Evening fell upon the Rock Where All Wounds Heal, casting the tiny isle in a navy hue. Perched upon the only slab of dry land, Hemlock studied one of the recently appointed guards, a fellow prey-hunter, Streak, who had swam over to watch them after the night of the flood and the waters receded enough for safe passage. She sat a bit further away, staring out at the mainland in silence. Would she tell him more about his son? If they were truly alive? If they were okay? He found he could not trust what Laurel told him. Not after that night.

    Hemlock tilted his head, considering the thought. It was hard to say. So far, all of the guards refused to speak to him, which he couldn't exactly blame them for. Surely Sumac was threatening them, or worse, they believed whatever lies he was spreading about him — or worse yet, they supported him and believed he and everyone else here deserved to be punished. Hemlock was a murderous traitor after all. His stare hardened.

    Maybe he was a murderous traitor, but Sumac did it first.

    Six moons Streak's senior, their training together as to-bes carried little overlap. By the time she went through her to-be ceremony, Hemlock was already training under Cloud. But in the moons following, they spent many days together on the moors as fledglings and hunters. They trusted one another as tribe-mates and relied on each other to help bring down prey. She was a great huntress, known for catching birds of prey, as if tearing them straight from the sky itself.

    They once spoke about the best hawk wrangling strategies after he missed grabbing one on a hunt. He made her laugh, doing what? He couldn't remember, probably doing something foolish. But there was a comfortability there, a camaraderie he missed. Perhaps he may have even once called her a friend, back when Fog was alive and in charge, and the sun showered him with warmth. But as Sumac rose to power, she started agreeing with him, like the other prey-hunters, and they spent less and less time together as the tribe split apart.

    Hemlock's family was constantly under scrutiny and he devoted less time to fulfilling his duties as a tribe-mate. River and Fog were his top priorities, and they were dead. The only thing that kept him alive was his kits and the vow he made to his mother, back during the night of the flood.

    And so far, Streak was his best bet.

    Maybe the she-cat who once laughed at his jokes was still in there? Hemlock pushed himself to his paws and padded slowly to approach her. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. The other guard was on the opposite end of the isle, seemingly distracted by an approaching mallard. He swallowed and neared closer, so they were only a mere fox-length away. "Streak," he hissed. Her ear flicked. "Streak," he hissed again, a bit louder. "Please, don't ignore me," he whispered. "I—I just want to know if they're okay."