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.