Greystar curtails the patrols. With all three Clans inside ShadeClan lands, border patrols are nearly obsolete. The only outside threat is Torch, and that is a truth best left secret for all but a select few. As such, the only patrols leaving camp are sent to round up every last scrap of prey they can find, even if it means raiding bird nests or fishing in the river, unconventional sources of prey. A new weight has settled over the pine woods in the wake of these changes.

That weight is called hunger.

A single Clan's territory is enough to sustain one Clan and a little more. But BreezeClan and WillowClan, even with their losses, are stretching the limits, and a mere two days after averting disaster with Torch's trail, the younger cats are beginning to pass the bulk of their food onto the elders and the queens, who need prey to survive more so than the young do. Stonetail's belly feels like it's beginning to gnaw its way out of her body, desperate for more nourishment than half a mouse and a draught of water from the closest stream (which is almost too far from camp for Greystar to allow anyone close to it). The fierce combination of fatigue and restlessness is burning up the bloodlust that initially sustained her, leaving the grey warrior with leaden paws and a headache that seems to pulse faintly in the back of her skull, not enough to be painful, but enough to disrupt her focus even in simple tasks.

Hunger makes revenge hard. She wishes she had the energy to charge into the forest, the strength of a thousand warriors in her paws, but with a wry, unamused purr, she notes she's not much stronger than a young apprentice right now, distracted and dehydrated and underfed as she is. It's not as if death is around the corner, but the discomfort is there all too plainly, and it keeps her from doing anything more than going through the motions.

Surprisingly, Coal and Clay seem nearly unaffected by the changes. The brothers look a little tired, perhaps, but their paws do not drag the way the Clan cats' do. Hunger has met them before, and though they parted ways for a time, the familiarity is not gone. Dozing in the shade of the Great Timber, Stonetail catches herself admiring their resilience before she remembers that this is not a time to admire anything. This is a time for revenge, for finding Torch, for finishing Torch.

Weakly, she wishes it could all wait until the fire in her limbs returns, but greenleaf marches on. What happens if leaf-fall returns and the other Clans still have not left? The prey will dwindle further, and cats will begin to die again. Leafbare will only claim more lives, should it come to that. All paths, it seems, lead to death if Torch is not apprehended and the Clans are not restored to their rightful territories.

"I thought I'd find you out here," Streamheart says, padding up on Stonetail's right. The silver tabby's whiskers droop, and the fur around her neck looks particularly haggard, as if she's forgotten to groom it. Stonetail wouldn't be surprised if she just didn't have the energy. After all, she barely has enough energy herself to move aside and allow her friend some space.

"The dens are awful," she replies. It's true. Everyone's lying down inside, cooped up and bored. The mild greenleaf heat, relatively tolerable, is insufferable en masse. How long before it becomes a hotbed of disease?

"They are. WillowClan's especially miserable. They should be in the river right now."

"Don't remind me." WillowClan should be swimming to their hearts' content, but if Greystar and Featherstar are right, Torch put a stop to that during the fire. How long has it been? Stonetail stumbles over the passage of time, and eventually decides that it's not worth thinking too hard about. There are other matters to address.

"What happens if we just sit here?" she asks. "Are we just going to starve out? Is Torch going to kill us all?" The thought breaks out before the grey warrior can stop it. It's just too grim to be contained, but Streamheart does not take kindly to it. Her ears shoot upright, and for a moment, alarm beating down her weariness.

"We're not going to die."

"If not us, someone else."

"Stonetail!"

She rolls her eyes. "Look at it realistically. If things don't change soon, and I mean in the next few days, there will be deaths. And what then?"

"You're being a pessimist. Something will change."

"What if it changes for the worse?" She just can't let it go. How can she be optimistic in the wake of disaster, in the face of ruin? The grey warrior is not some bottomless font of wisdom and hope, brimming with solutions to even the most harrowing troubles. She is mortal, and because she is mortal, she is afraid. But who in ShadeClan is not afraid? Stonetail tries to convince herself that she is not alone in dreading the future, but the effort is hollow. After all, so few cats realize the peril Torch represents that she really is nearly alone in her fear.

"I want to tell Lakewhisker," she says suddenly, cutting off another of Streamheart's protests, lifting her head to scan the camp for the old tom's familiar form. He must be resting in the warriors' den, though. There's no trace of him in sight, and with all the chaos, he has yet to formally retire and take up residence with the elders. Where else could he be?

