Read Between the Lines (MistxFire)

[Spec]

The afternoon sun blazed down upon a pair of cats, one the single cat that would lift the curse from Fogclan, the one who heeded Starclan effortlessly and effectively. Like a silent killer, she stalked sin and rid the world of their ilk, all in Starclan's name, in the words they sent her all in the all-too vivid dream. Her fantasy was now reality, the mission They had entitled her to follow out. It wasn't going to be effortless, she was no fool, time and patience would be needed to purge the corruption from her clan, one cat at a time. And this day, her eyes lowered, to catch the bright and attentive gaze of Firepaw. She held back a grin, ears twitching in amusement as she recalled his past plight about how Owlstar had been neglecting him and therefore her mentoring duties. Each and every black mark counted if she were to mold this unfortunate truth into a tool she could use to clean the ranks of Fogclan. The thin line that creased her face, had long washed away her delight, instead hardening into the steely familiarity that donned upon her face when in the presence of her false leader whom she no longer recognized – and neither did Starclan. Her eyes were keen, cautious for impending noise and sound that would alert her of prey, friend, or foe. Mistpelt's black ringed tail flicked behind her, straightening slightly when her ears rounded upon her head, zeroing straight forward as she heard the tiniest scuffle in the tall grass. A mouse was only fox lengths away.

Expertly concealing a well placed ghostly smile, she turned towards Firepaw, giving him a look of a slight wryness as she spoke. “So, Firepaw...Show me how Owlstar has taught you to hunt...” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet in all its gentleness, one could not mistake the authority in her voice, the image of her deputyship and very soon leadership, speaking out for her. She was curious, however, to see just what sort of hunting style that heathen had passed down to her apprentice. How well had he perfected a hunting crouch, would his form be properly poised before the spring, how would he land upon the creature? Mentally, her mind was abuzz with inquiries towards this young tom's success, wanting nothing but the best to shine from her avid flame furred pupil. She already leaned towards him as a apprentice, but knowing that he was raised without the loving guidance of a mother scored her hide with irritation and pity. Even if he had somehow gotten the gift of second chance and previous opportunity, she remained unsure about how she would take to him, perhaps being the son of Rowanheart affirmed her judgment, seeing he was the mirror image of his father. Soundless now, she reclined into a lax posture, lowering herself slowly onto her haunches, while her tail flipped to its side opposite to her body, to motion towards the prey source ahead with a tight laced grin, just barely forced onto her face.

[Whiskers]

It was like... a fabulous dream, walking with Mistpelt into the depth of Fogclan's crowded forest, with the intention of a hunting trip. Finally. It was the only word that could really express the gratitude Firepaw was feeling after days of waiting, wishing, and lying outside of Owlstar's den as a desperate hint to the strong Fogclan leader. Finally. Finally. And though this was unfolding differently than he originally envisioned it, Firepaw was not disappointed. True, his mentor and leader was not taking him out, but the second-best cat in all Fogclan was. And Firepaw wasn't going to be so nit picky and discard this.

He was the lucky one, too. Frostpaw picking at mouse bile in camp, Blackpaw escorting kits around. He sort of felt guilty for the unfair treatment... because it seemed unfair, as if he was being favored because of his fur, his eyes, his heritage. Firepaw, though dense, was not stupid and he had seen his father snuggle up with Mistpelt. While the vision had burned his stomach and throat, now he saw the advantages of it. And I shouldn't feel bad about it. Not my fault, not my fault. I deserve this. Unlike Blackpaw, I don't have an amazing mentor. So Mistpelt is making up with it... and so...even if it's just cuz I'm Rowanheart's son, doesn't mean anything. Not my fault.

Firepaw's thoughts broke apart as Mistpelt paused and gazed down on him with a stern, appraising glance. Her words drummed inside him, causing his stomach to flip in anticipation and nervousness. He needed to impress this cat, his deputy. Firepaw wanted to show her that he wasn't just Rowanheart's son... he was special. He was talented. Like Finchpaw, only better. Yes, better.

He was already in a position where he was favored...so why not seal it with his claws, make it permanent? Finally he would be someone's favorite, not just slightly more preferred than another. Firepaw's whiskers trembled as these words repeated themselves over and over, being burned into his brain forever.

"I'll make you proud!" Firepaw whispered with a fierce confidence, though this time these words that he spoke were more than that. He would make them come true. The red-furred apprentice strode forward and fell into his crouch naturally. He practiced when he had nothing else to do, so it should be good, even great.

