PROLOGUE
The big black tom stared up at the night sky. StarClan seemed so far away, if it even existed. He was beginning to doubt the existance of StarClan. It had been so long since he had seen proof of StarClan.
His pale green eyes were the same colour as the eyes of his illustrious ancestor, Sandstorm. His black pelt was the colour of midnight. His paws were the colour of fresh snow.
The tom shook his head furiously, and took a step forward, the snow crunching under his paws. A lovely tortoiseshell she-cat poked her head out of a crack in the stone wall behind the tom.
"Whitefoot? Whitefoot, is that you?" she called in a lowered voice.
Whitefoot turned. "Elmheart, my love! Shouldn't you be resting?" He plowed through the snow to the she-cat and rubbed his head against her cheek.
Elmheart purred. "I'm fine, you fretful old badger! Don't worry. I've been resting all day. Our kits will be fine."
Whitefoot licked her ear. "It's just…well, there's been all these recent setbacks. Half of the kits born in greenleaf have died of greencough, and a third of the rest have whitecough. Rushstar is very sick, two quarters of the warriors are sick, and all of the apprentices have colds."
Elmheart gave her mate a sympathetic glance. "I know, I know. You've got a lot on your mind right now. And you're right, this is the worst leaf-bare in seasons."
Whitefoot peered at her closely. "What's happened? Something's happened."
Elmheart rested her head on Whitefoot's chest. "Grasscloud just died."