Emberfall picked her way along the overgrown path, her paws sinking into moss-slick stones that hadn't felt a Twoleg's tread in seasons. The old nest loomed ahead, its wooden walls sagging like a elder's spine, paint peeled away in grayish curls that rattled in the breeze. She wrinkled her nose—the stench of rotting leaves and sour milk clung to the place, undercut by something sharper, wilder. Mouse bile, she thought, her whiskers twitching. Clan cats might disdain kittypet dens, but prey was prey.

A rustle in the nettle patch froze her mid-step. She crouched, tail low, as a plump black-and-white tom emerged with the rolling gait of a cat who'd never missed a meal. His fur gleamed oddly in the dappled sunlight, too glossy for the forest, and his collar—a garish red thing with a jingling bell—clinked as he padded forward.

"Ah, hello!" he mewed, his voice bright as a thrush's song. He sat back on his haunches, tail curling neatly over paws that had never dug for a burrow. "I'm Smudge. What's your name? Wait—" His round amber eyes widened suddenly, nostrils flaring. He leaned closer, ignoring Emberfall's flattened ears. "You smell like... pine needles? And—and thunder? Stars above, are you from ThunderClan?"

Emberfall's heart gave a sharp, painful twitch, as if a claw had pricked it. She stared at the tom, his face blurring for a heartbeat. Memories surged—campfire tales of a flame-colored kittypet who'd scaled the ranks of warriors, whose name still made elders' eyes gleam. The scent of sun-warmed stone and her mother's voice murmuring, "Your kin walked with legends."

"He was my grandfather," she said, the words ash-dry in her throat. Her head dipped, not in submission, but to hide the flicker in her eyes—a mix of pride and a quieter, sharper ache. Fireheart's blood ran in her veins, but so did whispers. Half-clan. Outsider.

Smudge's tail shot straight up, quivering. "Fireheart's kin? Oh, I haven't smelled that ginger pelt in moons! We shared a Twoleg bowl once, you know—back when he was just a scrap called Rusty!" His cheer faltered as he took in Emberfall's rigid posture, her scarred shoulder, the thorn-sharp glint in her gaze. "Er... you're not here to, ah... recruit me, are you?"

Emberfall snorted, though her chest felt tight. "Relax. I'm hunting, not collecting wayward kittypets." She nodded toward the derelict nest, its broken windows gaping like toothless jaws. "Heard rats nest here. You've seen any?"

Smudge puffed out his chest, though his glance toward the shadows under the porch was less than confident. "Rats? Pah! I chased off a whole swarm just yesterday! Nasty, shrieking things—but no match for these claws!" He unsheathed them with a snick, though the tips were blunt, better suited for kneading cushions than battle.

A breeze stirred, carrying the faintest skitter of claws on wood. Emberfall's ears swiveled. She didn't smile—Clan cats didn't waste smiles on kittypets—but her tail-tip flicked once, a ghost of amusement. "Stay behind me, Smudge," she muttered, muscles coiling as she stalked toward the dark maw of the nest. "And try not to jingle."

Smudge's chuckle came out as a high-pitched trill, his plump frame trembling with the effort to stay rooted in place as Emberfall lunged. The rat's screech died abruptly under her claws—a wet, guttural sound that echoed off the nest's mildewed walls. She pinned it with one paw, her bite precise, severing the spine with a crack that made Smudge's tail puff like a dandelion clock. Blood seeped into the dirt, iron-sharp and warm, mingling with the stench of moldering wood.

Emberfall dragged the carcass toward him, its limp body leaving a smeared trail in the dust. Sunlight slanted through the broken roof, glinting off the rat's greasy fur and milky, lifeless eyes. She hooked a claw into its belly, slicing upward with practiced ease. The innards spilled out—glistening coils of intestine, liver like a dark, wet leaf—and the air thickened with the raw musk of offal. "Here," she grunted, nudging the mess toward him with her muzzle. "Have a bite. Fresh kill's better warm."

Smudge recoiled as if she'd offered him a adder, backpedaling until his rump bumped a rusted Twoleg bucket. His nose wrinkled, whiskers quivering in disgust. "Uh, no thanks," he stammered, pupils blown wide. His gaze darted from the rat's gaping cavity to Emberfall's blood-flecked jaws. "I've got, ah... tuna waiting at home. In a can. With... with gravy." He licked his lips, though his tongue flicked nervously, as if trying to scrub the scent from his mouth.