But the pounce, the stalk? Firepaw was nervous about these, and he licked his quivering whiskers to show this. His eyes darted back and forth before pinpointing the position of his prey. He stepped foward carefully and as lightly as his broad, heavy paws would allow. One step at a time... he could do this.

It felt like an eternity before he was in the position for the perfect pounce. Firepaw, eyebrows furrowed, resisted the urge to look back at Mistpelt to see her expression, and he just went for it. He sprung through the air with the energy of a spastic squirrel and he wrestled with the stupid mouse before clumsily delivering the death blow. Firepaw didn't know why he had a problem killing his prey, but he always felt so weird doing it. Perhaps their squeaks of terror sounded too much like kits to his ears.

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[Spec]

Sitting I reverence, lieing in wait to heed what intention Owlstar had already passed to this eager apprentice, she felt a certain pang of envy well up in her chest, a violet hued envy that soon blossomed into an exasperated afterthought of annoyance and frustration. Such a sinner as Owlstar had no right to raise her own apprentice, if Mistpelt could even call it that anymore. Her eyes were wary to pick up the subtle signs of neglect, sea foam gaze narrowed into thin slits, against a canvas of shadow.How dare she call herself a mentor, and to even show the plain audacity of neglecting said mentoring duties while she preaches it! The self entitled hypocrite... Luckily for the educational fate of this young fire furred tom, hope had arrived, in which she prayed that he would rise to grasp this rare opportunity by the neck. A peeking tip of salmon tinted tongue swiped over her maw, one of the clear signs that she was detached in thought, but focus resurface like as quickly as his words of stubborn reassurance pinpointed the tiny space of air besides her ears from his partially opened maw, drinking in the scents that Starclan blessed them with. She cast him a sideways smirk, lashes darting passed her optics as she nodded approvingly. She only hoped that he would live up to her expectations.

His entire form melted into a careful hunting crouch, as natural as if he were born for it, but 'action' and simple posing would not fill clan stomachs, although there were a few selective individuals she hoped would go hungry this night. Concealing a barking scoff with a brief sigh, she allowed his form to sink in, every step, every paw-fall calculated and appraised for its worth. Finding her chin tilt, she noted his patience, or rather, slight fear of nervousness. It didn't take a clan leader to realize that Firepaw wasn't completely comfortable with stalking, but he had his pace set in stone. Patience was key. Tension thickened their surroundings, her own thudding pulse apparent through her skin as she watched Firepaw's muscles crumple, only to spring to life, with enough momentum to soar through the air, full body extended, before landing heavily upon the apparently startled mouse. The longer the required finishing blow lagged, the mouses' cries of agony lingered, struck the air like a sour cord, tearing at her senses, but unlike the apprentice who only heard prolonged suffering, the image painted through the eyes of Mistpelt heared only noise, an insulting cutting string of sound that needed to be ended. Only when that forsaken melody was cut short, life ended, could the mouse fill out its livelong purpose; to fill their bellies. Mutely, Mistpelt rose to her haunches, pelt stiffening slightly under the mental analysis she performed only moments ago, which had gathered together to form a miniscule eternity. Approaching the flame pelted apprentice from his flanks, Mistpelt stared cooly down upon her pupil, in which he had much to learn to gain the knowledge he required to fulfill the oath to Starclan and Fogclan. “Not bad, but it could have been better. Your stalk was clumsy, but your patience was key in landing as you did upon the mouse. You were lucky it was elderly and not younger, for it would have surely heard you approaching it. Judge your distance between yourself and the mouse. Remember, you set the pace.” She tore her eyes from the young tom to land upon the mouse, killing bite aimed carelessly towards its flank other than its spine. “Our goal is to make this as painless as possible for the prey, clumsiness like that will only provoke unnecessary suffering.”

[Whiskers]

Firepaw let go of the long breath that he had caged in during the stalking now that the mouse was dead at his feet, and its whimpers had died along with it. The silence was a relief to his ears, but it was a reminder of Mistpelt's stony observation of him. Slowly, he turned around to face the deputy, his ears flicking back and forth as he wondered if she would approve, or disapprove of his skills. Did he do well enough?

