Ghostkit knew he was different than the rest of Thunderclan. Everyone made that evident. The other cats were skittish around him. No one talked to him; they tried their best to avoid him. And when they weren't hiding from him, they whispered to each other, speaking behind his back and sending him wary looks. To the rest of his clan, the young tom was just an outsider. To himself and the few who pitied him, he was just a poor, unfortunate kit.

Why did they hate him? Why did every cat whose gaze he met just cringe in fear at the sight of him? Ghostkit did nothing wrong, he believed. Was it because of his strange face? Was it because he wasn't born a clan cat, but taken in as a young rogue? He didn't know. No one answered his questions. No one gave him any closure as to why he was such a disgrace to his clan.

The worst part was that he had just turned nine moons now, and Nightstar still refused to name him as an apprentice, leaving the apprentice feeling worse than he had before every time the grey leader refused him his apprenticeship. Every time was with a new excuse, ending with him running away from Ghostkit.

So he just crouched at the edge of the clearing, watching as life went on in his clan as they punished him for no reason, hoping someone, anyone, would just come talk to him, to show him the compassion very few have shown him in his young life. But no one came. They left him shivering in the cold of leafbare, let the rain drench his pelt without so much as a look of sympathy, and when he offered to help, he was hurriedly turned down.

Heck, Ghostkit wasn't even allowed near the fresh-kill pile until everyone else had eaten, leaving him to eat the driest and smallest piece of prey. And every time the young black and white tom looked at the meal, he couldn't help but sympathize with it. It too, seemed to be discarded by everyone else. They both suffered the fate of being left behind by the others. Yet he ate it, curled up, and repeated the same process the next day, such was his fate.

And he never fought against it. He just let them treat him like some scraps of moss stuck to their claws. He let them throw him away, to not look back at him. Ghostkit had accepted this way of life long ago, though he never fully realized why until some days in the future.

The black and white tom knew that he had a horrid face; something others thought had come from their nightmares. He was mainly white, with black fur outlining every single bone in his face, making his head look like skull. His eyes were the color of blood, a crimson red with dark black pupils. Ghostkit was so malnourished that his ribs and bones stuck out of his thin layer of fur, his skin bedraggled. He shambled along the edges of camp, looking like death itself.

And one day, while he was heading towards the Nursery, wondering if one of the kits would maybe look past his face to warm up to him, see what kind of a cat he really was, he learned the truth. Their mother, a snow white she-cat with blue eyes, suddenly rounded on him, baring her teeth madly.

"Don't you dare come near my kits!" She shouted at him, taking a swipe at Ghostkit, who was barely able to stumble back and evade it. "You were a mistake to bring into the clan! Stormstar should never have thought that keeping you in sight would keep us safe! You'll be the death of this clan unless you're dealt with properly." She lifted her chin, her blue gaze piercing his red one icily. "My mate will finally end this once and for all, you can be sure of that."

Her words echoed in the tom's ears, horror echoing on his face before she lunged at him. Heart pounding, the skinny tom scrabbled out of her reach, racing from the Nursery with his tail between his legs. Never again did he go into the Thunderclan nursery, and forever avoided Whitestep.

True to his mate's word, Darkstorm appeared later in the night.

Ghostkit, who had been too scared of her words to get a wink of sleep, had thankfully been awake and shivering in the darkness. That was when the dark grey and black tom had arrived, his yellow eyes glowing with the promise of a threat.

Without so much as a word, the Thunderclan deputy launched himself at the quivering kit, snarls and yowls of pain ringing throughout the camp and echoing in the forest. But no one in the clan did anything about it. Most were glad the horrifying kit was finally being dealt with. They only sat in their dens and watched the show as if it were some form of sadistic entertainment.

Their show ended quite soon, though, when a third party came crashing through the camp entrance. And suddenly, Ghostkit was saved from his cruel punishment. Blood dripping from all of his wounds, he looked up to see a large brown tabby tom standing between him and Darkstorm, his teeth bared in a snarl of fury.

"This is what Thunderclan has fallen to?" He asked, contempt thick in his voice. "Everyone knew you were all just cruel, hopeless rogues. But none of us believed you would stoop so low to hurt an innocent kit."

Darkstorm lashed his tail at the tom now protecting Ghostkit. "You don't know what you're dealing with, Falconstar!" He snarled at the tom. This cat is destined to destroy whatever clan it resides in. Starclan told us that! We need to take care of the problem before it rises up and slaughters all of us!"

The attacking tom, Falconstar, didn't seem moved by his words at all. All around, his clan attacked Thunderclan, blood sprayed when claws scored across pelts, yowls of fury rang out, and hostility seemed to ring in the air. And Ghostkit could only hide in the shadows, watching the fight with eyes wide in terror, only the tabby leader bringing him back to the conversation.

"If that is so, then I should hope that he destroys this clan for good." Falconstar said, his voice seething. "Thunderclan doesn't deserve to prosper if it takes in cats only to treat them how you did." Without another word, or so much as a glance at Darkstorm, he spun around, instantly enveloping the cowering body with his amber gaze. Yet, unlike the cold and aloofness others gave him, it was filled with… warmth and pity?

Suddenly, he had picked Ghostkit up by his scruff, gently carrying him towards the now destroyed entrance. "Shadowclan, let's go!" He yowled out to his invading clan around the bundle of fur in his maws. Suddenly, the battle broke apart, cats fleeing from the fight and leaving Thunderclan weakened and defeated, carrying the kit with them.

In Shadowclan, he grew up, leading a better life than his previous one. He became an apprentice, then a warrior under the care of Falconstar, his mate, and their two kits who had become his best friends. And when he finally earned his name of Ghostwalker, he finally got his revenge against Thunderclan, fulfilling the prophecy that had caused him so much pain.

He all but destroyed it, leaving few cats alive when he killed most of them single-handedly. In a fight to the death against Darkstorm, one of the few survivors of his rage, his stomach was ripped open. In his last dying breath, he slashed across the deputy's face, forever leaving a scar there. Then, he died, leaving the black and grey tom to grieve for his dead family and clan.