It's a dread thought, Stonetail realizes too late as she imagines Lakewhisker on patrol, on his final patrol, his path drawing ever closer to long claws and singed grey fur and a raw pink muzzle that's hungry for blood. Her heart quickens in her chest. Torch could easily overpower Lakewhisker, the older tom being as frail as he is. It could be over so quickly, with a twist, a snap, a dull thud as the body tumbles down…

"Stonetail!" Streamheart breaks through the terrifying vision. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Stonetail lies automatically.

"You didn't hear a word I said, though, did you?"

No, she didn't. Not a word of what the silver tabby had said made it to her ears. Sheepishly, she shakes her head and murmurs, "No," before she can stop herself, revealing that she is hardly fine at all. The lie is laid bare for Streamheart to capitalize on, which she naturally does.

"Get up," says the silver tabby. "We're going for a walk."

"Lakewhisker is probably still in camp," Stonetail replies. Something about hearing the words aloud makes her feel that, just for a moment, they must be true. "We can wait here."

"No," Streamheart insists, nudging Stonetail firmly. "We can't tell him yet, but you need to talk to someone else."

Tired of being prodded, Stonetail rises, though she gives the leader's den a dour glance, lip curled. "I'm not talking to Greystar," she growls.

"No, you're not. Which is why we're taking a walk." With that, Streamheart pads toward the camp entrance, leaving Stonetail little choice but to follow so that she does not make a scene in protesting her friend's cryptic actions. As they walk, even as they enter the forest, Stonetail tries to learn what the silver tabby intends, then tries to dissuade her entirely with hushed pleas to return to the safety of camp. Still Streamheart presses onward, refusing to budge, and when they enter a circular pine grove, Stonetail finally sees why.

"No," she rasps, her throat alarmingly similar to a river run dry. Her claws sink into the dirt.

There are two freshly turned patches of dirt in the grove, free from the blanket of pine needles that buries all else. Stonetail backs away; this is hallowed ground not meant for her, not yet.

Beneath the newly disturbed earth lies her guilt, her grievances, her hardest loss. Beneath the earth, among others moons ago interred, lies Thrushpaw.

"Why here?" she snaps, whirling on Streamheart even though it aggravates her fatigued limbs.

The silver tabby looks at her calmly, even sadly, from where she is lying down, panting, at the grove's edge. "Because you need a reminder."

"Of what? Of losing her?" The name still hurts, still makes her throat close up and her chest tighten miserably. To think of Thrushpaw is achingly difficult, but to speak of her may be impossible.

Streamheart takes Stonetail's aggression in stride, though. Maybe it's because she's learned loss, too. After all, her mother wasted away at a snail's pace, her life prolonged by herbs but probably not made any better. The anger of grief is hardly foreign to her, even if it is long past. Besides, if anyone has experience navigating Stonetail's harsher temperament, it is the silver tabby.

"You said there will be deaths," she says, evenly meeting Stonetail's eye. "But there already have been. You're standing in front of two. Yesterday, others were buried in their home territories. Death's already here, and you're convinced it won't leave."

"How can it?" Stonetail fires back, tail trailing through the pine needles. Remembering where she stands, she lowers her voice. "It's only getting worse."

"So tell that to Thrushpaw."

"What?"

"You heard me. Tell Thrushpaw that you're sure the Clans are going to be prey for death, that they'll be wiped out. Tell her just how much worse you think it's going to get. Don't spare the details."

The pines quiver; the strong breezes that precede full storm winds are arriving. For now, the sky is clear, but within the day it will be dark as smoke. A chill floods Stonetail's limbs, and she looks back on the graves. "I can't," she mumbles.

"Okay. So tell Thornwing instead."

Stonetail repeats herself. "I can't."

"Why not?" Streamheart presses. The stern edge to her voice is gone, replaced by downy soft sympathy, and she rises to join the grey warrior beside the buried siblings.

Looking Streamheart in the eye is too hard. No matter how much stubborn will she tries to summon, Stonetail can't meet her friend's eyes, filled with shame as she is. "If I tell them that," she whispers, staring just beyond Thrushpaw's grave instead, "their deaths don't mean anything. They'll just be part of a list, like they just happened to be first. Die first." She takes a shuddering breath. "They don't deserve that. Especially not…not…"

"Thrushpaw."

