Dawnclaw’s claws dug deep into the rough bark of a tree branch, golden eyes locked below, on the dark mist ahead. The scent was stronger now—RidgeClan, and with it, blood. He could run now, raise the alarm. MistClan wouldn’t make the same mistakes; claws would be out, teeth bared before the enemy got close. He knew all the ways MistClan had gone wrong with the last attack. He would know—he was one of the attackers.

But the scent… it couldn’t be more than one, maybe two cats. They could be scouting the territory, mapping guard stations or border patrol routes and timing. Integral tactics to planning a hostile occupation. If he could manage a capture, a prisoner could have information, and negotiations could be made for their return to RidgeClan. Or… if they were important enough, they could be kept indefinitely as an assurance of peace. He’d heard stories of young apprentices being taken prisoner for just that reason—most especially if they were children of those on the council.

He thought for another second about that, and his gut roiled with revulsion. Thoughts of war always awakened something cold in him. Hardened and unfeeling. Victory is all that mattered, right? Of course it is, boy, his father would snap. While he remained focused, his lip still feathered in disdain.

A feline figure took shape in the mist ahead, too far away to make out details or pick up a specific scent. They were slinking through the trees, stepping carefully, but didn’t seem to have nearby companions. He could handle this one on his own. He tracked their gradual progression, and he kept his breathing slow, deep, and even. His heart pounded hard, but he willed it to stay steady. His muscles bunched together in preparation to launch—

No.

The scent became clearer before their visage did, and it nearly sent him falling from the tree. Duskfang. Not her. She couldn’t be here, scouting out the territory, couldn’t be making moves against him. He wondered for half a second if he would do the same against RidgeClan, against her, but put the question away to answer later. Silently, he slipped down to a lower branch, then another, bright eyes riveted on her feminine form as it materialized from the mist. It was her. And she was hurt.

Dawnclaw dropped down from the tree with a hard thud and then was moving fast, trying to think through a thousand questions—how did this happen—did MistClan do it—why is she here—is this why she wasn’t at the gathering—

It didn’t matter. Help her first. The rest later.

He came to a hard stop before her, already assessing the damage before he said a word. Blood had crusted half of her face, but he saw none anywhere else. No emotion showed—stars, he didn’t even want to feel it. His heart was galloping, his insides trembling. Duskfang, Duskfang, Duskfang. His twin, his missing piece. He leaned forward to sniff her face, to really take in the wounds. Scratches across her cheek, over her eye. It was crusted shut, and ice speared his belly at the thought of her losing it. Wounds like that… if they were infected, losing the eye instead of her life would be a blessing.

”This happened hours ago, Dusk, why didn’t you go to Rainstorm?” he quietly demanded. She knew better, knew the risks. There had to be a reason she hadn’t gone to Rainstorm. He shook his head before she could answer. ”Doesn’t matter. Lotusfire needs to see you before you lose the eye.” He looked her over again, just to make sure. ”Come with me.”

He turned to begin escorting her through the forest, fighting to stay calm and to contain the flood of questions trying to spill out. He especially ignored one frantic question: was this a ploy for an attack? He refused to believe it. They spent a few long minutes of walking through the trees in silence, carefully glancing at her every couple of paces.

”Did he do this?” he finally managed to bite out. There was no need to say who he was.

“Dawnclaw, I—”

She stumbled, and he ducked his head down to catch her at her chest. She didn’t know the terrain and was down an eye. He kept a close watch on her footing, and let the silence hang heavy between them. He wasn’t angry with her. He hoped she knew that, that his anger was reserved for their father.

“You are right,” she confirmed, and he all but snarled aloud.

”I’ll fucking kill him,” he muttered, not for the first time in their lives.

“Dawn, I’m sorry. I should have listened to you, but I am nothing but a fool. A blinded fool, who couldn't see what was in front of her. You have, and had, every right to judge me."

A dapple of moonlight caught her golden eye, glistening with tears. It twisted something in his chest hard enough to stop him in his tracks, to turn and face her. She didn’t cry. This was Duskfang. His powerful sister, with that flame hiding beneath her chill, that same fight he had. How much had Sunstorm beaten her down after he left?

Stars. This would eat him alive.

”Duskfang, listen to me,” he said, his voice low and steady. ”I will never judge you for things he did to us. To you.”

Things that I am responsible for.

He stared at her a moment longer, willing the words to sink in before he turned and kept walking. Maybe she was an adult, grown, formidable in her own right, but he should have been there. That truth was a harsh dig into his heart. He should have been there. It kept him up at night, thinking of her face the night he said he was leaving with or without her. Sometimes, his nightmares were of her on the wrong side of the border, on the wrong side of Sunstorm’s claws, or stars, his own claws.

”We all make choices we regret. What matters now is that you’re here,” he told her, though maybe he was telling himself, too. ”I’ve learned a lot here. A lot about forgiveness. I think you’ll find that here too.”

They continued in silence for a time, until, "Forgiveness... something that I did not gift you with when you left me by the riverside. Who am I to deserve forgiveness, especially yours, Dawn?"

He didn’t answer right away. She needed to talk. He could see her mind working through whatever changed in her to want forgiveness for herself, rather than the reverse—he should be seeking her forgiveness.

"You remember when we were apprentices,” she went on, “and we would sneak out of camp to go to that silly, little cliff side with that silly, little tree right in the middle of it? Where we knew no one was watching us, and we could just be..." He smiled. "Can MistClan be that for us again? Can we have the life that we were supposed to have?"

”MistClan is a family, not an army,” he answered. ”We’re kin as much as we’re comrades. Their way of life, Dusk…” He sounded wistful. ”It’s peaceful. And I’ve never felt so close to StarClan as I do here. Or close to my Clan.”

They’d never made friends in RidgeClan, not real friends. At least he hadn’t. They were buddied up with most of the warriors, but it always remained at the surface, everyone kept a tail-length away. Couldn’t let anyone find out about the way Sunstorm really is, what their lives were really like. Beaten down, belittled, controlled, and all the rest of it. Family secret.

He thought of Iris and that chilly day in the Moon Cave, and he smiled. Not anymore.

”I’ll introduce you to Irisfrost when you’ve gotten some medicine cat attention and sleep,” he said. ”She’s my best friend I think. Hailstar, Spottedpaw, I'd call them friends. Others, too. You’d like them.”