The next few days unfurled in a monotonous haze for Akhara, each dawn bleeding into the next like watercolors smeared by indifferent rain. The ThunderClan camp, once a whirlwind of purposeful motion—warriors streaking toward the borders like arrows loosed from a bow, apprentices tumbling in mock battles that shook the dew from the bracken—now felt oppressively still to her watchful eyes. She spent them sprawled in the dappled shade of the Highrock's shadow, her colossal form a living monument of coiled tension amid the everyday bustle. Too much idleness, she brooded inwardly, her tail tip twitching like a serpent rousing from torpor. A god does not rust in the undergrowth; she forges paths through it. And yet here I lie, trussed up like a kit with a thorn in its paw, while the forest calls with the scent of untrod earth and the distant yowls of prey scattering before the wind. The bandages on her forelimb itched with phantom fire, a constant reminder of the badger's savage swipe, but it was the stagnation that clawed deepest at her spirit. She yearned to be out there, her massive paws thundering over root and leaf as she drilled Firepaw through the rigors of the warrior's art: teaching him to weave through shadows like smoke, to strike with the precision of lightning forking from a storm-swept sky. The boy—my flame-furred spark—needs honing, not coddling. How does he sharpen his claws against complacency when his mentor lounges like a well-fed elder?

The camp's rhythms marched on without her, a subtle exclusion that gnawed like frost at the edges of her patience. Dustpaw's sarcastic quips echoed from the dust-place as he scrubbed moss with exaggerated vigor, earning a cuff from Sandpaw that dissolved into shared laughter. Bluestar paced the lichen-draped entrance to her den, her blue gaze distant as she murmured with Whitestorm about patrol routes, their voices a low hum that Akhara strained to catch, half from habit, half from the frustration of being sidelined. Even the kits, those tiny whirlwinds of fur and mischief, seemed to mock her repose; they scampered past her resting spot, batting at her twitching whiskers with fearless paws, their squeals a chorus of vitality she could only observe. Look at them—unscarred, unbound. I was forged in cataclysms that would shatter mountains, breathed life into legends as Godzilla's echo or a dragon's wingbeat over forgotten realms. And now? Reduced to a sun-warmed boulder, watching the world spin without me.

Yellowfang's visits punctuated the tedium like burrs snagged in her pelt—regular, gruff, and laced with that sharp-tongued wisdom that made Akhara's ears flick in reluctant respect. The old medicine cat would shuffle over at irregular intervals, her scruffy gray fur disheveled as if she'd wrestled a gale on her way from the herb store, her yellow eyes narrowing to slits as she prodded the bandages with a paw that smelled faintly of bitter marigold and mouse bile. "Hold still, you overgrown badger-bait," Yellowfang would rasp on the second day, her breath hot and herb-scented against Akhara's flank as she unwound the cobwebs to inspect the healing gash. "Pushing it already? StarClan preserve us from deities with the sense of a flea-brained tom." Akhara would rumble a low protest, her voice vibrating through the ground like distant thunder, but she'd submit—for now—tail curling in a semblance of patience while inwardly seething. She sees me as just another mangy pelt to mend, blind to the fire that courses beneath. But healers guard secrets sharper than claws; perhaps that's why I tolerate her barbs.

By the third day, the wound had knit into a puckered scar, pale pink against her iridescent scales, the ache dulled to a mere whisper. Akhara tested it subtly in the quiet hours before dawn, flexing her paw against the cool moss, feeling the pull of sinew like a bowstring drawn taut but not yet loosed. Better. Stronger. The forest awaits—Firepaw awaits. Her thoughts drifted to him, out on dawn patrols with Graystripe, his ginger pelt a flash of defiant color amid the subdued grays and browns of his denmates. She'd caught glimpses: him returning with a thrush clamped triumphantly in his jaws, only to falter under Tigerclaw's amber scrutiny, or sharing tongues with Cinderpaw by the nettle patch, his green eyes alight with questions she ached to answer. He's growing, my little conflagration, but without the forge's heat? He'll smolder, not blaze.

It was mid-morning on the fourth day when Yellowfang approached again, her gait less hurried, a faint gleam of approval in her rheumy gaze as she carried a fresh bundle of dock leaves in her jaws. The sun hung high, gilding the clearing in liquid amber, and the air hummed with the lazy drone of bees pillaging the last blooms near the nursery. Akhara lifted her head as the medicine cat neared, her massive frame shifting with a rustle that scattered a few curious ants from the moss. "Back again, fang and claw?" she rumbled, her tone a velvet growl edged with dry humor, though her eyes betrayed the spark of hope flickering within. Let it be good tidings this time. I've clawed my way back from worse than a badger's tantrum.