"Thrushpaw," Stonetail echoes. Her chest hurts.

»»««

Together, Stonetail and Streamheart take some time to mourn silently among the pines. The lonely vigil pales in comparison to the proper, all-night vigils traditionally held, but the warriors do not have that kind of time to spare. Sooner rather than later, they must return to camp and see if they are needed on one of the dwindling patrols.

Greeting them at the camp entrance, though, is not the usual guard. Greystar herself hunches outside the fallen timber that leads inside, her posture stiff as usual. When she sees Stonetail and Streamheart emerge from the forest, though, she leaps to her feet and marches forward. Stonetail hesitates as her mother advances; there's fury in every footstep, and a flash of guilt, of old obedience she would so like to shrug, flares hot in her chest before she forces herself forward again.

Yet Greystar isn't angry at all, not with them.

"Get inside," she tells them, circling around and prodding them forward with her muzzle. "And don't leave unless you're on patrol or getting water. You know what's out there." But she doesn't raise her voice, and it isn't level and cold like Stonetail has come to expect. She obeys, but hesitates at the other side of the tunnel, looking back through the shriveling moss overhang as Greystar assumes her watch again.

Impossible as it is to believe, Stonetail is almost certain ShadeClan's unflappable leader is worried. Since the face-off with Torch two days prior, Greystar has said nothing unnecessary, speaking only when absolutely required, even to her deputy and senior warriors. The old grey she-cat is curt by nature, and all the Clans know it, but Stonetail pulls herself from the tunnel reluctantly. Whatever Greystar is right now, it's more than curt. It's clipped, stripped to the barest bones of necessity, and the strain is starting to show in the curve of her shoulders and the rasp of her voice.

We're going to unravel, the grey warrior thinks, casting her eye around the camp and taking in all the slothful, withering forms taking shelter in the shade. We've made it two days, and we're already unraveling.

Except the brothers. Stonetail spies them under one of the smaller pines. Coal paces fervently as Clay bats a moss ball at the tree trunk for entertainment. They may not be perfectly hearty and hale, but they're strung tight with unused energy no one else seems to have. However, Coal deflates as soon as he looks up from the track he's worn into the pine needles to meet Stonetail's eye. The lean tom turns his back on her and begins to groom himself fastidiously, as he only does when anxiety has him in its black claws. If he's consistent about anything, he's consistent about pretending he isn't afraid.

To Stonetail's surprise, though, as she and Streamheart pad towards the warriors' den, Coal rises from his grooming fit and lopes toward them, keeping low to the ground as if he fears being spotted. Maybe Streamheart has talked to the loner recently, but this is the first time he has approached Stonetail since she tackled him out of Torch's reach. She slows to a halt and pricks her ears in a long, cool shadow, flicking her whiskers against Streamheart's side to call her attention to Coal's approach.

Suddenly it strikes her that she never checked to be sure Coal handled his escape from Torch well. "Are you okay?" she asks as he draws within earshot. He pulls up short, jaws parted in a non-answer of surprise. It's a fair response; Stonetail immediately realizes how unusual the question is, especially coming from her instead of Streamheart, who politely refrains from commenting on their role reversal.

Coal collects himself quickly. "You're okay," he mumbles, looking between the two warriors. He shuffles his forepaws like he hasn't a clue what to do with them, only stopping at Streamheart's even glance. If this were apprentice training, any ShadeClan warrior would scold him for avoiding the question, but this is hardly training. In fact, Stonetail's no longer quite sure what it is short of a siege from a murderous shadow, but nonetheless she gets the hint: he doesn't want to talk about it.

"What?" she asks instead. An imaginary paw slams down on her train of thought, forcing it to slow and recollect as she reconstructs her usual cold barriers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong." Coal senses immediately that he's given the wrong answer. His ears flatten as the she-cats start to turn away and he adds in a single breath, "I just want to find him and finish it."

"That's the idea," Streamheart grunts.

"No, I mean now. Today." His voice wavers for a moment, cracking with the confession's strain. "Before he comes to us. Or to Clay."

If there was ever any doubt that Coal wanted to put his brother's life before his own, it evaporates in the heartbeat it takes the black tom to look over his shoulder at the brown tabby, who is now on his back, ripping apart his moss ball out of sheer boredom. Hunting Torch now could mean death, Stonetail realizes for the first time. She has been so furious over Thrushpaw's murder that she hadn't stopped to consider that facing down the rogue could mean her own. Or Streamheart's. Or Coal's. Yet it's the only way to prevent more deaths, and Coal knows it. He's probably known it since it became clear Torch had set foot on ShadeClan lands, and despite the odds of his survival swinging between barely favorable and certainly grim, he wants to act anyway.

