Lionpaw stumbled toward her, rage surging beneath his pelt. Growling, he pawed at her, but she lay heavy and motionless.

She was already dead.

He glared at her, satisfaction welling in his belly.

You deserve it!

She had caused the battle that had made the sun vanish. And now the Clans were falling apart, turning away from StarClan as StarClan turned away from them.

His claws slid out, curling from his paws, longer and sharper than blackthorns. They scraped the cave floor, gouging furrows in the stone. Blood pounded in his ears, heat surging through him as though he were in battle. No enemy could beat him; no foe could spill his blood.

Let the battles come. Nothing can harm me. I am more powerful than StarClan!

“Get off!” Foxpaw’s indignant mew woke him. “You’re digging your claws into my back!”

Lionpaw rolled away and stumbled out of his nest. “Sorry.” His mind was fuzzy with sleep, but the dream still haunted him. He staggered out of the den, feeling sick.

I was glad she was dead!

Horrified, he padded into the clearing.

I loved her once.

The morning sun streamed onto his pelt, but he shivered. Fear spread like ice through his bones. He licked at his chest, relieved to find it didn’t taste of blood and his fur wasn’t stained red.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Hollypaw was carrying moss to the elders’ den.

Lionpaw didn’t reply. He kept washing. He felt his dream had tainted him. Did he really want to become more powerful than StarClan if it meant spilling so much blood?

Cloudtail was putting Cinderpaw through her paces below Highledge. “Jump, duck, and roll,” he ordered.

She practiced the battle move, landing perfectly on all four paws.

“How did your leg feel?” Cloudtail prompted.

Cinderpaw purred. “Like all my other legs!” She trotted around her mentor with her tail in the air. “Absolutely fine.”

Millie was coughing in the nursery, her kits mewling while Daisy tried to soothe them. “It’s all right, my sweets. Try feeding again.”

Sandstorm began rattling the branches of the apprentices’ den. “Wake up, Foxpaw, you dormouse!”

The thorn barrier shivered as Graystripe pounded into camp.

Cloudtail looked up. “Any sign of WindClan?”

“No,” Graystripe answered. “The borders are freshly marked, but no cat’s crossed them.”

Dustpelt and Whitewing followed him in and padded to the fresh-kill pile.

Whitewing picked through the prey left from last night. “Has the hunting patrol left?”

“Not yet,” Sandstorm called. “We’re heading out shortly.” She rattled the apprentices’ den once more. “Once I can get Foxpaw out of his nest. He thinks he’s allowed to miss all his duties while Squirrelflight’s sick.” She looked at Lionpaw. “Do you want to come hunting?”

Lionpaw paused in his washing. “Yes.” Perhaps a run in the woods would clear his mind. He could pretend he was like any other apprentice—for a short time, at least.