No one stops her as she leaves. Trying to understand it all at once is like trying to wrestle a badger into submission. Stonetail is already worn thin, but this has just pressed her thinner.

She limps out of the camp, feeling curious eyes rove across her back. Despite the worried glances, she proceeds forward, taking measured steps through the hollow log entrance. Wood creaks underfoot, and the springy moss clings to her pads. She presses on through the pine needle beds of the forest, but going far is not an option. Her fresh wounds from Grasspelt sting fiercely underneath their poorly administered dressings, and if there is trouble, she wants to be in range of help.

Frustratingly, that range includes her mother.

What had Greystar been thinking? What in StarClan possessed her to mate outside the Clan, to a murderer no less? Stonetail settles to groom herself with harsh, quick strokes that scrape the skin more than clean her coat.

She feels dirty.

The nagging itch at the base of her tail is just her imagination, she tells herself. It's just stress, not proof of tainted blood. If it were her lineage, the itch would have presented itself long ago. Still, it's difficult to shake the notion that something under the surface is unclean, infected. Just to be safe, she gives in to the urge to scratch, nipping and gnawing at the afflicted area. Twisted around in this manner, she spies Featherstar approaching from the corner of her eye.

The Willowclan leader is alone. "Can we talk?" she asks from a few paces away. A safe distance. A wise distance.

"About?" Stonetail grunts. "This is Greystar's business, not yours."

But Featherstar takes a seat anyway. "My sister is useless when it comes to tact, and you and I both know that the last thing you need is for her to be out here too."

"Did she send you?"

"No."

"Then why come?"

"Because I understand." The two she-cats lock eyes. Featherstar does not flinch from Stonetail's hollow stare, and continues steadily. "It might not be the same situation, but I at least understand the shock. We grew up learning mixed blood is something to be ashamed of, which is a load of fox dung. It makes borders and wars more complicated, but it doesn't dictate your life. Or your character."

Stonetail curls her lip, thinking of the rainy day when she spoke with Lakewhisker about Greystar's expectations. About feeling like she was being tested to see if she was really a leader's daughter. All along, Greystar was probably testing to see if she was a killer's daughter instead. "She thought I'd be like him," the grey warrior growls. "She always has. That's why she wants so much out of me. All she ever does is test me!" And is that not dictating her life enough?

Featherstar drops her head. "I'm not going to pretend to know what it's been like, having my sister for a mother. I'm not going to pretend I know why she treats you like she does, either. That's for you two to sort through."

"Then what good are you doing here?"

"I'm trying to have a reasonable conversation," Featherstar snaps, flicking her tail before recovering her composure. "After this is sorted out–no, I don't mean Greystar; just wait–you two can argue all you like. For now, though, I want to know if you can sort yourself out long enough to get rid of Torch once and for all."

"Once and for all" is a phrase found in elders' tales of their glory days. It's only half as certain as it sounds, half as true as old cats pretend. No sane cat will stake their life on so flimsy a promise when there are more definite avenues available.

But Stonetail wants it. For Thrushpaw, she tells herself when doubt creeps into her heavy heart. She will spill blood for Thrushpaw, any blood, even the blood of her father if that's what it takes. Giving up on the itch at the base of her tail, she stares squarely at Featherstar. "Tell me what you're thinking," she says, "because I want him dead."

Featherstar purrs, though without joy. "If all works well, he will be very dead."

»»««

Coming up with a plan requires explaining what has already failed. For the sake of privacy, Stonetail and Featherstar return to camp, taking the temporary WillowClan den for themselves. "Go make yourselves useful," the white she-cat commands upon entering. Three of her warriors that have remained in the den share skeptical looks at the request. What does their leader want with this ShadeClan warrior anyway? But they acquiesce when promised free run of the den in just a short while.

Once alone, Featherstar admits WillowClan ought to have left already. "Greystar suspected Torch from the beginning," she explains. "The burnt reeds leading to camp from the willow meant someone helped the fire get its start, and when we couldn't find a scent, she blamed him. Apparently he told her what his scar was from after he killed Windfur, while bragging. He likes fire." She shakes her head somberly before moving on.

"We split up the Clan for space reasons at first, but after seeing the damage, we realized it had another advantage: bait."

"Bait?" Stonetail's eyes widen. "Are you telling me you used your Clan as bait?" she hisses. Perhaps Featherstar is not so upright a cat as she seems. The accusation, however, leaves the leader undeterred.

"Only because each half now has the strength of another whole Clan behind it for protection. Besides, we wanted to be sure it was Torch, and assumed the attacks would be closer and closer to Greystar if it was him, ignoring anyone else. If not, if WillowClan was the real target, BreezeClan would be attacked, too. But Thrushpaw proved us right, StarClan bless her poor soul."

