Breezepelt stood on the crest of the moorland hill, the wind blowing through his fur as his claws dug into the dry crumbling earth.
In the suns that had past the world had grown steadily warmer; the rains were, for the second newleaf in a row, late. It was now hot enough that if a dormant creature had climbed from their burrow they could be forgiven for assuming they had slept three moons later than usual and emerged in greenleaf. Elsewhere in the world sheets of half-frozen seawater were cascading from melting slopes as great white bears watched through despairing eyes. But here, the sun was merely hot enough to make the black warrior uncomfortable as his gaze, amber like a fox's fur, scanned the rolling plains of heather.

For a moment there was the slightest touch of regret in Breezepelt's face as he stared across the horizon, remembering the carefree days when he frolicked in the fields with Heathertail and Harespring; when nobody looked at him oddly, when the only scoldings he received were for things he'd actually done wrong. True, he had not been a perfect apprentice. But he was strong and fast and passionate; Whitetail had seen that and treated him with patience. His father, on the other hand, was not.

Crowfeather was dead now. Barely two suns previously the moon had grown from a cat's claw to an open eye and the golden ThunderClan warrior Thornclaw had listed sadly the names of the lost. Unlike the other cats, who had thrown themselves to the ground and yowled to StarClan, Breezepelt had been consumed by conflicting emotions. Relief that Firestar had kept his promise and nothing had been said of Sorreltail's murder. Satisfaction that, at long last, Lionblaze was out of his fur. Amusement at the way Firestar struggled to contain his stutter at the Gathering. Perhaps even grief for the father that he had loved up until a few seasons previously when all the lies were washed from the Clans like-
Don't think it-

-like Sorreltail's blood from his fur.
No, it wasn't my fault she was there! It's all her fault! Who's stupid enough to go wandering around by herself before dawn?
You just keep telling yourself that, sneered a sardonic voice in his head. Keep saying that, and who knows? One day you might believe it.
Although Breezepelt would never know it, he had so much more in common with his lonely sister than black fur. Both of them were brave, intelligent, ambitious, and proud. Both had been so completely sure of their place in the world that they had never comprehended anything different.
But when the truth, with gleaming fangs and shadow-hued fur, crept out of its den of nightmares to whisper madness into their ears, that was when their differences showed.

Hollyleaf had turned her rage and terror inwards and shattered her mind, which was probably the best thing that could have been done; the damage she caused to the Clans was mostly superficial: the death of a cat who at his best was troublesome and at worst was savage. Most of the pain fled into her own soul, where it could be kept, tamed, and healed.
Breezepelt had sent his darkness into the world around him and had descended into a mixture of resentment and paranoia. Every cat that shot him a look was cursing him under their breath; the father who he used to worship was now a traitor and a fool; the apprentices were suddenly fighting better than he did, and their mentors praised them more when he was around; even the kits were turning mocking eyes upon him.

It should have not surprised anyone-certainly, Jayfeather and Firestar had not been startled, and Hollyleaf would have known the day Sorreltail died-that he had turned to blood to satisfy the last remaining attribute he had-ambition. Breezepelt was a warrior divided; half of him, the half that was still the brave and loyal warrior who longed to look upon the world with kinder eyes, was horrified at the evil he was sowing into the Clan roots. But the other half of him-the more insistent half- told him that there was no such thing as evil, only strength and weakness, and that to regain what he had lost he had to become stronger than those around him. It was this part of Breezepelt that gloried in the scarlet tide and seemed lost in a permanent bloodlust. Everything was either a victory or a loss-there was no in between.

It was this part of him that was standing on a hill not far from the RiverClan border, waiting for his deputy and grandmother, Ashfoot, to join him.
He knew he was making a mistake. That it was far too soon to make another kill now, so close to Sorreltail's death. Firestar would kill him the moment he heard. That even if he did manage to get away with it a second time that it was unlikely he would be made deputy; Onestar didn't even trust him enough to lead a hunting patrol, let alone the Clan. He knew all this, and he didn't care. He wanted the thrill of having power over life and death; he wanted to see the terror in the old she-cat's eyes before her soul was extinguished; he wanted to feel fearless and bold again and feel her flesh beneath his claws.

The grey she-cat appeared before him, her tail flicking. "No sign of RiverClan where I was, Breezepelt," she informed him calmly.
Breezepelt held her gaze. "I found rabbit blood near me. Just at the bottom of this hill."
"Are you sure it wasn't one of our Clan?"
"It might have been, if our cats have suddenly developed an appetite for fish."
Ashfoot's eyes hardened. "Come on, then." She trotted down the slope, her muscles moving smoothly beneath her pelt. Breezepelt followed, his ears twitching with anticipation.
He heard the deputy's snarl of anger. "Look at that! Blood, I should think so! It's torn to pieces!"
Confused, the black warrior drew alongside her, and felt his stomach roll slightly.
If they had been in any other territory he would not have been able to identify the creature, which looked as though it had exploded in front of them.

A RiverClan cat actually was here? What luck!
"I didn't see the rabbit," he mewed hastily. "I was a little way away from here when I found some blood drops."
"This was deliberate," said Ashfoot through gritted teeth. "Whoever did this wanted us to find it. Quickly, Breezepelt, we need to find Onestar. He'll organize a patrol." She turned her back on Breezepelt.
Her final mistake.
Almost against his will, the black tom sprang onto his grandmother, his weight crushing her to the ground. She let out a startled cry of shock. "Breezepelt! What are you-"
Stupid she-cat, you deserve to die if you talk rather than fight!

