I raised my paw over her weak body, claws glinting in the moonlight. I yowled, a victory cry as I brought my claws down on her undefended neck. It didn't matter who found me now, in the rush of our battle I did not care for the consequences. The only thing that mattered was the cowering mess of blood and fur below my dark form. She had to be killed.

I'm hunched in the back of the nursery as a tiny kit, only a few moons old. Our mother, a large snow-white she-cat, sits by the entrance and sitting next to her is my sister, a perfect, tiny copy. I feel the envy as she basks in the glow of our mother's attention, the cold hatred of being cast out of the nest, the disappointment glaring from the nursery as she was toured around the camp.

I'm cleaning my fur in a corner of the camp as an apprentice. She sits with the other apprentices, blending in, but standing out. I feel the hatred as she patrols with the leader as I clean out the elder's den, the jealousy as she sits with the tom I like, the resentment as she is chosen to battle while I stay to help the medicine cat.

I'm standing in front of the leader as a warrior. She sits proudly to the side as the clan cheers her name. I feel the spite as she is chosen on all the patrols, the envy as the walks with the tom I love, tails entwined, the pain as she refuses to help me in battle.

I'm watching the camp from the warriors den. She is in conversation with the leader. I feel the broken hope as she has kits with the one I love, the disappointment as she takes on an apprentice, the coldness as I turn my heart away.

I'm running through the forest, trying to forget. She is standing before the leader, a smug expression on her face. I feel the anger as she is appointed deputy, the hatred as the clan cheers her name, the hurt as I am turned down for gatherings and patrols.

I'm fighting. She is running through the cats, yowling orders. I feel the rush of the battle, the confusion as I am framed for killing my mother, the resentment as I am renamed and exiled.

I'm watching the camp as an exile, planning my attack. She is standing before her clan with the leader. I feel the loneliness as no-one misses me, the pain as my father disowns me, the excitement as my plan falls together.

I'm standing above her, about to deliver the death blow as Shadowheart. I feel the joy as the life drains out of her, the glee as the clan chases me and the bliss as I launch myself into the gorge.

My first story. I might turn it into a longer one. Constructive criticism welcome