For the most part, Stonetail can believe that, but she thinks of the BreezeClan fox. "There was a trail," she says. "The fox was deliberate. BreezeClan was attacked."

"But there was no fire? No deaths?"

"No," Stonetail confirms after a second of hesitation.

Featherstar shakes her head. "Then I doubt it was Torch. Foxes are unpredictable, and from Greystar's account, he likes to be in control. Variables are dangerous."

But so are unexplained trails of crowfood. With a jolt, Stonetail realizes she and Streamheart never got a chance to tell anyone about the second prey trail meandering through ShadeClan. "If the trail wasn't Torch," she says, "then we have another problem. Someone left a trail in our territory last night. Streamheart and I destroyed it while we were looking for…" Aloud, the name hurts. She nods instead toward the center of camp before unloading every detail she can possibly recall onto WillowClan's leader, especially the conclusion she and Streamheart drew about the trail being a diversion meant to expose the camp. Featherstar, to her credit, does not interrupt, but her expression darkens rapidly, taking on the appearance of a gathering storm.

"So Torch is out to get Greystar and those loners, and someone else is wasting prey to waste our time… For what, though?"

It's a good question. What indeed? Why take such risks in two different territories? Why involve foxes and crowfood? There must be a point to it, no matter how awful a point it may be.

"Let's come back to it," Stonetail decides. "Stick with Torch. Him first." Deal with one crisis, then worry about the next. Though removing two threats at once would be ideal, Stonetail fears splitting the Clan's resources is unwise.

Even more unwise than that, she thinks, is using Coal and Clay as bait.

"Absolutely not," she says before Featherstar has even finishing suggesting it. "We're not throwing them back into the middle of it, not like that."

"They'll be prepared," replies Featherstar. "They won't be caught by surprise when he takes the bait."

"They'll be on their own, fighting their parents' killer. Walking into his claws. Hardly fair."

"So we send a second party to shadow them until Torch makes a move. They won't be alone, and Torch will be outnumbered. He won't stand much of a chance in a fight like that."

Stonetail grits her teeth. "The numbers aren't enough. Not when shadowing patrols would have to rest and rotate. Find one cat in ShadeClan besides Streamheart and I that will actually want to protect them instead of leaving them for dead. Unless you want to explain to everyone why Torch is hunting Greystar, the Clan will only think Coal and Clay are getting special treatment that they don't deserve." She can't even begin to imagine ShadeClan's collective spite if the brothers were to be put under such a particular guard. The chances of them being driven out or abandoned to Torch's mercy seem to grow before her very eyes. She cannot take any more loss, and with a bitter pang, she suddenly realizes she's come to take the loners' company for granted. But even if they survive Torch's menace, they might still leave ShadeClan behind. It is a preferable way to part compared to death, but Stonetail still grapples with a new, rising dread. Must they go?

Featherstar's hard insistence on a trap calls Stonetail back to the present. "The safest way to handle this will be to trick him. Make him complacent, make him think he's won or come close, then finish the job at once before he can retaliate."

"Except that still takes cats prepared to lay their lives down if something goes wrong, unless you can set a trap that you and I alone can deal with the moment it's sprung, no matter when that is. Waiting for him like you want to means that everyone in camp has to know, or someone could be caught like a vole in a hole. And you know what happens to that vole."

"So we go to him."

Both Featherstar and Stonetail jump as Greystar slips into the den. ShadeClan's leader avoids lingering eye contact with her daughter as she takes a seat by the den's entrance. "We three can search for him without involving anyone else, and he'll be outnumbered."

"And how do you suggest we find him?" Featherstar asks politely, though the sharp twitch of her whiskers is not terribly hard to miss. She casts a sideways look at Stonetail as if to check that the grey tabby has not stalked off before continuing. "You did say he was difficult to scent back in the day."

"We have his fur," Greystar says, "and he had to clean the blood from his paws at some point. There should be a blood trail from the lavender meadow to whatever water he went to. We can start with that."

The pale leader glances at Stonetail, but the warrior resolutely looks away, instead staring at Featherstar with hard eyes. It's grating to finally be in agreement of procedure with her mother when she's never wanted less to do with the stern she-cat, but a bubble of relief pops in her chest, allowing her some ease; Featherstar must acknowledge a plan that does not risk the lives of other cats, faced with two similar ideas as she is now. Coal and Clay will be safe.

