My brother doused a flame.

Lynxspots was a good cat. He spent the majority of his time at camp with Losttrail, the old demented elder who'd lapsed into delirium and talked of strange things. He entertained the apprentices, threw moss-balls around for them, became the mouse for their hunter. He looked after kits when their mother was busy and needed someone trustworthy to consign her kits to good care. He'd willingly lay his head on the block for ThunderClan, and for the eternity of his life he'd fought for it tooth and claw.

My brother doused a flame.

When he first heard the words from Losttrail, he wasn't sure what to think. He stayed silent on the matter and decided, at the end, to keep it that way. Theirs was not an age that wanted heroes. Theirs was an age in which walking the path of conformity was a rule, and anyone who tried to shine, who dared stand above the crowd, was quickly dragged back down into the shadows.

But one night, as per his usual norm, Lynxspots laid in his nest and wondered what it meant to be a hero. He pondered on the thought for a long time. The next day, he woke up from a dream where he acted as a hero.

My brother doused a flame.

There was no denying it. Hollowheart was Losttrail's stepbrother, and dousing a flame could only mean one thing. Lynxspots wasn't sure how Losttrail knew, and he wasn't sure how Flamestar's supposed murderers, the rogues, fit into the frame, but wasn't Hollowheart a rogue once? What if they'd all been in it together?

So he asked Hollowheart in a very indirect and oblique sort of way. Hollowheart's response was, needless to say, strange. He had been against the idea of head-on confrontation with the rogues to an excessive degree, and that only further reinforced his doubts of where Hollowheart's loyalties lay.

At first, Lynxspots tried to play it subtle. When he saw Hollowheart and Stormpaw talking together (something about corpse disposal, it seemed) at a Gathering, he pulled Hollowheart away with the excuse of introducing him to other cats. Who knew what Hollowheart was capable of doing, even to his own son?

But Lynxspots realized that he couldn't play subtle for long. If others fell victim for his quietude, he knew he would never forgive himself. If others were done a disservice for his silence, he knew his long-serving streak of charity and magnanimity would be gone in a heartbeat.

The peace offering did not offer peace but death.

Hollowheart, for some reason, knew what was up. Lynxspots watched him feign ingestion and thought,

Maybe Stormpaw was right. Maybe I should have offered a dove in the crow's stead.

Lynxspots had no alternative but to handle things with his own paws.

Hollowheart, surprisingly, did not resist.

That was what bothered Lynxspots the most, but what did it matter? It was a timeless call, to step out from the herd, the collectivists, the mediocre, the lies of the world, and bring something else to it. The problem was while cats looked up to others to be their heroes, they are taught that it is someone else's job and they should not get involved. So when they don't and the world is crumbling, they wonder why.

As Lynxspots turned away from the dirtplace, he heard his own footsteps on the ground, steps steady, confident, almost defiant. It was a sound that would otherwise be grating but was now a melody. There seemed to be a lion's spirit in him, fierce and devastating, and the wisps of cold breath coming from his lips lent to the image. And in a way, he was a lion. He'd served justice to the world, to his once-mentor and leader. He'd done something special, built the bane of a fulfilling life. When fighting off Stormpaw's perpetrators and giving him prep talks, tending to the elders and nursing the kits, entertaining the apprentices and risking his life for his clan was one way to feel as though he were heroic, he knew he was a true hero when he'd finally decided to become the cat he was destined to be.

The flame had doused in the face of normalcy, but sparks were flying now.

…

I advanced on Lynxspots, growling.

"That's it?" he said, standing his ground. "That's the welcoming committee?"

"What more do you want?"

"A 'thank you' or 'well done' would be nice." Lynxspots said. "Your father killed Flamestar and he was bound to kill you too. I saved you. I saved the whole clan."

"Kill Flamestar, you say? Why would you pin your faith on the cat who doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground?" I said. Veins throbbed in my neck and my chin jutted. Who was I angry at? Lynxspots, for killing my father? Or me, for not being able to straighten myself out about my father, for not knowing if I should believe Lynxspots or not? "Why would you take Losttrail's words over mine, over Hollowheart's?"

