"She's dead." Cliffshade murmurs, as the hunting patrol returns, later that afternoon.

I stare at the body in pure horror. This isn't Swanmist, the sweet white she-cat. This cat is stained with blood, mouth open in a horrible scream. In her throat were long gashes.

" Cat claws," snarled Miststar, "these are made from cat claws. She was killed. Killed by one of her very own."