Yellowfang dropped her herbs with a muffled thud and circled Akhara once, twice, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed along the bandaged limb. She pawed at the wrappings, peeling them away with practiced efficiency to reveal the mending flesh—no pus, no fresh blood, just the clean scent of healing skin and the faint, acrid tang of her poultices. "Hmph," she grunted, sitting back on her haunches with a creak of old bones, her tail flicking dismissively. "Stubborn as a thistle, you are. It's holding—better than I figured for a beast who charges into fights like she's got nine lives to burn. Light duty, then. You're cleared to stretch those tree-trunk legs of yours, prowl the camp borders if you must. But mark me well, Akhara: no hunts. No tearing through the undergrowth after squirrels like some overeager kit. And StarClan help you if I catch wind of you putting that whelp Firepaw through harsh training—none of your dragon-fire drills or whatever nonsense you call it. Gentle walks, tongue-sharing wisdom, that's the extent of it. Push too far, and you'll rip it open wider than a fox's grin. Understood?"

Akhara's chest swelled with a purr that bordered on a chuckle, deep and resonant, sending a ripple through the nearby bracken. Light duty. A leash of cobwebs, but better than chains. She flexed her paw fully now, the scar pulling taut but yielding no protest, and met Yellowfang's stern gaze with a nod that dipped her whiskered muzzle. "Understood, healer of thorns," she replied, her voice warm as sun-baked stone, laced with that ancient timbre that made kits pause in their play. "No hunts to stir the prey-scent from my pelt, no clashes of claw that would singe Firepaw's ears. I'll content myself with the shadows' whispers... for a time." Inwardly, though, her mind raced like a river in spate: Gentle walks, she says. But the forest's edges hold secrets enough to temper a spark into steel. We'll skirt the line, Firepaw and I—teach him the hunt's patience without the pounce, the battle's rhythm without the roar. Yellowfang guards the body; I'll guard the soul.

Yellowfang snorted, gathering her discarded herbs with a sweep of her paw, but a rare twitch of her mouth suggested something akin to a smile. "See that you do, god-cat or no. I've patched enough fools to know when one's itching for trouble." With that, she shuffled off toward the medicine den, muttering under her breath about "overgrown apprentices with delusions of immortality."

Akhara rose then, slowly, deliberately, her muscles uncoiling like a dragon stirring from its cavernous sleep. The sun warmed her scales, and the faint breeze carried the mingled scents of pine and distant thunder—promises of motion, of purpose reclaimed. Light duty, she echoed to herself, a spark of mischief igniting in her amber depths. But light as a feather can still fan a flame. Her gaze sought Firepaw across the clearing, where he wrestled half-heartedly with a moss ball near the apprentices' den, his laughter a bright peal against the morning's hush. Come, little fire. Let's walk the edge of the world together—before the healer sniffs out my rebellion.

Firepaw's approach cut through the languid haze of the afternoon like a sunbeam piercing storm clouds, his ginger pelt a vivid streak against the muted earth tones of the camp. The moss ball he'd been toying with earlier lay forgotten near the apprentices' den, abandoned in favor of this small act of devotion—a fresh mouse, plump and still warm from the chase, its glossy fur flecked with the faint dew of hidden hollows. He'd spotted it darting through the bramble thicket at the camp's edge, a fleeting shadow that had tested his patience and rewarded his pounce with a satisfying snap of jaws. For Akhara, he'd thought as he carried it back, the weight a talisman against the gnawing worry that had shadowed him these past days. She's been cooped up too long, like a caged bird with wings of fire. If a mouse can't lift her spirits, what will? His green eyes sparkled with the unbridled energy of youth, undimmed by the morning's chores or the subtle undercurrents of Clan politics that Tigerclaw's lingering stares seemed to weave into every patrol.

He padded up to her with a lightness in his step that belied the ache in his own paws from an earlier stint hauling bracken for the nursery, dropping the mouse at her massive paws with a gentle plop that sent a few grains of dust spiraling upward. The scent bloomed between them—rich, gamey, laced with the wild tang of crushed ferns— a humble tribute from apprentice to mentor, cat to near-divine guardian. Firepaw straightened, shaking out his ruffled fur, and flashed her a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes, bright as newleaf sunlight dancing on the stream. "Akhara!" he greeted, his voice a buoyant mew that carried across the clearing, drawing a curious flick of ears from Longtail sunning nearby. "Look what the forest coughed up just for you—fat as a tick on an elder, and twice as juicy. Thought you might be tired of staring at the same old brambles from your throne here."

