Prologue

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The moon overhead is simply a sliver of a claw whose silver and gray light radiates intensely against the purple-and-black night sky, dotted with specks of distant gleaming stars. Few clouds drift against it as a light wind brushes the moors, swaying their grasses in a slow, rippling dance representing that of the waves on the dark lake where the hills take a gentle incline to the sandy banks on the outskirts of WindClan territory. The air is cold and dry, however welcoming, and coats the moors in a dark blue-gray velvety blanket. Its tall grass shakes calmly as the moon reaches its peak in the very center of the swirling night sky that can only be described with one word: entrancing.

The entire world seems to have gone dead many years ago as all life rests peacefully under the solid earth, though the few and distant frogs rejoice quietly all night. Their cries break the silence eerily as they call out near RiverClan camp where the water laps at the banks calmly.

There is the slightest dip in the grassy, lush moors dotted with rocks as the midnight sky is dotted with stars where a rock juts out of a gentle hill and shallow abandoned badger nests rest. It seems abandoned, too, despite the dark lumps representing sleeping stones gather in small clusters around the camp and inside of the dens and bushes.

The pale figure of a cat with fur like a willow's leaves dangling freely in the wind and a long, flowing tail of a stream, quietly creeps out of a den lined with shrubs with bits of a gorse bush hanging down over it. The den smells like mint, it smells cold, it smells like nature, though the atmosphere inside of it is calming and warm, seeming to light itself up. The entire Clan is barren except for her.

Her eyes gleam for a moment, revealing their color of tansies and the dry grass of summertime, though only for half of a heartbeat. Without wasting another second, she crawls out and lets the breeze flush over her like a stream sifting through her long silver tabby fur, raising her eyes towards the night sky.

Her eyes hold worry, no doubt, but are hard, and her jaw is locked seriously. She lets her claws loose into the grass and pads over to the crevice in the earth behind the scraggly rock, peering in carefully. Even during the sunniest day, the inside of the den seems to be pitch-black.

Inside, there is a tabby, whose dark fur is barely able to be distinguished against the earth and dangling roots behind him, which is significantly darkened as the night sheds its blackness across the land. Its flanks heave in shallow, but strong, breaths, as it lays there silently. The cat examines him for a moment.

"Deerstar," the molly murmurs carefully, taking a cautious step forward as if he was a hungry badger who wouldn't be as happy if he was awakened. There is nothing- not a peep, no other unnecessary movements. She rolls her eyes in an exaggerated manner before leaning slowly downwards until her neck fur almost brushes his spine, placing a paw on his side. "Deerstar," she repeats, a tad louder, and impatiently waits his response with a flicking tail.

Finally, finally, he murmurs something in response, prompting the silver molly to plop down at the edge of his den, the camp leading out to the moors stretching out behind her. She licks her paw quiety and fixes her gaze on Deerstar expectantly, her gaze urgent though gentle. A sharp draft which disrupts the stillness of night and rattles every bush on WindClan territory cuts into the den, ruffling the molly's fur subtly as she internally retaliates from the sudden burst of cold.

"What do you need, Willowtail?" The tomcat's voice is rough from age, having been born long before the medicine cat. His brown muzzle is flecked with gray as he heaves his head upwards, staring at her through dull, yellow eyes. He doesn't bother turning around, instead craning his neck over his shoulder as the rest of his body faces away from the medicine cat.

Willowtail stares to the side for a moment before jerking her head upwards, signaling towards the open camp. "If you wouldn't mind, follow me," she meows, annoyance hinting in her tone as she stands up. Willowtail flicks a few miniscule pieces of dirt and root from her long pelt which she cares for dearly, her gaze burning into his fur. Awaiting a response, she nibbles between her paw pads attentively, ears perked.

After a few moments which the molly thinks too long, the leader lets out a groan and mutters some swears under his breath, long white whiskers twitching. As a young warrior, Deerstar had been known to be quite vulgar and unagreeable, though dangerous in battle, which most cats still suspect to be the cause for his leadership after knowing all too well that WindClan is always perceived as weak. Of course, they would have to prove the other Clans wrong. The cat drags himself upwards as if he were a puppet controlled by too few strings and stares at her with annoyance narrowing his dull eyes. He, too, flicks a few bits of soil from his tabby fur, coarse and short. "Shall we get going, then?" He asks her as Deerstar straightens himself up a bit.

Willowtail grins gently and nods, lifting herself up from sitting and, holding her tail high, turning around to stare out at the camp. It is oddly barren, for the medicine cat, similar to all other cats, wasn't out at night too much. It seems lifeless and uneasiness wiggles through her fur for a moment as she constantly tries to shove it to the corner of her mind.