Despite the instinct to look down at the ground as Mistpelt approached, Firepaw kept his eyes on her face, as his own expressions molded into anxiousness and longing. He wished to draw the compliments from his deputy's mouth. He wanted to bathe in them, or to hold them up in front of his brother and say, "Look what Mistpelt thinks of me. I'm as fanstastic as you are now." But he could not force any honey-covered words out of her mouth; he was not a Starclan cat and had no such power over anyone. But his eyes steeled into hers as if he was trying to find them.

But Firepaw, in the end, could not find them and Mistpelt's unabashed, tactless critique hit him hard. Clumsy? He was clumsy?! Firepaw's pelt prickled with unease and embarrassment, his first thought wallowing in his newfound failure. Finchpaw wasn't clumsy. He was frikkin' graceful, like a frikkin' she-cat, only...well, not. He probably would have caught the mouse before Mistpelt could say "go." He would have had pity on the mouse with his frikkin' gentle paws. Urgh, who was he kidding, he couldn't match up to anyone, especially not Finchpaw. Finchpaw was a medicine cat for a reason. Starclan obviously saw his perfection and just pushed him to the side. Why did he even try? Why? Why?

No. I'm better. I know it! Firepaw let out a quiet, almost inaudible growl before looking up at Mistpelt, once again determined, now that his moment of self-pity had fleeted away. His claws sprang forth, and he swiped his tongue over his nose. Victory was close enough that he could taste it. All he had to do was push himself and he'd be there. His eyes brightened.

"Got it, Mistpelt. Don't worry, I'll be as graceful as a bird next time and the prey won't even feel a thing! And I'll practice more too. I used to, with Finchpaw. We'd hunt leaves but that's just kit stuff," Firepaw smiled and then turned his head back toward the forest.

"I'll try again right now! If you want that is. Do you want me to?"

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[Spec]

A small wave of humiliation resonated weakly from his frame, giving her the briefest indication of his discomfort to her statement and blunt...could it even be called encouragement? Luckily for him, Mistpelt was not a mind reader, but she was aware of the fact between the rivalry between the two brothers, one, walking along the path of Starclan, and the other, trailing behind the path towards warriorship and maybe even future ranking as well. Could Firepaw possess some resentment towards his sibling, perhaps greater than she imagined? Shaking her thoughts from her head, she picked through the tattered remnants of this hunt towards the warm warms of the medicine cat's den. Between both medicine cat and apprentice, her set affirmation of their faith wasn't as comfortable with her as she wanted to believe despite their so-called 'closeness' towards Starclan. It vexed her to think that cats of little faith were in high rank among the clan, poisoning them slowly in sinful decay. It went against every single thing she was taught, the lessons imbedded into her very flesh and marrow. The knowledge alone made her shiver, spine raking with discomfort and irritation. Her claws slipped from their sheaths and scored the ground in even slits of four, disturbing the ground she stood upon. Realizing that this action was effecting her appearance, she shifted her weight awkwardly, the tiniest moment of unease before dawning the look of deputy once more.

Bit the vibe she attempted to interpret a moment ago all but vanished into a determined, eager grin, a simper of confidence once more. Mistpelt titled her head, a ghost of an action that seemingly expressed her amusement. Firepaw was quite the avid pleaser, and was eager and determined...fine qualities for any warrior, but even as her thoughts wove together the contours of a warrioship ceremony, she sprang to realization; that the ruddy furred tomcat wouldn't be the 'normal' warrior, she would be sure of that. She no longer saw his face, his eyes turned towards the forest, most likely still with that rambunctious fire to fuel his determination burning a hole through his gaze. Her chest rose as she inhaled, swiftly exhaling a lingering chuckle, concise, but equally pleased. It was high time some truth dawned upon the misinformed soon-to-be-warrior.”Finchpaw...” She paused, hoping that name along would make his eyes revert to hers once more, such a brave action that he had mastered long ago. Bravery. “, Probably still only knows how to hunt leaves, being a medicine cat.” His smile was returned, if only faintly, as a sign that even though her words held a certain aspect of humor, to perhaps cheer up his mood, had truth laced secretly within them as well. Medicine cats were useful, but they had their limitations. Starclan graced their gifts without distinction, a challenge for their chosen disciple, Mistpelt, to fix alone. Her paws propelled her body forward in liquid like motion, padding up softly beside the flame colored tom, tail lashing out harmlessly behind her, sea foam gaze scorching a path towards the trees. She nodded once towards Firepaw's inquiry. “Very well. Track down one more piece of prey, then maybe we can move on to some physical training.” This, of course, would only be possible if Firepaw proved himself and showed some improvement. Only then would be reward him with some sparing lessons.

