Time would not be wasted anymore. Moons had passed, nearly a full turn of the seasons. The kits would be earning warrior names soon, and still, no one had found them. By all appearances, everyone but he and Iristfrost had resigned to their death. Hailstar, at least, seemed willing to humor them—he hoped Briarpelt would be too. And it would be good for him, he told himself, to focus on the search and not the threat of RidgeClan, or the emergence of the Kingdom. Mushroomstar had enough to worry about—it was unlikely an attack would be launched.

Under the soft drift of snowflakes from a wool-gray sky, Dawnclaw padded across camp with a purpose in his stride, sunrise eyes set on the Sky Tree. His tail flicked, and he slowed to a stop to tilt his head upward, snowflakes catching in his whiskers. How cold and windy it must be at the top of those bare branches. The last time he’d climbed up there, he’d been greeted by buffeting wind and a stunning view. How would the valley look from there now, slumbering beneath a blanket of snow?

He shook out his thin pelt, fluffing it out before snow could soak in and chill him to the bone. He sat and curled his tail over his paws; anything to keep him warm. He wasn’t built for the cold, and not for the first time, he wished for his mother’s fluffy coat. He scanned the camp, searching for the little stormcloud and the elder deputy. He’d gone to each of them already. To Iris, softly asking that she join him by the Sky Tree. To Briarpelt, respectfully requesting he meet with him and Iris there.

”Something’s gotta give,” he muttered to himself.