Akhara's amber gaze lifted from the vole she'd been idly batting with her uninjured paw, the motion halting as affection warmed the storm-flecked depths like embers stirred to life. Ah, my eager spark, she mused inwardly, a low rumble building in her chest that she quelled before it could shake the ground. Always the giver, even when his own belly growls in protest. He approaches not with the wariness of the wounded, but the fervor of one ready to leap into the fray. Yellowfang's warnings echo like distant thunder, but how can I deny him this—the simple joy of motion, of growth? Her tail curled once, a subtle sweep that brushed the mouse closer, acknowledging the gift with the grace of a dragon accepting tribute from a favored village. The scar on her forelimb tugged faintly as she shifted, a reminder of fragility even gods could not wholly escape, but it was a dull echo now, overshadowed by the pull of purpose.

She bent her head to sniff the offering, her whiskers quivering with approval, the iridescent scales beneath her tabby stripes catching the light in a fleeting shimmer that made Firepaw's breath hitch—just for a heartbeat, a reminder of the otherworldly power coiled in her frame, the Godzilla-roar latent in her purr, the dragon's vigilance in her watchful stare. "A fine catch, little flame," she rumbled, her voice a resonant tide that washed over him, warm and enveloping, threaded with that ancient timbre that spoke of caverns deep and skies unchained. "Generous as ever. You've a hunter's eye that's sharpening by the day—soon the prey will whisper your name in fear before you even stir the leaves." Straightening, she nudged the mouse back toward him with her nose, a gentle insistence. "But share it with me, eh? No mentor worth her claws eats alone while her apprentice starves."

Firepaw's ears perked, a flush of pleasure warming his pelt as he settled beside her, tearing into the mouse with her in tandem—their jaws working in companionable rhythm, juices staining whiskers and drawing contented hums from them both. The camp faded to a soft backdrop: the murmur of warriors returning from the evening border-mark, the sharp scritch of claws on bark as Ravenpaw practiced his tree-climb under Dustpaw's heckling, the ever-present undernote of ThunderClan's heartbeat. For this stolen interlude, it was just them—mentor and charge, god-cat and aspiring warrior—bound by threads stronger than cobweb bandages.

As the last scraps vanished, Firepaw licked his chops clean, his gaze alight with that irrepressible spark of curiosity that Akhara both cherished and tempered like a smith with his forge. He leaned forward, paws kneading the moss in eager crescents, his tail lashing once with barely contained excitement. "So... training today? The sun's high enough for a good run through the training hollow—Graystripe showed me this dodge yesterday that had Lionheart yowling like a fox with its tail singed. We could work on it, maybe add your twist? Come on, Akhara, you've been stuck here forever. The forest is begging for us!"

Akhara's chuckle rolled deep from her belly, a sound like boulders tumbling in a dragon's lair, rich with fondness and a hint of wry caution. Eager as a kit at its first snow, and twice as reckless. Yellowfang's words ring clear—no harsh drills, no thunderous clashes that might split my scar like dry earth in drought. But this? A gentle foray, a sifting of seeds sown by others? That I can weave, without unraveling the healer's careful threads. She rose fluidly to her paws, testing her weight on the mended limb with a subtle flex that sent no protest racing up her sinews—only a faint, satisfying pull, like a bow bent but not yet drawn. The sun gild through her fur, casting her as a colossus of myth amid the ordinary sprawl of the camp, and she met his bright gaze with a nod, her expression a blend of stern wisdom and indulgent spark.

"Aye, we'll train, Firepaw," she agreed, her tone steady as ancient oaks, laced with the purr of conspiracy that made his ears twitch forward. "The blood in my veins hums for it as much as yours—no more lounging like a sun-dazed lizard while the world sharpens its claws without me. But mark this: light as a falling leaf today, nothing to test the edges of your limits or mine. We'll slip to the hollow and see what the others have etched into that fiery head of yours—the dodges from Graystripe, the feints from Lionheart, perhaps even a whisker of Tigerclaw's brutal precision, if you've dared peek at it." She leaned closer, her breath a warm gust scented with the mouse's lingering savor and the faint ozone of restrained power, her eyes locking onto his with that piercing intensity that stripped away pretenses. "Show me your patchwork of lessons, little one. We'll polish the rough stones into blades, but no forging in the full blaze—not yet. The heist's watchful eye would have my pelt for a nest otherwise."