[Whiskers]

Was it correct to say that Mistpelt’s words were music to his ears? Firepaw could have sworn that they practically sang to him, soothed him, strengthened him. He ached for more of them—he wanted, no, he needed Mistpelt to tell him how he was good, and how Finchpaw was much too overrated. Yes, Finchpaw was but a kit still, doing a duty for kits. Anyone could be a medicine cat, Firepaw thought. It could special courage to be a warrior.

Special.

Yeah, Finchpaw’s name had been held to the light for much too long! Didn’t Finchpaw know that he had to share the spotlight? That maybe it was Firepaw’s turn to impress and to get fawned over. And he would get this treatment, starting with Mistpelt.

His nervousness was gone now, as he realized that Mistpelt was there to help him grow. She was the one cat who understood… who could see his potential. With nary a word, he dropped down onto his haunches, and the world around him melted away. There was only Mistpelt, him…annnnnnd that very tasty looking robin a few meters away. Hah, what sharp eyes he had! He’d get that little bird if it was the last thing he’d do! True, hunting birds was hard. Firepaw wasn’t good at it. But if there was one thing Firepaw was good at, it was taking risks (albeit stupid ones, most of the time). He left Mistpelt where she stood and began the careful creep toward the robin.

“Kay, I decide the pace. And I gotta kill it quick. So zip in, zip out, no questions asked,” he whispered to himself, his eyes glued to the feathers of his prey. “Dumb ol’ bird won’t even know a thing.”

Firepaw paused, judged the distance, and then leapt with a snarl, striking down upon the creature with a fierceness he had never had before. The warbled cry never left the robin’s throat and it snapped underneath the apprentice’s sharp teeth.

Seeing he was successful, Firepaw purred and this grew to an excited yowl as he whirled around to face Mistpelt. ”I did it!”

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[Spec]

It had been a very long time since any young cat earned her approval, stressed and pushed for the gleam of satisfaction in her rarely compassionate eyes or a sincere smile to grace her maw. She had to force herself to remain stern with his increasingly intelligent actions, picking up on her words and using them to his personal advantage. Knowledge proceeded power, awareness and patience proceeded success, and Mistpelt fed off the the fortune of Fogclan, especially the positive attitude and devout faith of her clanmates. He watched, ever studious of her young apprentice, reclining into a near perfected hunter's crouch, eyes gleaming with the all so familiar predatory sparkle, one she defined as victory, sheer determination. She had scented the robin long before, I which she was sure that the robin itself triggered his natural instinct. He crept forward, each step scrutinized anxiously. A swift prayer, and then she was silent, though nor word escaping her jaws. Invisible briars prickled across his hackles, before finally exiling patience and leaping with a frenzied yowl, fangs bared as his weight collided with that of the small fowl. Force seemed distributed properly enough for the single attack to crush the spine of the bird, jaws clicking confidently to her words, driven by the promise of praise. Without a second's hesitation, its life ended, not even a cry to quell within its throat before its sharp dying breath.

Mistpelt was calm, almost completely opposite of the initial reaction to the flame furred tom. Rounding upon her with eager fierceness, his excitement nearly barreled through her. His happiness was shared, certainly, although the female kept her dignity, fondly gazing at her apprentice as memories recalled a time where she was just as bouncy and joyous over a successful, even ideal kill. The tiny smile that remained on her lips while she observed his stalk grew, transforming into a collected, but approving simper. He had done well, and his new mentor had been well pleased. She considered this young tom to be one of her own, a child, her kin in which to guide him to shine. His determination was admirable, especially coming from a apprentice. His words sounded out from his lips, exuberant and thrilled, while Mistpelt merely nodded. If only her eyes didn't betray her pride. “You've done well, Firepaw.” She mewed softly, glancing down at the piece of prey that lay before them. Even with two pieces of prey, though, she hardly considered it acceptable between the two of them, but she would give him a small break from hunting. Afterwords, she would have no trouble catching a few more items for the clan herself, and would assign Firepaw a quota to fulfill from now on. Providing meant preparing for the future, as well as honoring Starclan and the warrior's code. “You are one of the fastest learning apprentices I've ever seen. You will be an exceptional warrior. That's something I can promise.” With those (especially uncommon) fond words, she padded up beside him, her tail curling around his own tenderly...with the love of a mother. She bent her head down, a streak of pink peeking out between her lips as she licked the crown of his head, each swipe rasping along his fur in rythmatic, calming motions.

