"See you later, Fogtail!"

"Bye, Pavlova." 

There was no mistaking the warmth in his voice. In recent days, Pavlova had adopted a more Hollyfur-esque speech pattern, ending her sentences with a small, endearing purr and simply dulling the sharp acerbity of her usual speech. The stolid apprentice was no more—in her place was a quietly genial she-cat, still reticent, but emanating a different aura altogether. A thoroughly fabricated illusion, of course. 

The thing was, once Fogtail really began to dote on her, she could revert back to her old self little by little and he'd be in too deep to notice. Through moons of sitting on her fence and silently taking in the world around her while other kittypets sidled up to their housefolk for canned tuna, through accumulation and deducement, analysis and evaluation — Pavlova had been able to gain insight into what would shape the very essence of her experiments later; habits. Cat minds were heavily conditioned and circumscribed by habit. Habits were acquired patterns of behaviour that often occurred subconsciously so the cat wouldn't even realise it; habits were triggered by a set of variables that could be actively monitored most of the time by others—and Pavlova had become accustomed to immediately detecting these and following up always with a question to herself, asking how can I use this to my advantage or what can I gain from this information?  Rewarding her recent accomplish with a plump squirrel, Pavlova settled down to eat and contemplate her plan further.

In a couple of days, she'd be a warrior. And when she reached that milestone, phase 2 of her plan would commence. It marked the day she'd become eligible to be conferred deputy, and then leader. The white she-cat licked her lips. All in good time, Pavlova. Holding the highest position meant she'd gain control over everything within the Clan and the resources she needed for her experiments could be more easily obtained. There was no rush. 

• • •

It was assessment day.

Pavlova ran through her head once more what was to happen that day.

1. First and foremost: act nervous. Tentative steps with her chin down, a quivering tail tip and dilated eyes will help get the message across.

2. Pass the tree-climbing test relatively smoothly, maybe go a branch or two less than her usual height.

3. Pass the fighting assessment narrowly.

4. Screw up the hunting assessment royally.

5. Click her tongue twice.

"Are you ready?" Mossclaw's voice sounded somewhere to her right.

"Y-yes." Pavlova was frankly caught off guard—but successfully, thankfully, remembered to stutter. If she weren't in the middle of one of her acting schemes, she would have given herself a self-congratulatory lick on the shoulder.

"Nervous?" Mossclaw's concerned gaze settled on hers, voice also softening.

Pavlova almost flicked her tail in an even more complacent flourish. Sympathy. Brilliant.

"A little, yes..." she tilted her head, looking uncertain. "If I fail, it will only reinforce the other's doubts towards me stemming from my background. It'll be harder to show that I belong here."

And because it was a truthful statement, it sounded ten times more genuine than she'd hoped; sure, it was truthful, but Pavlova wasn't in the least worried about it.

"Listen, Pavlova, you've worked hard, more so than Clan-borns (she begged to differ), and you're going to succeed; even if you don't, you can always retake the assessments. It will be hard, but I think you can manage it."

Pavlova nodded, feeling surprisingly comforted despite her lack of worry in the first place. "Let's go, then." 

• • •

She could see the disappointment in his eyes.

The pigeon was clumsy, in every respect maladroit, and yet it had escaped from under her very claws. 

She clicked her tongue twice and saw the doubt his eyes clear away like the cold morning mist dissipating under the sun. A muscle in his jaw feathered and clenched again. Pavlova waited. One, two, three...

"Let's go." Short. Brusque. Purposeful.

"Okay," Pavlova mewed, dragging her pitch down so as to sound downcast.

The climbing and fighting assessment went as planned. She had definitely passed them both. And the hunting? It went smoothly, if referring to her plan, but quite the opposite in terms of passing an assessment. They arrived in camp, with Mossclaw making a beeline for Robinstar, who was sunbathing with Stormpelt. The dark tortie narrowed her eyes and leapt to her paws, greeting them with a formal nod of the head.

Oh, quit your pretence, Pavlova mused—although she knew the leader wasn't even aware that her rigid, no-talking-back aura of authority, her so-called leadership, was entirely governed by Stormpelt, the deputy and her faithful mate. At first glance, she was intimidating with a dogged sense of purpose, but later it became apparent that all of it would not be there if it weren't for her hard-working, quietly supportive mate, whose judgement was trusted completely.

"Robinstar." Pavlova's mentor greeted.

"Did the assessment go well?" Robinstar broke into a purr. "I heard that Wrenpaw passed with flying colours."

"About that..."

It didn't take a genius to decipher Mossclaw's embarrassment as he prepared to announce his apprentice's failure. Pavlova quietly clicked her tongue twice.

"Yes, Mossclaw?"

The aforementioned cat straightened, a hardened look entering his gaze. "Okay, you know what? I'm proud of my apprentice. It isn't easy for her, and not every cat is an Eliza. She may have been unsuccessful in her hunting assessment today but she doesn't hunt abysmally normally; it would've been the nerves and added stress from her, er, high expectations."

Robinstar looked unsure for a moment, and after a glance with Stormpelt (who nodded), she turned around and gave an approving bob of her head. "That sounds reasonable. I think now would be a good time for the ceremony, don't you think? Get it over and done with." 

Eliza officially became Wrenheart that day.

Pavlova decided to remain, fittingly, Pavlova. 

Written by Saph! 🍩✨