The dawn after her vigil broke cold and golden.
Alderidge rose from where she had sat unmoving all night, her pelt rimed with dew, eyes bloodshot but clear. She had not once closed them. She had not shifted. Barkclaw passed her at sunrise with a nod of silent approval.
Stormfern met her at the edge of the camp, already stretching out his healed leg.
“First mission,” he said, voice even. “Not going to tell you congratulations. Don’t need to.”
“I wouldn’t want it,” she replied.
But her tail twitched once.
Stormfern smirked.
Owlnose had chosen a mix patrol for the assignment - light scouting near the Hollow Pines where fresh scent of fox had been reported. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was risky. It meant crossing into borderland shadows, where thick root and brush could hide more than just prey.
Alderidge joined the patrol alongside two warriors: Duskskip, fast and sharp-tongued, and Hollowflame, broad and proud, who’d long eyed Alderidge with barely concealed skepticism.
“I hope you can do more than stare coldly at trees,” Hollowflame muttered under his breath.
“She’s better than most,” Stormfern growled, but Alderidge didn’t even glance their way.
They moved swiftly through the thinning greenleaf brush, paws silent, tails low.
The Hollow Pines loomed ahead - blackened trees leaning like old bones against the morning light, the ground beneath littered with dead needles and quiet rot. The air smelled… wrong.
Not just fox.
Alderidge froze, her nose twitching.
“Blood,” she whispered.
The others stopped.
Duskskip crept ahead, ears flattered. “There’s something here. Fresh.”
They found it moments later.
A fox, all matted fur and madness, dead at the foot of a half-collapsed stump. Blood caked its jaws. But it wasn’t what killed it that made the fur rise on Alderidge’s neck.
It had claws mark on its side - deep ones. Too deep for a fox fight.
“Not prey,” Stormfern murmured. “Something stronger.”
Hollowflame snorted. “Another patrol must’ve killed it. People didn’t finish the job clean.”
But Alderidge shook her head slowly. “No. This wasn’t Clan claws.”
They looked at her. She didn’t flinch.
“The pattern’s wrong. The shape. This wasn’t about defense. This was a message.”
As if to answer her, a new scent drifted in.
Rogue.
Recent.
Too close.
Duskskip stiffened. “We’re not alone.”
Stormfern growled low. “Circle formation. Now.”
They turned - tails brushing, shoulders squared - when a low hiss cut the silence.
From the shadows stepped three cats.
Not just rogues - organized rogues. Scarred, lean, with cold eyes and deliberate movement. Not like the wild loners of the past. These were the kind that hunted in silence and killed with planning.
The leader, a ginger tom with one eye and a silver tooth, stepped forward.
“Pretty patrol,” he rasped. “But small.”
No one spoke.
Then Alderidge did.
“Back off.”
The rogue blinked, slow. “And if we don’t little rock?”
Alderidge stepped forward, her paws firm. “Then I bury your scent so deep the trees will forget you ever existed.”
The ginger rogue’s smirk wavered.
Stormfern leaned towards Hollowflame. “Told you.”
But the rogues weren’t ready to leave just yet. A tense moment passed - claws half-unsheathed, muscles tensed - before the ginger tom let out a soft chuckled and backed away.
“No blood today. But soon.”
They disappeared without another word, slipping into the Hollow Pines like ghosts.
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When the patrol returned, word of the encounter spread fast.
Rogues gathering. Organized. Dangerous.
But what the Clan spoke of more was this: Alderidge, stepped forward when others hesitated. A new warrior, and already a shield between danger and her own.
That night, Hollowflame passed her as she sat by the alder stump.
“You were right,” he said gruffly. “About the message.”
Alderidge didn’t turn. “They’ll send more.”
“We’ll be ready.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the wind speak through the leaves.
“No,” she said softly. “I will.”
