âdo you believe in destiny, featherpaw?â
the molly clicks her tongue and looks to the starry-eyed skylight, mulling her brotherâs question. it was one of those spur-of-the-moment questions that children ask and then forget about, their tail brushing for a moment against something greater than their skin and then slinking away.
âi donât think i believe in destiny, stormpaw.
but the stars up there are pretty anyways.â
stormkit is thrust into the world with his motherâs blood on the back of the ears. he cannot see, but through his muffled ears he hears commotion, and he feels a brazen tongue clean him as he wails for something he cannot describe.
for a second, in the darkness of his newborn blindness he sees something shimmering before him. he barely manages to tilt his head up and sees the thin outline of a starclan cat, presiding over a warm body that smells of milk.
this is destiny, stormkit. this is purpose.
another moment and the shimmering shape that smells of the forestâs whispers disappears, and stormkit only knows that something is missing. he wails again, and again and again, into the pit of blackness that he will forget about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
do you believe in destiny?
death has many scents. some are haunting yet serene, daring at a world beyond, like at the moonstone. some can only be described as thick and earth-shattering, like the mist of a battlefield cleared.
but the bonehillâs smell of death was one of rot and finality. it had no grace except for that possessed by the tabby tom who sat at the top, his eyes glittering with control and a speck of fear.
stormpawâs eyes are transfixed on his mentor, watching as the rubble-colored tom stares down the tabby. his skeleton is on the outside looking in, and his eyes look as if they have a rippleâs rings about them. he knows that stonefur will be ordered to kill him, and yet he hopes against hope that something else will happen, that the bonehill will fade away and stormpaw will wake up in the apprenticeâs den with featherpaw beside him like it was all a nightmare that lingered beyond its time, and yet-
âyouâll have to kill me first, tigerstar.â
the area becomes a blur as two cats, and then three and then one, fling themselves at each other. he could hear stonefur mutter something about being the captain of his own soul- or something, stormpaw could not hear above the roar of blood and the growling sound of claws ripping through fur-Â and then the tom was gone, his body splayed out across the grass, . stormpaw felt dizzy as he saw a spot of blood that had flown an odd way across his leg.
and then- he saw a thin outline of starclan, and he knew he had seen it before but could not name the place or time.
this is the chosen life. remember it, stormpaw.
stormfurâs only dream is of that destiny. he seeks it like a kitten seeking motherâs milk.Â
sometimes his clanmates make fun of him for it. âyou shouldnât be so hung up on being starclanâs chosen one,â jokes heavystep. âyou young whippersnappers are always lookinâ to be in a prophecy. between you and hawkpaw all i ever hear about is destiny! if you want to know what prophecy really does look at firestar at the next gathering. poor bastardâs already getting white hairs.â
but stormfur hopes. he isnât sure if itâs the debt he must pay to stonefur, or atonement for his motherâs death. but he knows he wants even a drop of destiny on his pelt. he wants to prove himself.
one night, he sees that familiar thin starry figure again, on a night where his den is just a little too misshapen to sleep on, and he approaches it, his eyes brimming with awe and a haunting sense of- what was it- nostalgia?
but the spirit does not notice him.
its tail brushes against his sleeping sister
the journey is, stormfur admits, not as difficult as he thought. sure, he would not have believed it if he had told himself a moon ago that heâd talk to a badger and  walk through a mountain, but compared to other things in his life he could never predict it certainly isnât the most unpleasant- the smell of the bonehill still reeks in the back of his mind.
but somehow he is no longer sure of whether he trusts starclan.
feathertail acts different now. gone was the spark of rebellion and the flame of defiance in her eyes- now, bland starlight peppered them. her fur, which she once prided in for its shagginess, is now uncharacteristically silky. she felt⌠sterile? stormfur wasnât sure how to describe it.
she always talked of destiny now, and of fate. she was always eager to see what her fate ultimately was.
the spirits also keep leading her to that windclan boy. thereâs something about the windclan boy that stormfur doesnât trust- perhaps itâs the three odd glints of white light in his eyes or the scent of holly on his breath.
but still, stormfur grasps in the air for that concept of a destiny beyond, something so powerful and profound he struggles to describe it. and when the tribe cats look at him like heâs a messiah- the clan-saving silver cat the stars told of- he finally thinks heâs about to feel it.
but something tells him this is not the feeling he wanted.
the sharptooth looks like a caricature. its claws and teeth are grotesque- something perhaps a particularly daring queen would make up for a story to keep her kits from wandering into the woods- and scars cover its shoulders and nose like nettle. its growling sounds almost like feline speak, but so distorted that its exact words are never clear.
âi think if we corner it-â stormfur began to instruct, but he stopped once he looked up to see fetahertail, at the top of the cave, focused on the spikes above, her ears flicking as the spirits whisper into it, and one of them pushes on  her side and another kicks at her feet, and then, and then-
she is falling, and time is fast yet slow, and she slams into the spikes, and she is falling, and she is falling, and she is falling, and then thereâs a crash, and the sharptooth falls to the floor, and then-
the only thing stormfur remembers, next, is standing over his sisterâs dead body. her chin was ajar, blood pooling around it into a perfect circle.
stormfur looks up. the spirits. they were here now. so many of them, each carefully examining the body like a hunter analyzing its catch.
stormfur does not have the energy to think.
but he has the energy to speak.
âDOES THIS SEEM RIGHT?!?â he challenges them, his face dripping with tears. âIS THIS DESTINY? TO THROW AWAY YOURSELF JUST TO GET A TASTE OF THE CHOSEN LIFE?Â
BECAUSE IF IT IS, I DONâT WANT IT.âÂ
âDOES THAT FEEL RIGHT?!?â
Stormfur, this is destiny.
âI TOLD YOU, I DONâT WANT IT. LEAVE.â
he is surrounded by spirit after spirit, begging him, pleading with him, and then he shuts his eyes- and when they are open, the spirits are gone and the air smells clear.
the air, he thinks, has not smelled clear for a long time.
âdo you believe in destiny, dad?â
the tom clicks his tongue and looks to the starry-eyed skylight, mulling his daughterâs question. it was one of those spur-of-the-moment questions that children ask and then forget about, their tail brushing for a moment against something greater than their skin and then slinking away.
thereâs a haunted look in stormfurâs eyes, but it is soon replaced by a bittersweet warmth. he clutches a plumy gray feather under one paw.
âi donât think i believe in destiny, lark.
but the stars up there are pretty anyways.â