Firepaw's grin widened, undeterred by the caveats, a thrill zipping through him like lightning forking through his veins. Light duty? Ha— with Akhara, even a stroll feels like stalking a shadow-beast. She'll see what I've got, and turn it into something fierce. Tigerclaw's glares be damned; this is what I came for—the fire in my blood, kindled by hers. He bounced to his paws, circling her once with playful energy, his tail high as a banner. "You won't regret it! Lead on, oh mighty one—before Dustpaw spots us and begs to tag along with his 'superior' form."

Akhara's tail lashed in amusement, her massive form turning toward the camp's edge with a grace that belied her size, the forest beyond whispering invitations through the barrier of thorns. Regret? Never with you at my side, spark of mine. But caution's cloak fits even gods, for now. Together, they slipped from the clearing, apprentice and mentor, cat and enigma, into the emerald embrace of the trees—where lessons waited not in thunder, but in the quiet rustle of potential unfurling.

The forest stretched around Akhara like a tapestry woven with secrets, its canopy a mosaic of emerald and gold where sunlight pierced the leaves in fleeting, dappled shafts. The air carried the sharp tang of pine and the damp, loamy breath of earth still wet from last night's rain, but beneath it all, a faint prickle of unease coiled in her chest, as restless as the wind stirring the undergrowth. She prowled with deliberate grace, her massive paws silent against the leaf-litter, each step testing the mended scar on her forelimb—a dull ache, but no longer a chain binding her to the camp's confines. Light duty, she thought with a flicker of wry amusement, her amber eyes glinting like twin suns caught in a storm's shadow. Yellowfang's leash chafes less out here, where the forest hums its own laws. But where is my spark? Firepaw should've returned by now, his jaws full of voles or at least the scent of effort.

She'd sent him to the sandy hollow near the old oak, a place where voles skittered through the grass like living shadows, perfect for honing his precision without taxing her own limits. His task was simple: bring back two, no more, no less, to prove he could temper eagerness with discipline. Yet the sun had climbed past its zenith, and the hollow had yielded no sign of his ginger pelt—no flash of flame between the ferns, no eager mew reporting success or failure. He's not a kit to be coddled, she reminded herself, her tail sweeping low, stirring a scattering of pine needles. But the forest holds more than prey—foxes, rogues, the whispers of borders crossed. If he's strayed too far... Her thoughts darkened, conjuring images of Firepaw caught in brambles or worse, pinned beneath Tigerclaw's judgmental gaze for some perceived lapse. The unease deepened, a dragon's instinct stirring beneath her tabby stripes, her iridescent scales catching the light in a fleeting shimmer that seemed to ripple the air itself.

She wove through the trees, her senses honed to a razor's edge—ears swiveling to catch the skitter of claws on bark, nostrils flaring for the familiar warmth of Firepaw's scent. The forest was alive with its own pulse: a squirrel's chatter high above, the distant gurgle of the river marking RiverClan's border, the faint musk of a badger's trail gone cold days ago. He's out here, somewhere, she thought, her massive frame lowering slightly as she navigated a tangle of roots, her movements fluid as a stormcloud gliding over the hills. If he's dawdling, I'll have him chasing his own tail for a moon. But if something's amiss... Her claws flexed instinctively, sinking into the earth, a silent vow to rend whatever dared threaten her charge.

A sudden rustle broke her focus—footsteps, quick and uneven, crunching through the underbrush near the river's edge. Akhara froze, her body melting into a crouch as natural as breathing, her scales blending with the dappled shadows until she was less cat, more myth—a Godzilla's silhouette lurking in the forest's heart. Her eyes narrowed, pinpointing the source: two figures at the border where ThunderClan's scent markers faded into the reedy, fish-tang air of RiverClan's territory. The first was unmistakable—Graypaw, his fluffy gray pelt puffed out against the chill, his tail lashing with agitation as he stood nose-to-nose with a sleek gray tabby tomcat, whose stripes gleamed like ripples on a moonlit stream. Stormfur, Akhara's mind supplied, recognizing the young RiverClan warrior from gatherings, his scent sharp with riverweed and confidence. Her ears twitched forward, catching their voices, sharp and heated, carried on the breeze like sparks from a fire.

