> Silverpaw

Stagstar could do all that he wished, but it still would not make Eaglefang his mentor—or anyone, for that matter. Not Vulturefall or Graygaze—even his own mother could not have reined him in. For as a ‘paw he knew new freedoms and could walk the forest without being troubled. He could poke around at the roots of trees for leaves and other such simples, stalk trails beaten in by the hooves of deer and other forest creatures. He could walk the borders and never worry about being caught, climb trees and perch upon their branches, and never fear being called down. He could stalk rogue lands and be untroubled, gaze out over the cliff’s edge and see the lake and how far it spread, and there was no creature at all that could have stopped him.

The world was his—wholly and completely, and he had no intention of surrendering it for a day full of repetitious sparring. Alone he made his own lessons, which were great and varied, so he never grew bored of them. The same he could not say for his mentor, who droned on tediously and did not care for aught that he said.

Better, then, that he never troubled him at all, thought Silverpaw, who did not much care for being ignored. And so he had wandered off alone again to see what the frost would do to the leaves and climb trees to gaze out at the fields and watch the patrols pass under him (for they rarely looked up, and he was rarely ever spotted).

So he filled his head with the tasks for the day, striding amid the press of pine trees, his whiskers twitching and tail lofted on high, his chin canted and eyes squinted in that contented way, thinking little of the camp or the war or the whispers of it and how it had ended. Not even thinking of his father, who had perished in it and been buried. He thought only of the things he might see and learn and found peace in that great abundance of things as he bent his limbs and sniffed the earth.

But then a noise goaded him to stillness. A sound of snapping underbrush and the trample of paws in hot pursuit—and coming toward him.

He straightened and stared and did not deign to move. His eyes fell on the distant trembling and watched as it drew closer, a fitful rustling that lessened until a tiny mouse sprang out from the undergrowth toward him.

Instinctively his paw shot out to catch it, landing on the trail of its tail as it darted past and fixing it to the earth where its tiny feet scrabbled at the ground, yearning to be set free. He watched it for a time until the rustling mounted, and out from the brush came a familiar face. Black furs broken by sections of white. Round eyes swathed in gentle green hues. Kitepaw.

His eyes drank in the sight of her in silence before he turned, snatched the mouse toward him, and made quick work of its nape until its scrabbling stilled and the iron tang of its blood rang sweet on his tongue. He gazed at her from where he hunched over it. His tail moved slowly over the ground. “…a long way from camp, Kitekite…” and he blinked, smiling softly. “But they call you Kitepaw now, don’t they? Spruceshade's sending you hunting alone already?”