She fought him desperately, but even when she saw his eyes and knew he was going to kill her she still softened her blows against him, keeping her claws away from his throat and face. Had she not done so there was every possibility of her victory; she was a skilled and mighty deputy and he was an inexperienced young cat. In the end, he wrenched her legs apart and sank his teeth down into the soft part of her throat, feeling the blood spurt into his mouth and his saliva awaken on his tongue. Her blood tasted thick and salty, but at the same time, strangely sweet.
Her bleeding head sunk back into the earth, her jaws still slightly open, and in her empty eyes remained a question: Why, Breezepelt?

Because, Ashfoot, only the strongest must survive. And I am the strongest. He lifted her body and began to drag it to the RiverClan border. Leave it by the rabbit. RiverClan would be blamed for everything. Not even Firestar could pin this on him.
He inflicted a few 'battle wounds' on her body, and turned away, already planning his return to camp. Get a thorn in his pad and say Ashfoot sent him back. Nobody would suspect anything until the sunhigh patrol.
Breezepelt was still running these thoughts through his head when a new scent entered his nose. One that was dark and feral and smelt of blood and violence.
Slowly, slowly, the fur on his neck standing on end, he rotated on his paws and looked into the face of a monster.

The wolf's fur was almost coal-black in colour, and his eyes were the yellowish green of an infected wound. His teeth were gleaming white and as sharp as his old stone claws. Breezepelt took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. This was what killed the rabbit and left merely scraps behind. Blood still stained his muzzle from the kill.
The wolf spoke. "Well, little cat, what have you done?" He sounded amused.
The black warrior's eyes dropped to the scraps of the rabbit and then back to the wolf's face.
Chénmò grinned, a savage baring of his fangs. "Why did you kill the old one, little cat?"
"I'm not little," Breezepelt replied instantly, for it was the only thing he could think of to say.

Chénmò chuckled, and Breezepelt's spine prickled. "You had better run then, cat, for RiverClan warriors are heading this way and I do not think that you will be able to explain this to them easily."
"You're lying," began Breezepelt, but even as he spoke, the bushes rustled and a patrol of RiverClan cats emerged.
Great StarClan! Mistystar!
Mistystar let out a deep, low growl as soon as she saw the wolf and dropped into a fighting crouch. Her patrol, eyes wide with horror and fear, did the same as Chénmò swivelled his head from Breezepelt to the new cats. Breezepelt took his chance.

"Mistystar, it killed Ashfoot! We were patrolling the border when it ran out of the bushes and slaughtered her!" His voice was cracking with terror; not all of it was an act.
Chénmò looked back to Breezepelt, and he began to laugh, deep within his throat. The Clan cats, unaccustomed to the sound, shrank back ever-so-slightly. Only Mistystar held her ground, and she began to step neatly around the wolf, crossing the WindClan border without a thought, until she stood directly in front of the wolf. Breezepelt held his breath, certain that the wolf would calmly tell Mistystar the truth. But Chénmò did not, merely looking back and forth from them and continuing to rumble inside himself.

Now Mistystar spoke. "Wolf. Leave our territory now and we will let you live. You have one chance."
Chénmò stopped laughing, and held her icy gaze. For a moment-just a moment-a trace of confusion entered his eyes at the small she-cat who dared to threaten him in such a matter-of-fact tone. He bared his teeth and her and stepped forwards, preparing to slam her into the ground with a heavy paw.

He never got the chance. Mistystar lunged forwards, her claws aiming directly for the one part of his body within reach that was not covered with fur-the small black nose. Her claws struck true and the wolf let out a howl of pain and fury as wolf's blood stained the earth for the first time in over a hundred years. Chénmò leaped back a pace or two, shaking his head to clear his face from blood, when Mistystar stalked inwards, every hair on her pelt standing on end to make her twice her normal size. The rest of her patrol had found their courage and were now forming an arch, rather like the shape that geese took when they flew, and Breezepelt thought there was something odd about it. It was almost like the RiverClan cats were trying to force him back-

Chénmò charged forwards, but the cat he was after swerved aside and had the gall to nip him on the inside of his paw before returning to her original position. Outmanoeuvred, and with no space to fight properly, the wolf retreated, his bulk backing further into the trees, searching for an open clearing where he could face the cats on his own terms.
SNAP.

A Twoleg metal loop, used for catching foxes (and occasionally, cats) had crunched around his left hind leg, knocking him to the floor and forcing him to howl in pain. The cruel shining wire tightened every time he thrashed, and Mistystar watched his struggles through impassive eyes.
Once he finally lay still, the mighty RiverClan leader stepped forwards.

"We warned you. Now, we'll just leave you here for the Twolegs. Who knows? Maybe they won't come and you'll starve to death. Anyone can hope." Turning away, she gestured for her patrol to follow her, and they did so, though not before aiming their own taunts at the captured wolf.

Breezepelt remained where he was, shivering with fear at his near-death experience. And as Chénmò lifted his head to meet his gaze, the black warrior shivered, for in the beast's eyes there was no longer any amusement; only hatred.