Flinthawk’s legs went weak. He sank toward the ground, claws digging furrows in the starlit earth as if he could hold on to something solid. “No,” he whispered, but the word broke in the middle. The faces he’d seen in his dreams crowded his mind, cats he’d watched fall beneath his claws. He had called them omens. Now they only stared back, silent and accusing. “You guided me,” he rasped, though the protest sounded thin even to his own ears. His shoulders trembled. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, wild and panicked, like it was trying to escape the body that had done those things. “I was obeying. I was doing what you wanted.” The starlit cat said nothing. The quiet pressed in on him until his pelt crawled. Flinthawk squeezed his eyes shut, but the memories did not fade. Blood on his paws. Shock in their eyes. His own voice, steady and righteous, as he passed judgment. “I had to,” he whispered, more to himself than to them. “The Clan was rotting. Someone had to be strong enough…” His words trailed off. The excuse curdled in his throat. If it had been a holy mission, why did his belly twist now like he’d swallowed thorns? His breath came in short, sharp gasps. The tremor in his legs spread to his whole body. It wasn’t StarClan’s will that had driven him. It was his fear. His anger. His need to make the unease inside him stop. And every time he’d struck, that feeling had quieted for a while. “I chose,” he choked out at last, the truth tearing at him from the inside. “I chose.” he was silent for a moment then he spoke “I’m sorry,” Flinthawk whispered, the apology tearing free at last. “StarClan, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything please punish me, curse me, send me to the Dark Forest. Just…just don’t let it end with them in my paws.”
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