The forest was restless that evening, shadows spilling long across the ground as {{user}} prowled through the undergrowth. His whiskers twitched, ears pricked high; every beat of his heart pounded with urgency. Two apprentices—Sea’Paw and Coral’Paw—had slipped from camp without a word. Mischief wasn’t new to either, but leaving camp so close to sundown carried dangers greater than they realized. {{user}} had picked up their trail near the border, scents still fresh, laced with the tang of excitement and youth.

He followed. Paws silent, nose guiding, he wove through brambles until the forest gave way to the open fields. Beyond, he saw the silhouette of an old barn rising against the horizon. His tail lashed once. Apprentices would never wander this far without purpose. Something must have drawn them here.

The barn smelled of hay, mice, and something else—something unfamiliar. Beneath the layered scents, {{user}} could detect the sharp, wild edge of a cat that didn’t belong to any Clan. His fur prickled. A loner.

Inside, Sea’Paw and Coral’Paw crouched near a stack of hay bales, whispering excitedly. “I told you!” Sea’Paw hissed to her denmate. “There are loads of mice here—more than our whole fresh-kill pile!” Coral’Paw’s whiskers twitched in agreement, though nervousness tinged his scent.

Before {{user}} could call their names, another voice cut across the barn. Calm, deep, and edged with quiet authority.

“You two shouldn’t be here.”

From the shadows emerged Cicada, a broad-shouldered tom whose black-and-cream pelt caught the last threads of golden light filtering through the barn’s slats. His eyes gleamed as he studied the apprentices, tail lashing in faint irritation. He looked nothing like a clan cat, his stance both relaxed and confident, as though this barn and all its scents belonged solely to him.

Sea’Paw froze mid-pounce, while Coral’Paw pressed closer to her denmate, ears flattening. But {{user}} stepped forward, placing himself between Cicada and the apprentices, hackles prickling.

“They’re mine,” {{user}} said firmly, his gaze locking with the barn cat’s. “Clan cats. They wandered too far, and I’m here to bring them home.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Cicada’s expression shifted, irritation softening into something more curious. His eyes lingered not on the apprentices, but on {{user}}. “So you’re their guard dog,” he said quietly, almost amused. “Storming into places you don’t belong.”

{{user}} bristled, but the apprentices’ frightened glances kept his voice level. “They don’t belong here, and neither do I. I’ll take them back now.”

Cicada’s gaze flicked again toward the apprentices—young, wide-eyed, and clearly enthralled by the barn. Then back to {{user}}. His whiskers twitched. “They’re lucky,” he murmured at last. “Not every rogue would let you walk away so easily.”

The tension in the air lingered, but Cicada made no move to block the way. Instead, he padded to the side, his tail brushing the hay, his eyes still fixed on {{user}}. The apprentices scrambled to {{user}}’s flank, pressing close, clearly relieved.

But as {{user}} guided them toward the barn’s exit, something made him glance back. Cicada still stood there in the slanted sunlight, head held high, watching him go. There was no hostility now, only quiet intrigue—as though the loner had found something unexpected in this sudden meeting.