The white tom looked up at the stars.
Or, rather, where the stars were supposed to be.
The sky was bleak, and swirled endlessly in greyish tones. Not since moons ago had he seen the stars. Plants and rotting toadstools spotted the dying grass, reeking like crowfood.
He smiled quietly. It was the perfect chance. A cat, like he.
A mind innocent enough to corrupt.
So easily influenced.
Because, of course, darkness ran in his blood.
How he had suffered, suffered at the paws of his clanmates. The torment lashed, that forced him to train twice as hard, bring twice as much prey, for not just the same blood ran in his veins.
And when he did catch prey, cats laughed, told him it wasn't the right kind.
Worst of all, he had died. Not before bringing her with him, of course. His dear sister, loved and spoiled by all of her clan. Chosen by their father, while he was left with his ailing mother.
Oh, his mother. Always one to be so sickly and ill. Died before he was even an apprentice.
And no one had cared.
…
Cinderpaw stood, looking out over the hill. Leaf-bare was fast approaching, rabbits and other prey beginning to retreat further and further into the tunnels.
He surveyed the territory that he loved so. Winds that never ceased to blow. The circling and swooping of kestrels up in the sky.
Yet only moons ago, Cinderpaw felt as though he would never belong.
He thought of his mother. Her kindly face, the way her light green eyes would flit to him through a crowd. The best mother a cat could wish for.
But Tigerflame had disappeared.
And they had never found her body.
Why would a cat abandon her only kit?
Cinderpaw couldn't understand. Wouldn't understand. Neither did he speak to anyone about it.
Of course, except Silverpaw.
He was a cat of few words. Talking was meaningless to him, as he preferred to let his actions speak for themselves.
When the others had taunted him in Cinderpaw's kithood, he pretended that the insults had no effect on them. They stopped stinging after about the hundredth time they were said. Kittypet, unwanted, half-clan, Cinderpaw had heard them all.
Proving that he was faster, smarter, and stronger shut them up. No other apprentice could run as fast as he, and none could scale the sparse trees with the skill of a squirrel. Each astonished gasp, each amazed stare Cinderpaw received was met by quiet humility.
He was quiet, yes, but that did not mean that he didn't have an opinion. He just never voiced them.
Unless, that is, if he was with his friends.
None of his clanmates were particularly close to him. Sure, they admired him, and treated him with respect, but Cinderpaw was never included in their games, their discussions.
To this day, he still doesn't know what drove him to speak to a lost silver apprentice on his first gathering, but Cinderpaw was glad of it.
He sprung onto one of the lanky trees on the top of the hill for a better view. Nothing obstructed the sky, which was as blue and perfect as the egg of a robin. Cinderpaw couldn't imagine what it could possibly be like to live in a place where he could never see the stars.
He would feel trapped in ThunderClan's forests, unkempt in ShadowClan's swamps, lost in SkyClan's trees, and bewildered in RiverClan's rushes.
Cinderpaw was WindClan through and through.
Except that he wasn't.
Cinderpaw slowly got out of the tree and started walking.
What else would explain his muscular build, his ability to climb trees?
Cinderpaw had paid attention to ThunderClan and SkyClan in particular during gatherings, scouring through the mass of cats hoping to find just one tom that looked enough like him to be related. Through all of this, he had only seen two with similar fur.
Amberclaw of ThunderClan and Buzzardtail of SkyClan.
It definitely wasn't Buzzardtail. He had only been made a warrior three moons ago, and it wasn't possible unless…
Cinderpaw had to stop for a second to get the disgusting image out of his mind.
Not Amberclaw either. The long legged ginger tom always had a vibrant smile, and he was sleek instead of brawny. Besides, his ginger fur was the colour of fire, unlike his own sandy orange.
Perhaps, Cinderpaw really was a kittypet.
He shook the thought off his mind and focused on what he had been doing. Hunting, yes, hunting. Swiftstar would be surprised if he went back to camp without bringing prey.
Cinderpaw crouched down and lifted his muzzle up, opening his mouth to let scents bathe his tongue.
Something strange attracted his attention. It smelled like blood. Cinderpaw's senses were suddenly heightened. Black dots swirled into voids in his eyes, and he could no longer think about anything else other than the metallic taste.
Fade to black.
…
Cinderpaw blinked away the fuzzy darkness that was clouding his vision. A sticky wet sensation rolled down between his eyes, and the ginger tabby tom was surprised to see a rivulet of crimson running down his nose. He didn't feel pain, however, and was utterly transfixed by the blood dripping from a gash on his muzzle.
Something clicked as Cinderpaw tried to figure out what had caused this wound.
Slowly, he looked down, to the space between his paws.
Why were there clumps of fur strewn around him?
A mutilated mess. That was all Cinderpaw could think of. Thick blood pooled around his paws, a musky scent clinging on the liquid. Fragments of shattered bone sticking out of the grass like the bright white of broken eggshells.
Shreds of muscle and sinew in the dirt. Pink and purple, dark and light. What seemed to be a lung there, a strand of intestines there.
If it weren't for the two long, brownish ears, Cinderpaw wouldn't've even recognized the rabbit.
Quietly, he buried the carcass, scraping dirt into a neat pile and peeling off the bloodstains. Not the most desperate of cats would touch this. Cinderpaw doubted that it was worthy of crowfood.
When he had gotten rid of most of the mess, the ginger apprentice sat on his haunches, raising on of his paws. One of the claws was dangling off, hanging on by a tendril of flesh.
Dried blood crusted and framed each of his claws. He licked his lips and realized that the fur by his mouth was covered in salty liquid.
Cinderpaw looked at the mound of freshly upturned earth where he had buried the creature.
What had he done?