It's dark, down in the Clans.
Swiftpaw sits on the edge of StarClan; stares down into the pool of stars. He watches as a one-eyed warrior comes into camp, bending down her head to murmur something in the guard's ear.
There's a pang in his chest—something hard and sharp lodges in his throat as he swallows. He tries to chase away the feeling, but it won't budge.
He hears a slip of a cat padding up behind him, and Swiftpaw turns, his littermate coming to rest her muzzle on his shoulder.
Her gaze is one of sympathy. He can read her expression well enough to know what she wants to say. It's not worth the trouble. You know it's not. Lynxkit stands next to him, her brow creasing.
He flicks his tail in acknowledgement, but he doesn't say anything. He only lowers his head, and bitterly reminds himself, It wasn't our time. This wasn't meant to be our fate.
There's a long sigh of resignation from Lynxkit, and eventually Swiftpaw stands; turns for one last glance into the world of the living.
It's dark, down in the Clans.