”I didn’t mean to.”

He hauled upright; the words seared in his mouth, clawing through what had to be a throat turned raw from his growls and snarls. He expected to taste blood, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe he expected to be dead.

But as his senses returned, he realized he was not a grotesque beast. He wasn't torn apart with wounds. He wasn’t even standing over a body — Mushroomstar? Sunstorm? A nameless face cut down in war? — and there weren’t the eyes of Hailstar staring him down, or his sister looking on, heartbreak in her eyes. No bright blue eyes lit up with fear, Milkpaw shrinking away. Irisfrost was asleep just a branch away, her storm-gray eyes shut instead of staring in horror.

Dawnclaw’s chest heaved for air as he sat up fully, squeezing his eyes shut. Every night. Every fucking night. He did his best to ignore how tired he was, but this wore on him. Not that it would stop him from soldiering on. He opened his eyes, looked up through the branches of the warrior’s tree.

It was still night, the moon just a sliver, Starpelt brilliant and twinkling. It was balmy, the breeze rolling through the misty forest, the trees answering in whispers. He took a few more deep breaths before he rose, careful not to wake anyone as he clambered down the tree. On flat ground, he shook out his pelt and moved with purpose, passing the camp guards with a curt nod. It was only a few strides into the fog before he broke into a run.



He ended up here a lot, didn’t he?

Dawnclaw’s paws half dragged through the dry dirt of the Stonemark, and he fought to catch his breath. It had been a hard sprint across the territory, enough to drag himself back into his body, and not whatever horrors his mind liked to wander into. He drank in the markings, and looked forward to be able to read them one day.

But there was a place he had started with already. He stopped before a set of markings, not quite fresh, not quite old. When he’d joined MistClan, he’d become a part of its history. And there was his name, right there. Hawthorntail had shown him the mark that had been carved in the fashion of a rising sun.

He took a deep breath and wandered the rest of the wall, scanning for the places his name appeared. Once more, he found it. He wondered if it was when he’d killed Mushroomstar — a mistake that stuck like a stubborn thorn in his heart. His stomach soured, staring at it. There was no way to know for sure, not until after his lessons with the historian. But something in his gut told him it was so.

He returned to the other one, his arrival to his new home, his new family. He shut his eyes and pressed his forehead to it. He came here to be better. He was doing better, wasn’t he? Would he be here in the middle of the night if he was?

There was a scuff of dirt, and Dawnclaw tensed. His ear turned toward it, ever so slightly. He didn't move, but his nostrils flared, taking in the scent of whoever approached.