Prologue.
A wary she-cat lays vulnerably on the moss-laden floor of a RiverClan den. Her pelt is a sleek Raven black; her eyes are a fatigued blue. This is Nightshade.
Behind her, an ashen-gray tom sits, his tail courteously coiled around his hind legs, waiting. His amber gaze is steady, unmoving off Nightshade. Occasionally, his tail flicks ever so slightly to the left. This is Ashflight.
Elsewhere in the den sits a tortoiseshell mollie, a dreary-eyed dusky brown she-cat, and across from her lies two-hundred and twenty-four Bluegill scales. Each is arranged in intricate patterns, repeating to speak a language. Some spell out entire phrases: others accommodate a single word. One, for example, reads:
"Shall our ancestors look upon us with pride and grace, and see to it the next generation of RiverClan be healthy and pure."
The tortoiseshell leans forward and scrambles a collection of the scales, her paws meandering through the dirt as if possessed. Nightshade blinks at her distantly.
"StarClan speaks to me, Nightshade," she murmurs softly, paws still at work.
"And, Petalheart? What do they say?"
"You will have two males," Petalheart's eyes flicker to Nightshade's. "Your firstborn will bring strength to the clan. His prowess will lead RiverClan to great heights."
Nightshade's dreary body shivers, her eyes widening. Ashflight's remains frozen.
"And what of the second?" he asks coldly.
Petalheart hesitates, scraping at the dirt and the scales.
"Petalheart."
"Hmm? Oh yes, the second born…" she switches her attention to the tom, who's whiskers twitch expectantly.
"He-" she pauses. "StarClan has not told me."
"Impossible. StarClan has never denied a medicine cat from the words of My'nia. Ever."
"It is just as confusing to me, Sandstar," Petalheart bows to the dirty-brown molly. "But skepticism cannot alter fact."
An uncontrollable silence takes hold of the four cats. Somewhere, in the distance, a lone owl calls out into the never-ending horizon.
"Is it an omen?" Nightshade whispers, her body shivering.
"It is an unknown. Unprecedented," the tortoiseshell pivots to the midnight-black queen. "Sandstar is right. I cannot say if it is an omen, because I would not know what to look for."
Nightshade grimaces, then convulses. Petalheart stares emptily at her, unmoving. It is Ashflight who is first to react, springing to his mate's flank. The medicine cat cannot stop looking onto Nightshade, unmoving, then Sandstar says urgently, "It's happening!"
"Yes," Petalheart echoes nonchalantly. She blinks twice, then sweeps away the Bluegill scales with her tail and reaches for her herbs. She shuts her eyes, sees the coal-black warrior of her dreams. Sees his ferocious, icy-blue gaze and the divine fire in his body that spreads like wildfire.
She picks her way through the Mint, then the Sage and the Urtica and tenderly retrieves a mawful of Poppyseeds. Using her paws, she delicately parts Nightshade's mouth and gives her the painkilling seeds. Then she hastily finds the cobwebs with her tail and drags them toward her, waiting.
She waits longer.
The kitting is quick and painless. To the delight of everyone, there are no complications whatsoever. Besides the obvious, that is. Petalheart breathes sharply; her gaze fastens onto the bloodied, dark pelted kit before her. It is off-putting, she realizes, to look prophecy in the eyes.
The next few moments are a blur. She nods graciously at the naming of the firstborn, Stonekit, and flinches at the other's, Brokenkit.
She sighs and lets her body collapse onto her hind legs. Petalheart had lied to Nightshade; she had known Brokenkit's destiny for the past forty-three moons.