"I can't believe you let her push you around, Graypaw," Stormfur was saying, his tone a mix of scorn and goading, his tail swishing in slow, deliberate arcs that screamed challenge. He leaned forward, his blue eyes glinting with a smugness that made Akhara's whiskers bristle. "Can't you see that Akhara isn't a cat? StarClan knows what she is—some scaled monster playing at being a warrior. You ThunderClan lot are blind, bowing to a creature that could crush you with a paw if she fancied it."

Graypaw's growl rumbled low, a sound more thunder than kitten, his ears flattening as his own tail lashed in mirror to Stormfur's. "Can't you see that, Stormfur?" he snapped, his voice crackling with defiance, though a tremor of youth lingered in its edges. "I trust Akhara more than I trust you, fish-breath. She's saved our pelts more times than you've caught minnows. I only meet you here because Featherpaw's my best friend across the border, and she'd have my ears if I didn't keep you from doing something mouse-brained."

Akhara's crouch deepened, her muscles taut as bowstrings, though she held her ground, a silent specter in the ferns. Bold words, Graypaw, she thought, a flicker of pride warming her chest like a hearthfire, though it warred with the sting of Stormfur's barb. Not a cat? Let them whisper of monsters and gods—I wear both like a second pelt. But this meeting... Her eyes narrowed further, dissecting the scene: Graypaw's defensive stance, the faint scent of RiverClan's border markers clinging to both toms, the absence of Firepaw's familiar warmth in the air. A clandestine parley at the border? Graypaw's no traitor, but secrets breed thorns. And where is my apprentice?

She shifted slightly, her injured limb protesting with a faint twinge, but she ignored it, her focus laser-sharp. Stormfur's probing, testing for cracks in ThunderClan's loyalty—or perhaps in Graypaw's heart. And Firepaw... if he's caught wind of this, he might be watching too, or worse, tangled in some other trouble. Her tail stilled, her breath a silent tide as she weighed her options: reveal herself and scatter this meeting like leaves in a gale, or listen longer, glean the undercurrents of this border-talk. Patience, old dragon, she counseled herself, her inner voice a rumble of ancient resolve. Let the young ones spill their truths. Firepaw's trail won't cool in a moment's pause.

"Featherpaw's got nothing to do with this," Stormfur hissed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, though his eyes darted to the trees as if sensing a shadow's weight. "I'm just saying, Graypaw, you're hitching your star to a creature that's more myth than mentor. What's she teaching Firepaw, eh? How to roar like a badger? How to scare the prey from here to Fourtrees? Wake up—she's not one of us."

Graypaw's hackles rose, his claws unsheathing to dig into the damp earth, his voice a snarl now, raw with loyalty. "She's more ThunderClan than you'll ever understand, Stormfur. She's fire and fang and heart—she'd die for us, and you know it. You're just jealous RiverClan doesn't have a warrior who can shake the ground with a step. Now back off before I make you regret crossing the scent-line."

Akhara's lips twitched, a silent purr of approval stifled in her throat. Well said, young storm. You've a warrior's fire, even if your paws still stumble. But the unease lingered, a claw pricking at her ribs. Firepaw's absence gnawed louder now, a void where his bright scent should have been. Voles don't take this long, not for him. Either he's lost the trail, or something's snagged him. She rose from her crouch, her decision crystallizing like frost on a leaf. She'd track Firepaw's scent first, follow it to the hollow or beyond if needed, but Graypaw's border banter would not be forgotten. Words like these ripple—Stormfur's doubt could poison more than one heart if it spreads.

With a final glance at the two toms—Graypaw's defiant stance, Stormfur's retreating step as he muttered something about "foolish loyalty"—Akhara melted back into the trees, her massive form a whisper of scales and shadow. The forest closed around her, its secrets hers to unravel, as she set her senses to Firepaw's trail, her heart a drumbeat of mentor's worry and dragon's resolve. Find my spark, then deal with these whispers. The forest tests us all, but I'll not let it dim his flame.

She dipped her head to Graypaw, her voice a deep, resonant purr that vibrated through the ground like the aftershock of a distant quake, warm with approval yet laced with the gravitas of her ancient lineage. "You did well defending me, Graypaw," she said, her words rolling out like a tide, soothing and unyielding all at once. "Your heart burns true, young storm—loyalty like yours is a claw that cuts deeper than any taunt." Her tail flicked once, a deliberate arc that brushed Graypaw's flank in a gesture of camaraderie, though her eyes never left Stormfur, pinning him with a gaze that could have splintered stone. He speaks of monsters, she thought, a flicker of amusement curling in her chest, but he forgets that monsters guard their own. Graypaw's words are a shield, forged in trust. I'll not let them rust.

