“Do you think you’ve learned all there is to learn?”
“No! I’m sitting vigil!” The fur ruffled along his spine. He was a warrior now. Just like Mapleshade. She had to respect that. She couldn’t boss him around like an apprentice anymore. “I can’t talk now,” he whispered. “I’ll visit you when I can.”
Suddenly he was alone. He glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure, then shifted his weight and went on with his vigil.
Crookedjaw was shivering by the time dawn began pushing back the darkness. The apprentices’ den rustled and Willowpaw slipped out. She crossed the misty clearing and sat beside Crookedjaw. “You’re cold.” She pressed against him, warm and soft from sleep. Crookedjaw felt his eyes begin to close.
“Hey!” Willowpaw poked him. “The Clan will be waking any moment.”
Crookedjaw snapped awake, his heart lurching. He pulled away from Willowpaw. He needed the fresh dawn chill to keep him alert.
“Hi, Crookedjaw!” Whitefang padded from his den with Oakheart on his tail. “How was the vigil?”
“Long!” Crookedjaw stood up, shaking each numb paw in turn. “And chilly.”
“You should try doing it in leaf-bare,” Oakheart joked.
Hailstar padded from his den. “How’s our newest warrior?” he called.
“Ready for patrol!” Crookedjaw stretched his stiff muscles.
Shellheart ducked out of his den. “Owlfur! Brightsky! Are you ready?”
Willowpaw flicked her tail. “Oh, I’d forgotten!” She circled Crookedjaw excitedly. “We’re going on dawn patrol! Then Owlfur’s going to show me a new move and we’re going to try a mock battle.” She darted to the apprentices’ den, calling for Graypaw. “Wake up! We’re leaving!”
Graypaw stuck her head out of the den and yawned. “Already?”
Willowpaw rolled her eyes. “It’s called the dawn patrol for a reason.” She led a sleepy Graypaw to where Brightsky was stretching beside Shellheart. Owlfur was picking through the remains of the fresh-kill pile.
“Take something to Lakeshine,” Shellheart ordered. “She’ll be hungry.”
“And thirsty.” Brambleberry padded from her den. She signaled to Echomist, who’d followed Hailstar out of the leader’s den. “Will you sit with the kits while she goes for a drink?”
Echomist purred. “I’d love to.”
“Come on, Graypaw!” Brightsky called to her apprentice, who was lapping water at the edge of the river. “Those borders won’t mark themselves.” Shellheart was already leading Owlfur and Willowpaw out of camp. Graypaw scampered across the clearing and caught up with her mentor as she ducked out of the tunnel.
Crookedjaw felt a tug of disappointment as he watched the apprentices leave, but suddenly excitement thrilled through him. He didn’t have to train! He was a warrior now. He glanced at the space where the fresh-kill pile should be. He’d hunt. By the end of the day the fresh-kill pile would be heaped with fish.
“Good catch, Crookedjaw!” Shimmerpelt called across the clearing, her mouth full. The setting sun made her pelt glow as she leaned down for another bite of the fat trout glistening at her paws.
Shellheart purred. “I don’t know if he left any fish in the river for tomorrow!” The RiverClan deputy sat with Timberfur and Whitefang, sharing a pike. Crookedjaw glanced proudly at the fresh-kill pile. He’d caught nearly every fish there.
Brightsky rolled on to her back. “The rest of us might as well move to the elders’ den, now that Crookedjaw’s a warrior,” she teased.
Crookedjaw stretched, his muscles aching from hunting. “Newleaf fishing is fun.”
Willowpaw nudged him. “Even without me?” she whispered.
“It’s better,” he teased. “You steal all the best fish.”
“You snake-heart!” She pushed him with her head and he fell back, pretending to be beaten.
“No more, please!”
“That’s just the start!” She leaped on him and they tumbled across the mossy ground. Willowpaw’s claws tickled his ribs.
“Hey!” he yelped, squirming. “That’s not fair!”
She paused. “Really?” She blinked down at him innocently, then tickled him again. “You should have thought of that before you started teasing me!”
Birdsong padded down the slope toward the fresh-kill pile. She glanced at the two young cats, her whiskers twitching. “They start younger every year.” She began to rummage through the fish, pulling a plump gray perch from the bottom. “Tanglewhisker!” She called up to the elders’ den. “Are you coming or are you going to spend the evening pulling ticks?” She shook her head, muttering half to herself, “He can’t even reach most of them.”
Willowpaw leaped to her paws. “I’ll help him.” She nuzzled Crookedjaw’s ear and headed up the slope.
Crookedjaw straightened and yawned. The sun had disappeared behind the willow, and the camp was turning blue in the twilight.
“Your nest is ready.” Oakheart nodded toward his den. “It’s the one with fresh moss.”
