"Nightpaw- you will be sparring Goldpaw."
Nightpaw blinked in surprise, and then dismissive disdain. Not too worrying, just fighting a weak little new apprentice, she'd win easily—but then the cream and gold she cat padded forth, her burly frame moving smoothly and her eyes determined.
Suddenly unsure of winning, Nightpaw blinked. Then her confidence rushed back. She was a trained fighter—this was a soft kit, trained on what, moss balls and her mother's tail?
Nightpaw snorted, and dropped into the customary crouch, her tail lashing.
"Tail still, Nightpaw," her mentor reminded her softly.
She held it still.
Goldpaw hesitated, looking at her hard. Then she leaped at her.
Nightpaw intercepted her launch, rolling under her, her sheathed paw raking up. She was tempted to 'accidently' let her claws slip, but she decided against it.
Goldpaw thumped to the ground with a thump.
"That was no fair!" she whimpered.
Nightpaw narrowed her eyes and scoffed. "Of course it was fair—do you think your opponent will apologize because you missed his stroke?"
Goldpaw's eyes looked hurt. She looked away.
"Try again, Goldpaw," urged Airwhisker. "No one expects you to get it exactly right on the first try."
Damn well they don't, Nightpaw thought sneeringly.
Later, she was full of pride: her warrior name. It was done in a ceremony before sundown.
Her name was alright: Nightfire, nothing soft, it could even strike fear into a heart.
Floodpaw pulled her aside, his eyes proud. "Good job, Nightfire." He twined his tail with hers.
"Thank you." She was surprised by this younger tom. His eyes were the colour of a green-leaf river, his pelt silver as stars. That was their beginning.
Things were uphill after that—she found her days filled with Floodpaw, then his name Floodpelt. But Goldpaw—Goldleaf—lingered darkly in the corner, corner of her mind, corner of her eye, and she was sure in the corner of Floodpelt's heart.
She strayed at the river's edge one day, confused and lonely. The trees whispered beyond her.
That was how she met Sparktail. He was the colour of the last, flickering spark thrown into the night sky. It was love at first sight—for him.
She could fool herself into thinking she loved him, but she knew she did not; and this was how her downward plummeting spiral into the pits of bitterness, resent, hatred, and sweet revenge.
Her dreams were fragmented whirls of anger and vengeance after she fled RiverClan. When the war came, she could only think: Go and avenge your wrong.
The only twinge that pricked her conscious was her young kitten. Crying out for her. Wailing.
"Mother, where are you going? Will you be back soon?"
"Yes," she murmured. "I will be back."
And when the life was torn from her body by his teeth—she did not fight back. How could she?
She glimpsed for a moment the bloody form of Goldleaf lying, dead, cat-lengths away. Her head throbbed with—what? Remorse, regret, and sorrow for a split-second. Then it cleared to reveal cold purpose.
"I'll be back," Were her last words. And the cold, sweet taste of revenge was the last thing she felt before passing on.