[Whiskers]

The young apprentice looked at the deputy with his eyes widening, adoration pouring out of his gaze. All initial thoughts about disliking Mistpelt were gone. Okay, so she shared tongues with his father, so what? She did that with other cats and it wasn’t like Firepaw owned Rowanheart. Rowanheart was a single tom and heeeey, if Mistpelt was interested, who was Firepaw to get in her way, just because he wanted his father’s attention? This was love after all. Love was almost as pure and as true as Starclan—no, just as! Starclan was love, after all, Firepaw recalled from his kithood days. Rowanheart always told him how there was no greater, better love that Starclan.

This was so cool, his dad’s mate was the deputy!

Wait, he was getting a little ahead of himself here. Firepaw reeled himself back in. They just shared tongues once, they weren’t even close to being mates. They were probably just friends…and this brought him back to having no real reason to dislike Mistpelt at all. As far as Firepaw could tell, she was the nicest, smartest, prettiest, smartest, keenest, smartest deputy ever, who was smart enough to realize how awesome he was.

And it just. Got. Better.

“You are one of the fastest learning apprentices I've ever seen. You will be an exceptional warrior. That's something I can promise.”

Firepaw couldn’t hold back his purr, which tumbled out of him rather loudly. He was about to thank her wholeheartedly and ramble on about how he would make sure never to let her down, when Mistpelt came forward. Her whole body flowed gracefully toward him, and Firepaw froze in surprise, and in some confusion too. What was she do—what the—

Firepaw was speechless as Mistpelt began to share tongues with him, but this was so much different than what he has seen between his father and his deputy. He shuddered with this new feeling of warmth and happiness, a feeling that he was… was protected. Loved. The ginger apprentice recalled in that moment, when his father had done this so long ago, when he was a tiny kit, whose eyes had barely opened. And maybe, before that, his mother had done it once before she passed away. It was possibly the best feeling he had ever felt, better than getting mentored, better than being right, better than getting a few genuine compliments. And as it put a wide smile on his face, it tore at his heart a little. Firepaw gasped nearly inaudibly at the pain that accompanied the pleasure. He didn’t know why it had appeared and he couldn’t understand why his happiness was so quickly becoming sadness. This was the best moment of his life—and it was slipping away so fast.

What in Starclan’s name is wrong with me? Firepaw thought miserably.

Firepaw buried his head against Mistpelt and tried to stifle his whimper, but it was a failed attempt. Now she was going to think he was pathetic and Firepaw didn’t even know why he felt these mixed emotions—so desperate, so lonely, so elated and joyous, all at the same time and all brought about by Mistpelt’s tender, motherly touch.

Stupid feelings.

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[Spec]

Her kit her, the child she never had, but then again...Firepaw wasn't a kit, nor was he even a stumbling apprentice, new to the field of serving. He was nearly old enough to become a warrior. She recalled his apprenticeship ceremony, so far away, blurred passed her line of sight, but even the scents were as strong as that fateful night. Even then, the she-cat wanted nothing more than to raise an apprentice of her own, but that cursed Owlstar hoarded away this bundle of potential, and if that wasn't enough, she felt that the black and white colored she-cat scorned her personally for treating him so terribly. Neglect and even persecution trailed in the flame hued tom's shadow, what should come naturally were now feats. The praise and partnership between mentor and apprentice were forsaken. Owlstar had secluded herself within her sins, darkness eating away at her soul, where Firepaw likewise rotted in a corner, left at camp where boredom and slothfulness threatened to consume him. But to her surprise, his spirit never faltered, and the attraction grew. It wasn't how his father's pelt gleamed with similar sheen, or how his stride matched his sire's, but his own personality, determination, despite the obstacles felled in front of him. In a way, he reminded herself of a younger Mistpelt, then Mistpaw, learning to wallow in the ways of Starclan and serve them to the best of her ability. Of course, at least Firepaw still had an actual parent, where her's hunted within the starry ranks above them. Suddenly stricken, she paused, tongue suspended in the air, eyes narrowed as the throbbing numbness returned to her. Their deaths had been her fault. No forgiveness. She could have chuckled if breath didn't seem so painful to her now, but ultimately, air rushed into her lungs, and her body reanimated, tongue touching the flame colored tom below her with the motherly tenderness she was denied. Was she even doing it the right way? The comforting...the calming, did he think it soothing, as she once did?

