Swanpath nearly doesn't care when her son is born. She can barely keep her eyes open, let alone feel what is expected or obligated of her. Or rather, outlawed by the very cats around her. She peers at him, her small third kit, barely listening when they announce he's a tom. He's a dark, sleek red. Three heartbeats into what should be his very brief existence, and he's already crying. She's not sure if this is normal; she's too young after all.
Pinekit is one of the rare few who receive a reprieve. His mother finds this ironic; her sister, too, has already lived far longer than she was meant to. She wonders if her family luck extends to her. Swanpath thinks she may need it.