Stonetail's heart crawls into her throat as she makes a decision, and her skin prickles as the wind shifts, hinting at the storm brewing in the air. She knows she ought to consult with Streamheart, but it will only result in arguing given what she plans to suggest. Coal probably won't be pleased either, and the grey tabby resolves not to thank him for helping her make up her mind; there's no need to crush him and then rub salt into the wound. "No," she says softly.

"No?" Coal's muzzle wrinkles in the beginning of a snarl, but Stonetail cuts him off, backing away from Streamheart to stand where she can face them both.

"No," she repeats. "You're not going after him. Either of you."

"Then neither are you," Streamheart snaps, tail whipping through the grass. She's no fool, and has read the situation perfectly, as expected, as dreaded. Her blue eyes are narrowed to slits as she tries to calculate just how far Stonetail is willing to go, and the grey warrior forces herself to hold her friend's stare.

"Someone has to look after Clay and Lakewhisker. That's you two. It always has been." And now I'm looking after both of you, she adds silently, praying that she isn't trembling. She feels like she might be. It's not as if she's making a trivial choice at the moment. "They'll need you."

The fur along Streamheart's spine stands on end. "And we don't need you? Stonetail, your head is full of badger dirt if you think for a second that you're the only one in this camp that someone isn't relying on. If you go after him, you go with us," she spits, "or you don't go at all."

"I can't do that."

"Too bad. You'll have to. I'm not letting you take a chance that big all by yourself. You could die!"

"Streamheart, please. You have to stay and—"

"If you leave without one of us, I'll tell Greystar," growls the silver tabby suddenly, eyes flashing like flints. "I'll tell her right away, so help me StarClan, and if we have to drag you back by your tail, we will."

Stonetail can only gape. In all the moons of their friendship, Streamheart has never once used Greystar as leverage. It was forbidden by some unspoken law Stonetail has always been grateful for, even in their apprentice days. And now that law lies broken. To be fair, it's been broken in the interest of protecting her, but that doesn't make it sting any less. Streamheart is her best friend, privy to nearly all of her secrets and frustrations, and the witness to most of her strife with Greystar. Despite that, despite everything, she has turned without hesitation to tattling.

Stonetail straightens her spine, almost certain it's the hardest thing she's had to do in her entire life, and visions of Thrushpaw's grave suddenly swim before her eyes. There will not be more graves beside the little tabby's. There cannot be. "So tell her," she whispers evenly.

Watching Streamheart turn in a huff makes her want to apologize. The temptation to call the silver tabby back and to make amends is overwhelming, but she clenches her jaw so hard it hurts, so hard she almost doesn't hear Coal, who has watched the sudden escalation in total silence.

"Didn't you tell me not to be a martyr?" he asks pointedly, but before Stonetail can answer, he shakes his head and pads away to Clay's side, curling up to stare anywhere but at her.

She takes that as her cue to leave. Her first stop is at the dwindling freshkill pile, where she scoops up the plumpest mouse available, heedless of anyone's prying eyes. Let them think her greedy, but she needs her strength, and so she devours it, only slowing when she catches Streamheart's fuming expression peeking out from the warriors' den. Licking the bones clean as patiently as she can, she waits for the silver tabby to turn her back, waits for the opportunity to move along with all due haste. Impatience bubbles in her gut, and the longer she waits, the clearer she can hear her steadying pulse in her ears. This is her choice. Her decision. Whether they like it or not, she will protect them. All of them.

When her opportunity arrives, the rain has already started. The drizzle gives her cover, and in the general hustle to squeeze into the dens for shelter, Stonetail leaves the mouse bones in the mud and slips out through the flimsy dirtplace wall. Streamheart will check the passage soon, the grey warrior knows. They've used to it too many times, and the effort it would take to craft another way out is simply too much. The head-start the dirtplace route has given her will have to do.

For a moment, she stops to look back at the camp, an apology hanging on her lips, but an apology won't be good enough. Torch's body, though, might just satisfy, and turning her back on ShadeClan, she bounds deeper into the pines in pursuit of the best and bloodiest apology she can offer.