Whitewing glanced at Ashfur. “Should we keep going to the lake?” she asked. “There might be prey near the shore.”

Ashfur gazed back at her, but didn’t reply.

Why isn’t he helping her? Lionpaw tried to catch his mentor’s eye.

Whitewing scanned the clearing. “Here is fine,” she decided. “Perhaps that clump of ferns?”

Lionpaw noticed her tail twitching again. If Ashfur wasn’t going to help her, perhaps he could. “There’s a bramble—” His suggestion was silenced by Ashfur’s tail flicking across his mouth. The warrior nodded at Whitewing. “Trust your instinct.”

“Ferns.” Whitewing led her apprentice toward a leafy thicket.

Ashfur murmured into Lionpaw’s ear, “I know you’re trying to help, but Whitewing needs to build her confidence on her own.” They watched as Whitewing nudged Icepaw into a crouch and adjusted her stance with a touch of her muzzle. “She’s doing fine.”

The ferns quivered. The pale green stems trembled from the roots rather than the tips; it couldn’t be the wind stirring them. Icepaw crouched and began to waggle her hindquarters, kneading the ground with her paws. Gently, Whitewing laid her tail over the apprentice’s back until Icepaw grew still. Leaning forward, she whispered into Icepaw’s ear, then sat back. It was up to Icepaw now.

Lionpaw watched as Icepaw darted forward and flung herself into the ferns.

A squeal from behind the fronds was quickly silenced, and Icepaw bounced out, a small vole dangling from her teeth. Her eyes shone with happiness.

Ashfur padded forward. “Well done!”

Whitewing fluffed out her chest proudly. “That was great, Icepaw!”

“Nice kill,” Ashfur added.

So much excitement over a tiny vole! It was probably too young to run away even if it wanted to. Lionpaw’s thoughts flicked back to the battle in the mountains. He was glad Icepaw had made her first kill so quickly, but what would they have said if they’d seen him fighting the mountain cats? Catching a bite of prey didn’t compare to defeating a whole Clan single-pawed.

“Thrush!”

Hearing Ashfur’s whispered alert, Lionpaw glanced over his shoulder, following his mentor’s gaze. A fat thrush was pecking among the leaves beyond the wide trunk of the oak. Silent as a snake, Lionpaw slithered around until he was behind it. Crouching onto his belly, he began to steal toward the thrush, tail lifted slightly so it didn’t stir the leaves. The thrush was searching for insects, unaware of the danger. Lionpaw felt a glimmer of satisfaction. Such a dumb bird deserved to be fresh-kill. He paused, judged the distance, then jumped. His massive leap cleared the tree roots and carried him three foxtails across the forest floor. The thrush spread its wings in panic, struggling to take flight, but it was too late. Lionpaw landed with deadly precision, flattening the bird with its wings outstretched, and killed it with a sharp nip to the spine.