Lynxspots looked at me, incredulous. "I wouldn't buy a ruddy word from you."

Well, that youngster seemed nothing like ShadowClan, did he? All-around good kid, I'll give him that.

I do not hold a grudge against your clan; even now one of my acquaintances is Shadowclan.

Rogue-borns may be unaware of the rules of decorum.

I had wanted to be fair; if Lynxspots had the decency to walk me through all that he'd done, and why he'd done it, I would have listened. I had wanted to tell him about the terrible things that I'd done in the wake of my father's murder, how it had led me astray and made me step off the deep end. I had wanted to tell him about how, all this time, my judgement had been warped by prejudice, and, albeit unexpectedly, so had his. But instead of a reasonable argument, this was what came out from my mouth: "Cut your crap, Lynxspots."

I charged at him with paws upheld, going to his foreswing and following with a backswing. Lynxspots dodged the first and met the second with his own countercut, and the weight of it sent me backwards, back, back, back… but not far enough to make me lose feet. I made an arcing shot to slice his chest at the midsection. It missed the flesh and all I caught was fur. The little tufts of fur that were tangled to my claws didn't seem to count for spit, and the sight only made me angrier.

"Your father killed Flamestar." Lynxspots said. "Embrace it: a tabby never loses his stripes, as a rogue never loses his inclination for violence."

"I refuse to believe that." I snarled. Lynxspots could call me immoral for as long as he wanted; but I was not going to let him call Hollowheart immoral without understanding the nuances behind him. I couldn't, not after doing the same to Beechshade, to ShadowClan. "We are not who we are because of our birthright. We have a mind, a will, a voice of our own. It cannot be boiled down to being a clan cat, a rogue, a loner, a kittypet, not when there's so much more to take into account."

We charged again, paws ready with blows and counters, retreating and coming to grips with each other for a good many times. Lynxspots hit me and blood coiled in my mouth. Come on, Stormcloud. Find the stake. Get up. He grabbed my head, claws digging into the scalp, until blood dripped into my eyes. I felt paws slam into my ribs and tried not to wince. Pain rippled across my chest. Come on, Stormcloud, focus…

Suddenly, the pain mitigated. Confused, I raised myself up into a half-reclined position and was just in time to see Lynxspots, paws flailing and mouth forming a perfect O, reeling into a gorse bush. I looked around. No one in sight.

There was no time to ponder on the matter. Lynxspots was already springing up from the bushes, garnished with thorn and gorse. Spitting with fury, I dove towards him, but the warrior dodged and caught my scruff between his jaws. He was smiling at his own spryness. I had to admit it was quite impressive, but it also made me somewhat angrier. I pulled back my forepaw. It is with certainty when I say that I will never forget the transient gleam of my claws as it flashed in the air, almost blinding me. It was as if my view of Lynxspots, the Highrock and the forest had dwindled to the sight of my claws and its gloss pulsating against the pale leaf-bare sky. I threw my paw forward with a force that knocked Lynxspots backwards when it connected, the dull thud and gasp of breath confirming that I'd winded him.

I leaned over him, claws poised. A fog seemed to shroud the world, towering funnels of writhing color dancing around the edge of my vision. Drums rapped out a cadence that alternately grew and diminished in volume. The voices of my clanmates – or was I hearing my own inner voice, fit to my liking? – were urging me on, rising to their feet and raising the roof for me, and I was enjoying this new means of communication, wishing it would last… but knowing that it never would…

What brought me back to my senses were the gales of animal breath on my cheek, hot and fetid and reeking of fear, and that I was when I knew. I'd killed once. I was not going to kill again.

"Go." I said.

"What?"

"I SAID GO, YOU BASTARD!" I screamed, and when Lynxspots didn't go, I leapt at him. But one of his feet was in the way and I fell to the ground. I imagined that we were in the exact same position as he and Hollowheart must have been in that night, with him standing over Hollowheart and Hollowheart lying on the ground. And fine, I'll admit it – that was when my heart felt like breaking.

I had won the war.