Stepping back, she softened her stance, her massive frame settling into a posture that was less deity and more mentor, though the shimmer of her scales betrayed the power coiled beneath. The movement tugged faintly at the scar on her forelimb, a reminder of Yellowfang's stern edict—light duty, no hunts, no harsh training—but the ache was a mere whisper now, drowned by the urgency pulsing in her veins. Firepaw's absence was a thorn lodged deeper than any wound, its barbs sharpened by each passing moment. She turned her gaze fully to Graypaw, the warmth in her eyes tempered by a shadow of worry that even a god-cat couldn't wholly conceal. "Have you seen Firepaw?" she asked, her tone steady but carrying an edge of unease, like the first rumble of a storm gathering beyond the ridge. "I sent him out hunting—voles, near the old oak in the sandy hollow. He should've returned by now, jaws full or empty, but the forest's too quiet. It doesn't sit right."

Graypaw's ears flattened slightly, his fluffy gray pelt still puffed from the confrontation with Stormfur, though his amber eyes softened with regret as he shook his head. "No, sorry, Akhara," he mewed, his voice rough from the earlier growl but earnest, tinged with the same concern that mirrored her own. "I haven't seen him. I was out on patrol with Lionheart earlier, checking the ShadowClan border, and then I swung by here to... well, deal with him." He flicked his tail toward Stormfur, who lingered at the edge of the clearing, his posture stiff with the wariness of a cat who'd overstepped and knew it. "Stonefur was waiting for me—something about Featherpaw wanting to pass a message, but it was just his usual prodding. Firepaw wasn't with us, and I didn't catch his scent on the way here. Maybe he's still at the hollow? He's been working hard on his stalking—might've gotten caught up chasing a tricky vole."

Akhara's whiskers twitched, her mind racing like a river in spate. Firepaw, caught up? Possible, but his heart's too eager to dawdle without cause. He'd have come bounding back, tail high, even if he'd missed every mouse in the forest. Her gaze flicked briefly to Stormfur, who shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, his tail tip twitching as if debating whether to speak or flee. This one's no threat now, but his words stir ripples—doubt, division. No time for that. Firepaw's trail comes first. She straightened, her massive frame casting a shadow that stretched toward the river, her scales glinting like a dragon's hoard in the dappled light. "Thank you, Graypaw," she rumbled, her voice a low tide of gratitude and resolve. "You've done your Clan proud today. Finish your... talk with Stormfur, but keep it brief—borders don't forgive lingering paws. I'll track Firepaw myself. If he's tangled in brambles or chasing shadows, I'll find him."

Graypaw nodded, his chest puffing slightly at her praise, though his eyes darted toward the trees, as if half-expecting Firepaw's ginger form to burst through the ferns with his usual reckless grin. "I'll check the hollow after I'm done here," he offered, his tone firm with the loyalty that had sparked his earlier defense. "If he's not there, I'll fetch Lionheart and we'll comb the territory. He's probably just... being Firepaw."

Akhara's lips curled in a faint, fond smile, though it didn't reach her eyes, which burned with the intensity of a predator scenting prey—or peril. Being Firepaw. Reckless, bright, a spark that could ignite a forest or burn himself out if not guided. "See that you do," she replied, her voice softening to a purr that carried a mentor's trust. "But don't let Stormfur's words burrow too deep. Cats like him see scales and fear wings, but they miss the heart beneath. Stay sharp, Graypaw."

With a final nod, she turned, her massive form gliding back into the forest's embrace, her senses stretching like tendrils to catch Firepaw's scent—ginger fur, warm earth, the faint musk of effort. The river's gurgle faded behind her, as did the low voices of Graypaw and Stormfur, their tense exchange a distant hum against the forest's chorus. The old oak, the sandy hollow, she thought, her pace quickening despite Yellowfang's warnings, her injured limb bearing her weight with only a faint protest. If he's there, I'll cuff his ears for worrying me. If he's not... Her claws flexed, sinking into the earth, a silent vow etched in the dirt. No fox, no rogue, no border-crossing shadow will keep my spark from me. I am Akhara—god, dragon, cat—and I will find him.

The trees closed around her, their branches whispering secrets she would unravel, step by silent step, as the forest held its breath for what a god-cat might do when her apprentice's light flickered out of sight.