Tensely the three she-cats wait for someone to muster their courage and break the silence. Stonetail's fur prickles as if lightning will rip through the air at any moment, and it takes every ounce of her self-control not to indulge in the itch at the base of her tail again. Something has to give, but it will not be her.

However, it will be Featherstar, who is still in possession of a diplomat's good sense, at least to a point. "We have to give the Clans a reason for leaving camp together," she says. "A mixed Clan, mixed rank hunting party will look unusual. Suspicious, really."

"Then I'll go alone," Greystar replies without missing a beat.

"And if you don't come back? ShadeClan will want answers. That puts us in a bad position." Featherstar gestures to Stonetail with a flick of her ear to include the grey warrior. "We'll either have to lie to two Clans and risk being found out, or tell the truth and face the backlash for not speaking sooner, not to mention for letting you go alone. I'm not keen on either option.

"Besides," the white leader adds, "you owe your daughter something important."

"Which is?" But Greystar and Stonetail finally look at one another, and ShadeClan's leader must know what she owes. She cannot possibly be mistaken. But just in case, Stonetail clears it up for her.

"Blood," she growls. "Torch's blood." And she doesn't just want the first strike. Stonetail wants the last one, too, and every other one in between. She wants the grass to shimmer with it, the dirt to soak it up and guard it for ages to come. Greystar made her mistakes. Lives were lost because she did not make the choice to end Torch, but Stonetail will not repeat her mother's folly. "I want him dead," she goes on. "And I want to leave him for the crows."

If Greystar is surprised by her daughter's vehemence, she does not show it. Instead, slowly, she inclines her head. "First blood is yours," she agrees.

"And last blood," Stonetail argues.

Greystar hesitates, but eventually replies, "And last blood."

Outside, a sudden downpour punches holes in the dirt. The sky is still blue.

»»««

The unusual storm abandons clear skies soon, trading them for a mantle of deep grey that sweeps over the earth with astounding speed, plunging the world into a damp darkness. It is because of this torrent that Stonetail is not in the forest in pursuit of Torch's trail. The rain is too heavy to see through, let alone scent through, and so she is curled up tight in the warriors' den.

Originally she had tried to take refuge in the medicine den, but Robinfoot had barred her way. "Morningfur is inside," he had told her, whiskers trembling, and Stonetail had understood the warning well enough. Morningfur was inside with the body of her daughter, whose burial is now postponed thanks to the storm, and at some point, Grasspelt will come back. Stonetail had no desire to tangle with the brown tabby again, and left the medicine cat standing on the threshold of his den as rain rushed at him, carried by a cruel wind.

Now, she has company, though it is frigid. Her Clanmates look at her sideways, glancing at her wounds from the fox, her wounds from Grasspelt, her bloodstained paws that will not wash clean because she cannot bear the taste of iron in her mouth anymore. Darkfeather in particular seems distrustful as she lies in her nest, glaring at her fellow warrior. The fur along her spine lifts in jagged spikes, and if there are any words on the tip of the formidable she-cat's tongue, they are not ones of praise, that is for sure. Stonetail puts her back to Darkfeather with little fanfare, but that leaves only the wall to stare at, provided she does not look down at her outstretched, bloodied paws. But she can't avoid that. They have a grim magnetism that turns her stomach over in knots, and for a minute, she almost believes Grasspelt's heated accusations that she killed Thrushpaw. Indirectly, didn't she? Thrushpaw's blood is on her paws in more than one sense, and the grey warrior isn't sure what sense is worse.

Brimming with frustration, she tosses and turns while the rain gets worse, until finally someone kicks a moss scrap at her and tells her to let everyone else rest. Only half paying attention, too exhausted to argue, she slinks out of the den and into the downpour, the rain pressing her fur flat to her back in seconds. Looking thinner than ever, she drops herself beneath one of the pines in camp only to find that she has chosen a space that is already occupied.

Coal has an uncanny way of holding so still as to be a mere shadow across the ground, and the darkness of the storm has only made him more successful. Stonetail does not notice him until she accidentally treads on his tail, and which point he leaps up with a start and she takes a hurried step back.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "Didn't see you."

But Coal doesn't reply, instead lying down again in the wet needles and tucking his nose under his tail without a word. He stares at the empty camp almost as if staring through it, and Stonetail hesitates to settle down so close by. But there are few other places in the camp that are dry, and she sees no other option. Heaving a sigh, she curls up a tail-length and some away from the skinny black tom, a shiver running through her body as the wind rises, taking the pine in its grasp and giving it a vigorous shake.