The first wave of sorrow hit her, melted into her flesh upon contact. She was briefly taken aback, glancing down instinctively towards her apprentice, eyes slitted at some unseen foe. Firepaw felt hurt, and rage nipped at her self consciousness. Mistpelt hated to think that he was in pain, but her aura brightened, with the closeness, her body softly wrapped around him, shielding him from the world and bathing him in Starclan's eternal love. The beacon was a single ivory hued she-cat, leaning over a single, near weeping young tom, and his suffering transferred between them. She felt his sins dissolve, shaken by the strength of her love, her forgiveness...after all, he had earned her trust, and with it, the mercy of her will. His sins were still there, shaken, weakened, shrunk by humiliation and humbleness probably, but they would never truly leave him until he was purged. For now, a quick snuggle was all he needed, some confidence he could grasp and find a foothold. His coat glistened under her tongue, smoothed down, ruffled in corners, his physical flaw was ignored as she focused on his spirit, the mailable soul her true goal. Her eyes were subtle, dreamily string down, eyes burning as intense orbs, miniature oceans, with the unpredictability and ferocity hidden in their depths, revealing only a tender affection. Each tongue was a controlled flame, bringing warmth and the illusion of protection, of perfect harmony, but soon, she would have to pull back and he would have to continue living the life Starclan intended for him to his utmost ability. Tilting her head, her chin rested upon an angle against the brow of his head, wanting to place her own eternal touch of comfort with him wherever he went. That was when a pitiful noise rumbled against her chest fur, although muted it was a cry of pain, pitiful whimper of either gratefulness or a wave of emotion he never thought he possessed. Perhaps both. Instead of the cold glint of stone reflecting from her eyes, her voice merely drifted from her lips into the air, right beside his ear. “Shh, Firepaw. You won't hurt any more. Owlstar is cruel to never have realized how special you are. As long as I'm with you, she can't hurt you any more. I'll always be there for you, don't ever forget that. Loyalty, loyalty always, my dear Firepaw.” For another brief second, she remained against him, allowing her words to sink into his flesh, imbed in his heart, before slowly pulling away, her body inched in the opposite direction, her posture poised and mimicking one of nobility, an angel...a beautiful angel....

...a beautiful, corrupt angel.

[Whiskers]

Firepaw felt himself calming down, each one of his flickering emotions smoothed over with a tender lick from Mistpelt. The tumultuous swirling in his stomach, the pathetic snivels in his throat—Mistpelt wiped them away, with a touch, with a word. He had never felt so… so wanted in his life. He had never felt so… loved.

Oh ew, he sounded like a she-cat! Firepaw ducked his head and shied away from Mistpelt, blood rushing to his ears. He couldn’t believe—oh he was such a sap—Finchpaw was the girly stupid one, he was supposed to be strong and brave! He wasn’t supposed to care about this sort of stuff. Hearts and feelings were Finchpaw’s department. Firepaw was only here with Mistpelt to train and to become a better warrior. After all, in just a few short moons, Firepaw knew that he would be old enough to qualify for an assessment, and after the assessment would surely come the long-awaited ceremony. But it would be pushed further back if he got soft.

He sniffed and grinded his teeth together, trying to stop the pulsing humiliation he felt in his veins. Mistpelt did not seem to be disappointed in him, but the risk that she would soon be was too great. He would not falter any more. He would not show his weakness, and he would certainly not cry over his feelings. As Mistpelt had said: Loyalty. Loyalty and strength. These two things would earn him his rightful place in Fogclan.

And though he desperately tried to ignore it, now Firepaw had a new goal. He wanted to earn a place in Mistpelt’s heart. He wanted her adoration…he needed her love and her approval, now that he had tasted just the smallest bit. It was a tease. Firepaw, so deprived of attention, needed much more. And this intense craving for a simple eyebrow raise or smile from the deputy tore any dedication he had away from his current leader. Owlstar had never cared. Mistpelt, finally, had seen something in him that Firepaw knew had existed all along. She was worthy of his loyalty and no one else. All other ties were trivial compared to this one to Mistpelt. Firepaw recognized that the only way he was going to prove anything to anyone—to his father—would be to serve his deputy.

“Yes, Mistpelt. I will never let you down,” he recovered with this ferocious resolve, raising his head to meet his deputy’s gaze. ”I can’t wait until you’re leader.”

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