I had spared Lynxspots' life.

StarClan forgive me.

Blocking out Lynxspots and all that was around me, I walked towards the stream where on the other side was ShadowClan land. ShadowClan, the clan that I had so fervently hated and shit on – but for what? Why? Because that was what everyone else did? If so, why had I been so desperate to join the crowd – the crowd that had hated me for as long as I knew? Why?

I walked into the stream that I had once sworn that I wouldn't be caught dead in, the stream that Beechshade had died in – and slowly waded my way across. A sudden wind picked up, rippling the water around me. I gazed at the ripple and saw Beechshade's image in it.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

The wind died just as suddenly. I could feel my vision blurring – whether from fatigue or tears I did not know. My vision seemed to recede in a slowly reducing circle with darkness all around it. The wind burst into life again. The water rose in an encore and showed me another image.

It's not ThunderClan; it's the other clan, just overhead.

It's the clan where rabbits graze and squirrels fester. Where you never have to grow old.

It's the clan where he stands at the entrance, wearing the sun in his smile, the smile that you'd rarely seen in life and had always longed to see, had always longed to hear:

"What's kept you?"

…

I blinked and looked around. A wide gorge yawned beneath my feet, wind funneling through it and ruffling the pelts of those who resided – tough, hard-looking cats. The gorge, however, looked oddly familiar.

Was this StarClan?

No, this was the gorge where Milkwhisker and her kits lived.

I skidded down the slope and into the gorge. The walls were sheer rock, coarse and unforgiving with its overhangs and ledges. I was lucky that I didn't break all my bones with a crash landing on the craggy ground. And if the hard rock surface didn't suffice for a bone crush, small streams gurgled over rocks to connect with a massive river – even a river plunge would have been dangerous, at that height.

I cautiously approached the cats. They were adorning the wall, absorbing both the sun-heat of the rocks and the verdant moss cushions. "Hello? Excuse me?"

"You'll get us all killed!" A tom exclaimed.

"Judging objectively, I'll probably only get most of us killed." A she-cat replied, stretching her limbs lazily and grinning.

"I've got a whole party of rabbits waiting for me at the tip of the forest, Rowen! I can't die without getting a taste!" A tom said. He sounded fussy, like an old crone making dire announcements that nobody cared about nor listened to.

"Care to place a wager?" Rowen asked. "I know a good place to go adder hunting."

"Are you kidding? I'm not going to bet on my own death."

A tom walked up to them. "What's this about a whole party of rabbits?"

"I was uphill taking a piss when I saw them, a whole bunch of 'em migrating across the border. Figured that ThunderClan would flap and squawk if they saw me put dibs and pig out, so I figured that I'll leave them be until the coast is clear."

Rowen looked awed. "Wow, it must have been great to see a whole party! You're lucky, Pine."

"It would have been greater had I stolen a whole party." replied Pine, sullen. "What's the point of prolonging the lives of food?"

I looked at them, scowling. They'd ignored me in my face, just like that!

A bit desperate now, I approached a pair of she-cats. "Ur, excuse me? Could you lend me some of your time?"

"Go on, I'll take good care of them." One of the she-cats said.

With a great sigh, the other pressed her lips to the heads of her two kits.

"You'd better." She said as she gently pushed them towards her opponent. "If I see a single scratch or nick of irresponsibility on them, you'll die as you lived, Prim."

"I like it when you threaten me, Ivy." Prim said. "But just in case you forgot, I'm their mother too."

"The last time you watched them, Rowen and Thistle were trying to feed them solids. And you know what they said? 'We were just trying to test their milk teeth!'"

Prim's eyes widened dramatically. "The nerve!"

"Just wait 'till I get back from hunting, you dolt."

I turned around. Something was wrong. Something was very –

"Don't worry, mummy! You could grind stone with my snaggles – see, see?"

I stopped and looked at one of the kits.

Small, black, and scrawny with watery eyes and a whining, adenoidal voice, I'd recognize that kit from anywhere.

This wasn't the gorge where Milkwhisker and her kits lived, it was where they were to live – moons far into the future.