Emberfall's POV

The camp buzzed like a disturbed hornet's nest, warriors clustering in hushed knots, their glances slicing toward the medicine den where Harestar lay. I found Oak'song near the apprentices' hollow, his dark tabby fur stark against the sunset-stained rocks. He was methodically shredding a stick with his claws, the splinters flying like tiny arrows.

"Father," I began, my tail lashing. The word still felt strange on my tongue—too soft for the battle-scarred tom who'd raised me between patrols and prophecies. "Why is Grandma—why is Harestar—receiving such hate? She's bled for this clan more than any of them!"

Oak'song's claws stilled. For a heartbeat, I saw it—the flicker in his amber eyes, the same molten hue as mine. Then his fur bristled, transforming him into a shadow edged with thorns. "How would I know?" he said coolly, refusing to meet my gaze. His voice was a riverstone, smooth and unyielding. "Leaders make choices. Cats question them. That's the way of things."

I stepped closer, the scent of his anger sharp as snapped pine. "Since when do you shrug like a kittypet? She's your mother."

The stick snapped in his jaws. He spat out the fragments, rising to his full height, his muzzle inches from mine. "And I'm her deputy," he hissed, the title brittle. "Or did you forget? My loyalty is to ThunderClan, not... blood."

The word hung between us, a thorned vine. Blood—my blood, legacy of Fireheart and Harestar, of whispered lineage that made elders nudge kits and say, "Watch her. She'll burn bright or burn out."

Oak'song turned away, his broad shoulders blocking the dying sun. "Stay out of it, Emberfall. This isn't your fight."

"Isn't it?" I challenged, my claws pricking the earth. "They're calling her traitor. They'll turn on us next—on you—if we don't defend her!"

He whirled, his composure cracking. "Defend her with what? Stories of rogues she won't explain? Meetings she sneaks off to?" His voice dropped, raw as a fresh wound. "You think I don't see? She trusts RiverClan's leader more than her own kin."

The accusation struck like a viper's bite. I faltered, my certainty wavering. Beyond us, the clan's murmurs swelled—Brambleclaw's growl, Cinderwhisker's soothing tones, the restless shuffle of paws.

"Then ask her," I pressed, desperation fraying my words. "Make her tell you—"

"I have!" Oak'song's roar silenced the nearest patrol. He loomed over me, his breath hot, but his eyes... StarClan, his eyes were haunted. "She says nothing. Nothing. And every shadow that creeps closer, every kit that flinches at the dark, is a claw in her silence."

He shoved past me, his pelt brushing mine—a fleeting touch that chilled more than comforted. "Choose your battles, Emberfall," he muttered. "Or they'll bury you with her."

I stood rooted, the camp's chaos swirling around me. Somewhere, a kit squealed, jolted from a nightmare. A elder muttered, "Fireheart's line... always trouble."

But Fireheart's line was mine. And Harestar's. And Oak'song's, whether he admitted it or not.

I glanced at the medicine den, where Cinderwhisker's silhouette moved behind the fern screen. Harestar's scent lingered there, faint beneath the pungent herbs.

Fine. If Father won't act...

I'd find the truth myself.

SCENEBREAK

The leader's den was a cocoon of shadows and secrets, its moss-draped walls muffling the clan's restless murmurs outside. I paused at the entrance, my nose twitching at the scent of dried herbs and aged oak—Harestar's scent, layered with something sharper, wilder. Fear?

She sat nestled in her bracken bed, her silver-striped pelt dulled by fatigue, while Whitestorm—mountain-sized and ever-steady—groomed her ruffled shoulder. His snowy fur glowed in the dim light, a beacon of loyalty in the gathering storm. Their shared rhythm faltered as I stepped inside, the fern fronds brushing my flank like hesitant whispers.

"Grandma," I called, the word softer than I'd intended.

Harestar's ears swiveled toward me, the fire in her amber eyes dim but unbroken. "Yes, darling?" Her voice was a rasp, worn thin by lies and leadership.

I sank onto the moss, the chill of the stone floor seeping into my paws. "Why is everyone turning their back on you?" The question tumbled out, raw and jagged. "You were just out to see Leopardstar. To protect us. I don't... understand."

Whitestorm's massive head lifted, his gaze locking with Harestar's. A silent conversation passed between them—decades of trust distilled into a glance. Then he rose, his movements deliberate, and brushed past me. His warmth lingered in the air as he murmured, "I'll leave you two to talk," before vanishing into the brittle sunlight beyond the den.

Alone, Harestar sighed, her breath stirring the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. "Sit closer, Emberfall."

I obeyed, settling beside her. Her scent enveloped me—thunderstorms and thyme, the same as when I was a kit hiding in her nest during storms. But now, beneath it, lurked the tang of RiverClan's marshes and the metallic bite of blood.

"You've seen the rogues' marks," she began, her voice low. "The clawed trees, the stolen prey. They're not scavengers. They're an army, led by a brute called Ravenscar. And he's coming for all of us."

I stiffened. "Then why not tell the clan? Let them prepare—"

"Because fear breeds recklessness!" Her claws dug into the moss, shredding it. "If the clans panic, they'll fracture. Attack each other. And Ravenscar will pick our bones clean." She turned to me, her eyes glinting with a ferocity that mirrored my father's. "Leopardstar and I... we've been tracking them. Planning. But ShadowClan's spies are everywhere. If Russetstar sniffs out the truth, she'll use it as fuel for war."

The den seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in. "So you let them call you traitor?" My voice cracked. "Let Brambleclaw shame you? Let Father doubt you?"

Her laugh was bitter. "Better their scorn than their corpses." She leaned in, her muzzle grazing my ear. "You carry Fireheart's fire, little spark. But fire unchecked destroys what it seeks to save."

Outside, a gust of wind rattled the ferns, carrying the distant yowl of a patrol. Harestar's gaze drifted to the clan clearing, where Oak'song stood rigid, his back to the den.

"Will you trust me?" she asked, so quietly I felt it more than heard it.

The question hung between us, a thread stretched taut.

I swallowed. "Yes."

But as I left the den, Whitestorm's warning glance trailing me, I wondered—

For how long?