They met in the heart of battle, surrounded by screams and fury.
Alderidge’s claws were bloodied, her flank torn by earlier strikes. The scent of Fox and cat and fire thickened the air. Warriors clashed across the clearing - Duskskip locked in combat with two rogues, Barkclaw shielding a wounded apprentice. Stormfern limped but fought with unwavering force.
But Alderidge saw only him.
The rogue leader.
His pelt pale, matted with dried blood, his eyes: still fog-pale, still dead, as they had been that day. That first day.
He stepped over the body of a fallen warrior without pause. His claws clicked against stone.
“So, it’s you,” he rasped, voice like a torn reed.
Alderidge said nothing.
“You froze,” he added, titling his head, a mockery of curiosity. “I remember your eyes. Kit-sized. Scared.”
“I remember the sound,” she whispered.
His eyes narrowed.
“The snap,” Alderidge said. “Of bone. The thud. The scream that didn’t finish.”
The wind carried the clang of battle.
But here, in the center of it all, the noise fell away.
Only the two of them remained.
Then - he lunged.
And the world tore open.
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He was faster than he looked - stronger too. He struck like a storm crashing through trees, wild and unrelenting. His claws raked across Alderidge’s shoulder, opening old wounds. His fangs snapped close to her neck.
But Alderidge gave ground only to draw him in.
She remembered how he fought - chaotic but precise, like a beast that learned through blood.
She endured his rage like stone endures rain.
And then - she truck back.
Her claws slashed across his chest, deep enough to stagger him. He snarled, but she was already on him, driving forward, all weight and fury. She dug into his side, teeth sinking near his scruff. He twisted, throwing her off, and they rolled across the earth, tearing at each other, jaws and claws clashing.
He bit her leg - she slammed his skull into the roots of a spine.
He sliced her cheek - she raked her claws across his throat.
He would not yield.
But neither would she.
Not now. Not after Sleetkit. Not after bramblekit.
Not after everything.
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Finally, the rogue faltered.
Breathing ragged.
Paws trembling.
He lunged one last time - desperate, unthinking.
Alderidge met him with all the strength she had left, her claws piercing his chest. They collapsed in a tangle of fur and blood.
Only she rose.
The rogue leader lay still, eyes open, but no longer cold - only empty.
She stood over him, chest heaving.
Around her, the battle began to end. The rogues fled, broken and leaderless. The Clan gathered, injured and exhausted, but alive.
Duskskip sat down hard, blood dripping from his ear. Hollowflame held a torn apprentice to his chest. Stormfern limped to Alderidge’s side.
“It’s done,” he said.
She didn’t answer.
Not at first.
She just looked down at the fallen rogue. Then at the trees.
Then up - past the treetops, to where the sky was breaking open with first light.
“It’s over,” she said, her voice quiet. “But not gone.”
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That night, they buried the fallen.
No songs. No speeches.
Just silence, and breath, and the wind stirring the leaves.
Alderidge sat alone by the alder stump.
Barkclaw came quietly, dropping a smooth stone at her paws - a warrior’s gesture. Not praise. Just… understanding.
She didn’t cry.
But the blood had dried on her cheek like a tear.
