The thaw came late that year.
Ice clung to the undergrowth even as the trees stretched bare limbs towards a paler sun. Leaf-bare had loosened its grip, but it had not released the forest entirely. Hunger still gnawed at the bellies of warriors and queens alike, and the shadows beyond the camp had grown restless with scents that did not belong.
Rogues.
They were not the desperate loners the Clan was used to driving off. These mowed like ghosts - silent, swift, and cruel. They struck at dusk or just before dawn, vanishing before claws could meet fur. First it was prey taken from traps. Then, claw marks on the outer trees. Then a border patrol never returned.
The Clan posted sentries at all hours.
But that day - just after the sun touched the treetops with gold - Alderkit, Bramblekit, and Sleetkit slipped through the back of camp.
They didn’t mean to disobey. The snow had begun to melt into slush, and puddles glinted like small, frozen stars across the forest floor. Bramblekit had dared them to race to the hollow log just beyond the thistle wall. Sleetkit followed with a whimper and a laugh. Alderkit followed with silence.
Just a few paw-lengths. That’s what they told themselves.
But beyond the log, the shadows moved.
Three shapes.
Fast. Wrong. Reeking of old blood and dead leaves.
“Run!” Bramblekit hissed, already turning. She shoved Sleetkit, who stumbled, crying out. Alderkit didn’t move at first - her paws locked as she stared into the eyes of a rogue. Pale as fog. Empty as stone.
Then everything shattered.
Sleetkit didn’t make it two steps.
A blur of fangs, a thud in the mud, a sound like the breaking of bone.
“No-no, no!” Bramblekit screamed, lunging back at him, claws unsheathed, teeth bared in a kits furious snarl.
She made them pay.
She struck one across the muzzle, raking blood. Bit another’s ears. She fought like fire.
But fire burns fast.
They overpowered her. Her scream was short.
Alderkit was still frozen. Her legs refused her.
She watched it all.
The rogues didn’t linger. One of them looked at her - just for a moment - and then turned and fled with the others, shadows into trees. Gone as quickly as they had come.
Alderkit stood in the silence they left behind.
The clearing was stained red and brown. Bramblekit’s body lay twisted, Sleetkit’s smaller frame barely visible beneath her. One had tried to shield the other. Both were still.
A breeze stirred through the trees.
And only then did Alderkit move. One slow step. Then another. She did not cry. She did not scream.
She knelt beside her sister, touching her flank with her nose. Cold.
She pressed her head to Sleetkit’s, where a small tuft of fur still smelled like milk and moss.
And then, finally - wordlessly - tears fell.
No sobs. No sound. Just wet streaks cutting through the dirt and frost on her face.
That was how Barkclaw found her, some time later.
The patrol had realized the kits were gone. Warriors were fanning out in panic. But Barkclaw, old though he was, had followed her scent like a ghostwalker. He came upon her in stillness, standing between her siblings’ bodies, staring into the trees as if she could still see them.
He said nothing at first.
Then, gently, he approached and sat beside her.
The blood had dried beneath Bramblekit’s claws. Sleetkit’s small mouth was slightly open, as though halfway through a giggle that never finished.
Barkclaw bowed his head.
“They fought,” he said softly. “They fought like warriors.”
Alderkit did not respond.
He looked at her. So small. So still. The tears had stopped, but the wet lines down her cheeks gleamed like battle scars. Her eyes held nothing now. No fear. No fury.
Just silence.
“I know what it’s like to lose your kin,” Barkclaw murmured. “To lose more than you share. You don’t come back from that the same.”
Still nothing.
“But you can come back.”
Alderkit turned her head slightly, not quite looking at him, not quite looking away.
Barkclaw leaned closer. “Let it change you - but do not let it break you.”
She blinked slowly. Then, voice hoarse from disuse, she whispered:
“They didn’t cry.”
Barkclaw felt something twist behind his ribs. “No,” he agreed. “They didn’t.”
“I won’t either,” she said.
And she never did again.
That day beneath the alder, she had grieved all she ever would.
And when the tears dried, only stone remained.