Emberfall stared at him, unblinking. Clan cats didn't waste good meat, but the revulsion rolling off Smudge was almost comical. His pristine paws, his glossy collar, his soft belly—every inch of him screamed Twoleg indulgence. She huffed, a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. "Suit yourself," she muttered, tearing a strip of flesh from the rat's flank. The meat was stringy but rich, and she devoured it with swift, efficient bites.

Smudge watched, tail curled tight around his legs, as a fat bluebottle settled on the rat's exposed liver. "You... you actually enjoy that?" he ventured, voice thin.

Emberfall paused, her green gaze slicing toward him. "Enjoy?" She flicked a drop of blood from her whiskers. "It's food. Not enjoyment. Survival." She nodded at his collar, the bell glinting mockingly. "You'd know that, if you'd ever missed a meal."

The tom opened his mouth—to argue, to defend his cushioned life—but snapped it shut as a distant yowl split the air. Emberfall's ears pricked. ShadowClan scent. Close. She rose, abandoning the carcass, and stalked toward the den's crumbling entrance. "Stay out of the forest, Smudge," she called over her shoulder. "Your tuna won't save you from real predators."

He didn't follow, but his mew trailed after her, half-joking, half-pleading: "Tell Fireheart I said hello!"

She didn't answer. The past was a burr in her pelt, best ignored. Still, as she vanished into the undergrowth, she couldn't help thinking—He'd have liked you, soft as you are.

Emberfall's spine locked mid-step, the tang of pine and swamp-water flooding her nostrils a heartbeat before the ShadowClan patrol emerged from the bracken. Russetstar led them, her russet pelt glowing like embers in the dappled gloom, eyes slit with icy amusement. Behind her loomed Snailtooth—a hulking tom with a twisted jaw that bared yellowed fangs—and Blackfoot, his massive frame scarred like bark, paws silent despite his size. The air thickened with the reek of their musk, sharp as bile.

Emberfall's fur flared, transforming her sleek silhouette into a bristling thornbush. She planted herself squarely on the scent line, where ThunderClan's markers clashed with ShadowClan's acrid stench. "Ah, Russetstar," she drawled, voice taut as a drawn bowstring. "What's rotting in the marshes that you're sniffing up our trees? This is ThunderClan territory."

Russetstar's tail flicked, a lazy, venomous rhythm. She didn't bother feigning respect, her gaze skimming Emberfall as if she were a kit playing warrior. "Yeah, sure," the she-cat snorted, her voice syrup-smooth and laced with mockery. "And I'm here to sun my belly on the Thunderpath. Save the theatrics, firekin. I'm looking for Harestar." Her lip curled, revealing a glint of fang. "Pity. I found you instead."

Snailtooth chuffed a wet laugh, his mangled jaw drooling. Blackfoot said nothing, but his yellow eyes bored into Emberfall's, unblinking. She recognized him—his claws had shredded ThunderClan pelts at the last moon's border skirmish. The scar on her shoulder itched beneath her fur.

Emberfall held her ground, though her claws sank into the loam. "Harestar's den is that way," she growled, jerking her muzzle eastward. "But you're standing on a battle line, not a welcome mat. State your business or slink back to your frog stew."

Russetstar's ears twitched. For a heartbeat, the forest stilled—no birdsong, no rustle of prey. Even the wind died. Then the ShadowClan leader stepped forward, her pelt rippling with muscle coiled like a adder. "Careful, little spark," she purred. "Fireheart's blood won't save you from a misplaced claw."

Emberfall's tail lashed. She could smell the ThunderClan patrol now—Birchwhisker's earthy scent, Pinefrost's sharp tang—approaching at a sprint. But they'd be too late. Her pulse roared in her ears as she leaned in, close enough to taste Russetstar's carrion breath. "Try me," she hissed. "My grandfather scorched your elders' tales. I'll burn your pride."

Blackfoot's growl rumbled, a rockslide warning. Snailtooth crouched, haunches trembling. But Russetstar only laughed, a sound like cracking ice. "Oh, I like you," she said, stepping back, though her gaze promised unfinished business. "Tell Harestar ShadowClan's patience is thinner than a moon-old rabbit. We'll be waiting."

The patrol melted into the undergrowth, their shadows bleeding into the gloom. Emberfall didn't relax until the last whisper of their stench faded. Behind her, Birchwhisker burst into the clearing, fur wild. "Emberfall! What—?"

"Mark the borders deeper," she interrupted, still staring at the spot where Russetstar had stood. Her voice shook, but not from fear. "And tell Harestar to expect... guests."

Somewhere in the pines, a crow shrieked. The hunt was never truly over.