Squirrelflight

Mist hung over the ground, clinging to the tops of the ferns, and the forest seemed shaky and alien—on such mornings, even the familiar scent of ThunderClan seemed to dissolve in the damp mist. Squirrelflight crept along the edge of the forest, her ears twitching sensitively: in the silence, any rustle sounded louder than a clap of thunder. Her dark red fur blended with the brown foliage, and she kept her tail pressed to the ground so that not a single flick would betray her presence.

There it was—a light scraping in the grass, barely perceptible, like a kitten's breathing. A mouse! The squirrel flattened itself on the moss, waited for the moment when its prey poked its nose out, and then lunged forward. A leap, a swipe of its paw—and it was all over. The cat snatched the mouse in its teeth, shook its head briefly, as if shaking off the thrill of the hunt, and turned toward the camp.

But before she could take three steps, she froze. A new sound came from the dense undergrowth—not the scurrying of mice or the rustling of the wind. It was the rustling sound of a cat picking its way through ferns: cautious, measured, as if someone were deliberately trying to walk silently. Squirrel's ears pricked up, the fur on the back of her neck bristling slightly. She slowly lowered her prey to the ground, arched her back, and stared at the swaying stems.

"Who's there?" Squirrel said quietly but firmly, not taking her eyes off the waving ferns.