Hello, all. Welcome to this fanfic!

This is set in the time period between Into The Wild and Fire And Ice. Remember when Whitestorm promised ShadowClan one moon of peace to recover from Brokenstar's tyrannical rule? Well, this tells the story of that moon.

The fic will not be super long; I don't know how long exactly, but likely less than twenty-five chapters, at the outset. The chapters will probably switch up POVs, to really show the entire Clan working to grow strong again.

Feedback in a review is very much adored. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Warriors, nor any of the characters that were in the books themselves.

Eyes shone dully in the shadows, staring out at the commotion in the clearing. A rank smell of illness and crow-food rose from the corners of the den, catching in the matted clots of filthy fur on each tattered pelt.

The cats watched the action in the clearing as if in a haze. They didn't stir or react as the well-fed ThunderClan cats drove out the treacherous leader and his followers. They didn't even twitch as the cats took their stolen kits out of the small pit in the ground.

It was only when a large white ThunderClan tom announced that the Clan had one moon to recover from their broken state that the cats finally moved.

When the ThunderClan patrol left, the ragged, gaunt cats finally slunk out of the bushes and stumbled into the clearing.

There they stood, looking around at the shattered remnants of what was once a proud and strong Clan called ShadowClan.

They were still ShadowClan, but now they weren't strong. Their pride was worn away. Now, they were tired, sick cats with one moon to pull themselves together.

One moon to show that they could, and would, survive.

Finally, a thin black cat shattered the fragile silence.

"Well, ShadowClan," he rasped. "Let's get to work."

Half of the cats collapsed where they stood suddenly, the last of their feeble strength vanishing like mist under a hot sun.

The old black cat soon spoke again.

"Is this what we have become?" he growled. "Look at this! We once prided ourselves on our strength, our stealth. Our pride and faith held us together. Now what are we? A frail group of starving cats who haven't got enough strength to stand up?"

The cats stirred, a few indignant mews sounding through the crowd.

The black cat continued. "We are better than this! We can pull through! I can promise you this by StarClan; by the end of one moon, we will be a fearsome, strong Clan again, three times the Clan we ever were!"

Nightpelt's voice rose, until he was yowling to the stars. "We are ShadowClan!"

Many yowls joined his this time, as the suffering cats of ShadowClan suddenly found an inner strength they hadn't known they possessed; one borne out of the will to survive.

Nightpelt surveyed the cheering cats with pleasure. Now, there was the Clan spirit, there was the resolve to improve, to survive, to pull together and actually live.

These were the cats he could bring out of the shadows.

Nightpelt sat in the center of camp with the Clan gathered around him. The encouraging cheers had died down; now they had become a fragile group of sickly cats again.

He looked at them quietly, taking in their condition, and the condition of the camp. To say the least, they were a mess.

Each cat was starving, their bones easily visible through their skin. Their ragged, flea-bitten, mangy pelts hung loosely off their thin frames. The stench of sickness emanated from them in clouds. Queens held their surviving kits close to them, as if to keep them alive, afraid that they might go to StarClan like their littermates had. There were no elders in the camp except for the ones that had aided the ThunderClan patrol in driving out their old leader. The rest were still scattered in the territory, barely fending for themselves.

The camp was in just as bad a shape as the cats were.

Remnants of crowfood were littered about the clearing. Blood and tufts of fur remained from the earlier fight. The dens were on the verge of collapse, dirty moss spilling out from the entrances. The barrier of thick bushes protecting the camp had already broken down, exposing the camp even more to the dangers of leaf-bare outside.

Most of all, the cats needed a leader to bring them together again-one who wouldn't destroy ShadowClan like Brokenstar had.

A thin gray tom broke the silence. "We need a leader," he rasped.

Nightpelt nodded shortly. "Who, Cinderfur?"

Cinderfur looked at the Clan. A mutual understanding seemed to pass between the old gray tom and the other cats.

Cinderfur turned back to Nightpelt. "You, Nightpelt. You are the one we have chosen for our leader."

Weak murmurs of assent spread through the Clan like ripples on a still pond.

Nightpelt's eyes glittered proudly. "Then I will go to the Moonstone soon to claim my nine lives. I swear to you by StarClan that I will lead ShadowClan to salvation." His voice rose, swelling with conviction and emotion. "Never again will we be weak; we will be a strong, feared Clan once again."

He stood up abruptly, wincing at the creaking of his joints. "Now, let's get moving, ShadowClan; we have a tough moon ahead of us."

Runningnose sat outside his herb store. Scraps of fur and moss and rotten leaves lay scattered in the small clearing where he had his den. The cave where he kept all his herbs was empty, the stocks having been depleted by the illnesses and wounds that had ravaged the Clan.

But he wasn't concerned with that now. Not at that moment, anyway.

He was more concerned with finding a sign that Nightpelt's leadership was destined to prosper.

Runningnose let his eyes drift around the exposed forest, clearly visible through the wreckage of the camp barrier. He shivered as the cold leaf-bare wind blew through the trees, shifting the shadows of the trees across the forest floor. The shadows blurred softly, seeming to blend in with the night.

"Good," Runningnose thought, feeling strangely encouraged. "That's very good for the Clan."

But his unusually high spirits from the good omen plummeted suddenly as the wind changed direction, blowing a rotten horsetail leaf across the medicine den to land at his paws.

"Rotten leaf…of horsetail. Horsetail stops infection…"

Runningnose stared at the leaf in horror.

"Oh, no."

He got up and stumbled blindly into the clearing, a desperate need to warn Nightpelt filling his mind, tangling with other frantic thoughts.

"Must warn…need herbs…rotten horsetail…danger…"

But through the morass of panic filling his mind, Runningnose had a single clear thought-a dire one that predicted doom for ShadowClan.

"Infection. Infection is coming to the Clan, and there is nothing we can do about it."

I hope you enjoyed that and were hooked by the ending, enough to follow the story or give me a quick review. :)

I'd love to hear your thoughts about my writing or ideas.