She finally trudges out of the dark den, the slightly larger figure of Deerstar following her a few mouse-lengths behind, drowsiness trying to hold down his paws like sticky tar. She lets the night breeze ruffle her fur once again, feeling an odd emptiness surrounding her. For a moment, she finds herself staring at the fresh kill pile longingly where a lifeless rabbit is draped across the gap between two stones, realizing that she hasn't eaten since sunhigh at most; she frowns before fixating her attention on something else. Willowtail looks over her shoulder to make sure the old leader hadn't collapsed and continues on, her trudge starting to grow brisk. For a moment, annoyance sparks in her tail- why can't he just walk next to me? He's acting like a kit, over exaggerating like this.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the brown-and-white lump of Fallenleaf in the elder's den, sleeping soundly as she always does. Her offspring, Starlingflight and Blackwing, are sleeping not too far off from her mother, laying in a small patch of grass where sprigs of taller grass shoot up. They don't do much to conceal them from the hollow cold, however, since most warriors are forced to sleep outside, most of the younger ones must choose a more difficult sleeping space. There are others, too, such as Larkflight sleeping on the other side of the Tallrock, her brown fur looking more gray in the darkness. Willowtail can barely make out the two mates, Doeheart and Heathertuft, whose bodies were intertwine with each other. For a heartbeat, she remembers being apprentices with Doeheart- Doepaw at the time- fussing over what she hoped would be her future mate. Doepaw had been convinced that the molly that she had a crush on since Dawntail, a warrior slightly older than her, had graduated from her apprenticeship, wasn't interested. A pang of nostalgia pricks at her heart. Well, look at where you are now.

Realizing her mental tangent, Willowtail nods towards the exit of the camp and Deerstar flicks his thin tail in acknowledgement before they finally head onto the grassy moors that stretch for what seems like miles, though a river eventually cuts through the territory and the mighty oaks of ThunderClan territory burst up through the ground on the other side. She shivers, though her movements subtle to any other cat. Willowtail feels the grass crumple beneath her pawpaws, slick with dew and frost that gently warns the cats of the upcoming Leafbare; it wasn't even Leaf-Fall yet, but nature seems to find its own way of trying to prepare the cats for what they assume would be an unrelenting winter. The scent of greenleaf reaches her nose, bringing on a bit of melancholy from when Willowtail was a warrior apprentice.

She stops for a second and cranes her neck upwards in hopes of assuring that the pair is going the right direction, then scans her surroundings. Dead thistles hide behind lush sedge and a small copse of around three oak trees is present in the distance, beckoning over Willowtail with the offer of reaching their destination. The closer they would pad towards the copse, the closer they'd get to the perch near the ThunderClan border river, which Willowtail finds annoying, but brushes off. It isn't as calm as the lake and clatters sharply against the rocks. However, most cats view it differently- they usually say that it sounds like the stream is singing.

She huffs and pads up a hill, staring down at Deerstar. There is a sharp incline from where they stand that leads to flat land for around a treelength, reaching its lowest point where a small rock juts out from the earth.

She motions towards the stone and Deerstar nods, staring down the drop, which wasn't much larger than a short fall. However, the fall does shock your legs for a moment; the feeling quickly subsides and you keep on living life. Willowtail leaps down skillfully and stares up at Deerstar, who follows without grace. The distance they have to jump is around as tall as a taller-than-usual gorse bush.

Without skipping a heartbeat, Willowtail continues walking with Deerstar at her side. Silence radiates between the two and the uncomfortableness sets itself deep into Willowtail's bones. Why would I even want to talk with him, anyway? He's an ancient cat with bees in his brain. She finds herself at the base of the rock.

The silver tabby slips up as quickly as a stream would find its way down rumbling stones and looks back towards Deerstar, who approaches at her side.

The moon stares down at them with cold light as the stars make way for it, devoid of any other pricks of light in the sky. It sits there alone as Deerstar and Willowtail do. They're alone. Alone, alone, alone, and the night's hollow air can't help but emphasize it as the breeze suddenly drops and the spiky gorse bushes sprouting out near the rock stop swaying.

Silence claws at Willowtail's fur. Think of something. "Deerstar, I brought you here because I had a vision."

The leader perks up in interest, his eyes rounding slightly as his tabby fur seems to illuminate under the moon's cutting blue light. "Please," he meows in interest, "go on."

Willowtail swallows and nods, unsure of how to describe it. "StarClan warned me of a flock of crows," she informs him simply. So simply that she shuffles and licks her soft chest fur, realigning her position. "It wasn't that significant, but I could see it. I woke up in the moors, near the river, where sand lightly coats the pebbles. It's near the ThunderClan border- you probably know that already. There were claw marks on the ground and blood stains. That's when I looked up and saw a flock of crows," Willowtail clarifies, trailing off slightly.

Deerstar grumbles something like "Damn StarClan, always sending us unwanted battles and prophecies. Spare us a few moments of calm, will you?" and looks at her and dips his head solemnly. "I see; there must be a battle coming soon. Hopefully not too soon- luckily, Mistcloud is going to have Moorpelt's kits soon enough."

Willowtail nods quietly as silence splits through the air like a pair of sharp claws. The only sounds to be heard are the singing river in the far distance and the breeze slightly picking up again, chilling her to the bones, as if she had been dipped in freezing water. Water as cold as when the lake freezes over and you plunge in suddenly. A quiet bout of chaos stemming from Willowtail.

She exhales a cloud of mist out in front of her, ears pricking at Deerstar's meow. Willowtail fixes her attention on the tabby.

"What's so significant about the crows, Willowtail?" he asks, his eyes staring absently out onto the rolling moors.

Willowtail scoffs and licks her shoulder. "Do you know what a flock of crows is called?"

Deerstar blinks. "No."

"It's called a murder."

Sounds cliche, right? Really cliche, to be honest, but trust me, this won't be what you expect.