"You need to stay," Stonetail suddenly finds herself saying. Looking over at Coal, she discovers his ears pricked her way, and the fur at the nape of his neck is standing on end. She gets the sense that he'll bolt off if she says another word in the wrong manner. But there is no right manner for this, and she plows ahead. "If Streamheart and I aren't around, Lakewhisker will stand up for you and your brother. Besides, if Torch is here, it's no good running. He either follows right away or destroys everyone here before following. You might as well hold your ground."

Coal looks distinctly uncomfortable with that kind of confrontation. "We have to leave," he argues softly, lifting his muzzle from behind his tail and digging shallow grooves in the dirt with his good paw. "It's better for everyone."

"ShadeClan's already in too deep. Don't try to be the hero."

"I wasn't."

"Or a martyr."

And he doesn't respond to that, not directly. Instead, he looks at her. He doesn't meet her eyes, which he hasn't been doing for days now, but stares at the tip of her ears, a close enough substitute. "He won't quit. He hasn't for moons."

"He'll quit when he's dead," Stonetail mutters, curling her lip. "He'll quit then."

For a long moment, Coal actually meets her eyes unblinkingly, his ears pinned flat against his head and whiskers drooping. Then a shudder rolls through him and he shakes his head, melancholy incarnate.

Knowing when she's being ignored, Stonetail inches closer to the exposed center of camp until she can scrub her paws in the heavy rain. Slowly her paws become grey again, albeit a damp, dark grey, and her white toes are freed from the cloying scent of death. Beneath her feet, the dirt takes on a faint, rusty hue before the storm dilutes it back to its rich brown. If only removing Torch were so easy as washing him away, she thinks, but it will not be that easy. It will be phenomenally difficult, if Greystar's tale is anything to go by, and she will need all her strength for it.

"Mousebrain," she snaps to herself. With her paws hanging out in the storm, rain splashing up into her face when the wind twists, she's liable to give herself a cold. Coal probably won't fare much better, either, even as close to the pine's trunk as he is. The air is still bitterly cold for greenleaf. Without explaining herself, Stonetail nudges the black tom to his feet and propels him toward the warriors' den. Only when she sees him drop into his tightly constructed nest does she leave once more. He doesn't stop her from going.

When Robinfoot meets her again at the mouth of his den, she barges past him and lies down beside Thrushpaw, ignoring Morningfur's presence entirely. This, she realizes, is her last chance to spend time with her former apprentice, because the moment the storm lets up, Thrushpaw will be carried away by the elders for burial, and Stonetail will charge into the forest claws first to find the little tabby's killer. That will be their final parting, and with this and this alone on her mind, Stonetail falls into a blank sleep, brought on and extended by sheer exhaustion. She dreams of nothing but the dark, which envelops her in vast black wings and carries her away somewhere peaceful and stagnant. It is the long rest that, up until now, she had not realized she needed so desperately.

As such, she does not wake when Thrushpaw is finally carried away, nor when Robinfoot begins reordering his supplies around her. Only something impossible could rouse her, and when she finally lifts her head, she hears a voice she did not expect to hear on ShadeClan lands again. It takes her a dreadfully long moment to place the voice, to name it, but when she does, all drowsiness flees her body, replaced by thunder surging through her veins. She lunges past the cold spot where Thrushpaw had been, emerging under the overcast sky, and falls short of taking another step, greeted by a sight that makes her stomach do all manner of acrobatics.

There is Mothmoon standing before Greystar's den, pleading for help with a voice raspier than an elder's. This time, though, she has brought BreezeClan and WillowClan both. Not a cat among them is not stained black and grey with soot, even the youngest kits, and borne in the center of the ragged cluster are the bodies, fur plastered close with mud and rain.

The dead number six. They are hard to recognize in their poor condition, but as Stonetail creeps closer to the ragged cats, she begins to pick out faint scents and familiar faces. Crookedfoot, of course, is easy to identify. His twisted paw hangs limply over Cloudwing's side, and the black-and-white deputy bears her former medicine cat alone, head bowed. Behind her, Troutfang and Pikefang carry Bouncefoot, and to their left, a BreezeClan warrior named Tawnyfeather holds another she-cat named Brindlepelt upright so that her legs do not slide out from beneath her. There are a couple other still forms that Stonetail cannot see clearly, but towards the center of the group, a large tom named Hawkwing shoulders the heaviest burden of all. It makes Stonetail's blood boil and surge, ready to spill out into the world. She glowers at the entrance to Greystar's den, where the barest edge of a grey muzzle can be seen poking out from beneath the Great Timber.

Harestar is dead, BreezeClan smells like smoke, and there can only be one cat to blame.

Stonetail turns her back on the huddled outsiders and marches into the warriors' den. Someone has to put an end to this. She just needs a little help.