Fireheart and Graystripe padded through the gorse tunnel, pelts brushing as they returned from a successful hunt. The scent of fresh-kill clung to their fur, and the weight of prey dangled from their jaws — a plump vole for Fireheart and a young rabbit for Graystripe. The camp was alive with the hum of conversation and the scent of sun-warmed grass. They dropped their catch onto the fresh-kill pile, the pile already heaped with prey from other hunting patrols. Graystripe gave his fur a shake, sending a few dried leaves scattering. “Not bad for a morning’s work,” he meowed, flashing a grin. “I bet Frostfur will be pleased to see that rabbit.”

Fireheart nodded, eyes sweeping the camp. Frostfur was sitting outside the nursery, her tail curled protectively around her kits as they tumbled over each other in play. Dustpelt and Sandstorm lounged nearby, sharing tongues while Sandstorm’s gaze kept flicking toward the fresh-kill pile.*

Before Fireheart could look away, Sandstorm got to her paws and sauntered over. “Nice catch,” she said, nudging the vole with one paw. “Looks like you actually remembered how to hunt today.”

Fireheart snorted, but he couldn’t help the warmth that surged beneath his pelt. “I had to make up for Graystripe’s missed pounces,” he quipped, shooting his friend a playful look.

“Hey!” Graystripe protested, but his eyes were twinkling. “That rabbit practically threw itself at me. It knew it was facing the strongest warrior in ThunderClan.”

Sandstorm rolled her eyes. “If that’s the case, then the prey must be going soft.” Her whiskers twitched, and for a moment, Fireheart thought he saw something softer in her eyes — something that made his fur feel suddenly too warm.

Nearby, Brindleface called to Graystripe, beckoning him over with her tail. “Graystripe, can you help me move some bedding into the elders’ den?”

Graystripe sighed, flicking his tail at Fireheart. “You’re lucky. Looks like I’ll be doing the heavy lifting alone,” he grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice. With a parting grin, he trotted off, leaving Fireheart and Sandstorm alone.

Fireheart shifted his paws, suddenly very aware of Sandstorm’s presence beside him. The camp seemed quieter somehow, the warmth of the sun draping over them like a soft pelt.

“So,” Sandstorm said, sitting down and curling her tail over her paws. “Are you going to tell me how you really caught that vole, or do I have to ask Graystripe for the truth?”

Fireheart chuckled, leaning back and letting himself relax. “You know me too well,” he said. “But don’t tell him that. He thinks he’s the best hunter in the Clan.”

Sandstorm purred, her eyes bright. “His head would get too big to fit through the camp entrance.”