking anything seriously. Dawnclaw considered over and over again that he had a paw in this; he had scared her too much with too much pressure.