There's a scab on her, that crusted wound, the corpse of her imperfection. She's never liked her spots. They sully her, somehow, make her less gold, less bright. They distract from her brilliance. Morningstar, of course, has never accepted anything less than perfect; not even her own parents were excused. She enjoyed the look on her apprentice's face as that flaw was ripped from her body. She savoured it. It was a lesson, after all. Perhaps Sablepaw ought to follow suit.