In another world, Peppermask is luckier. Perhaps it is only that Morningstar is weaker, in this dimension that never dawned, but he kills her anyway, her blood a spray of sweet surrender. And then he tries to hold them together, these bitter souls, warriors loyal to a corpse, and he never learned how to lead. They scatter to the wind, because word has it an army is marching over the horizon and they, zealots, are nothing without the commands of the golden one. Peppermask is the first to die, and now he is not so lucky, not so strong; it's not the waiting wilderness that gets him but rather Morningstar's thugs who, dumb as they are, make this one choice for themselves. And then they run.
Miss arrives and finds the ashes of a dynasty, a kingdom felled. Side-by-side, two bodies lie in the meadow, the only offering PureClan could afford to make. Killer and victim, tabby and gold, a hopeless appeasement. They are never buried.