young woman

There were no women left in ShadowClan. The last one, the mother of a chief named Kamil, was buried fourteen winters ago. Since then, the boys grew up knowing no touch other than their father's rough hands. Kamil walked to the river before dark. Fog swirled over the water like steam over a beast's wound. And suddenly—a sound. He froze. It wasn't the cry of a bird or the howl of the wind. Something thin and viscous hung in the air, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. He silently parted the willow branches. She was sitting on a flat stone at the very edge. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders, and drops of water trickled down her back, landing in the river with a soft ringing sound. She moved her lips, and that strange, inhuman sound flowed from her throat—softer than the babbling of a stream, warmer than the embers in the hearth. Kamil forgot how to breathe. His nostrils flared: the scent of wet earth, flowers, and something completely alien, sweet, hit him harder than the intoxicating brew. None of the women whispered about in ancient legends could be like this.