shadow || warrior cats

prologue

fallen death

~~~

THE HALLOW OF BLOOD, an area tucked away in the deepest parts of WarClan's dark oak forest. The rocky walls and trees that surround it are imprinted with the desperate shrieks of the fallen, echoes of their begs for mercy, its ground tainted with their blood. An arena that assures a fight to the death.

It's a horrible method of punishment and to fight for leadership, implementing the most perfect means of control: fear. Nobody would dare speak against the leader in fear of being sent into the Hallow of Blood; and even if they're stupid enough to complain, if they think themselves brave enough to resist the system of WarClan, all they'll do is fall into the workings of the hallow.

Because as soon as they're presented with the cruel reality of death, they'll undoubtedly choose to save their own pelts and do whatever's needed if it means survival. And once they've felt a Clanmate's blood in their claws and see the eyes of their closest friend start to fade, they'll never complain again.

Silver realized long ago that she's drawn to the idea. She knew how alarming that is, and she accepted long ago that she didn't care. The system was so perfectly woven, so impossibly underminable, that rather than cowering in fear at the hallow's mention, her pelt twitched with interest.

Perhaps that's also why she found herself drawn to the creator of the Hallow of Blood, the founder of WarClan himself. Death, a fitting name for the most feared cat in the forest. His reputation contained nothing but warnings, a cat who was willing to do whatever it took to succeed, a cat who built the most powerful Clan around in a moon. His strategy was quite simple: join WarClan, or die. An easy enough decision for most.

It was no surprise when Silver's interest turned from the system's workings towards seeking power for herself. How was she meant to not fall into the trap that'd captured countless Clanmates? To stay at the top? Well, the answer seemed obvious to her.

Death needed a mate. A beautiful mate who'd give him handsome kits.

It wasn't like Silver didn't have competition. Plenty of she-cats volunteered, believing this was a surefire way out of danger. But Silver was ready to win. A nick in the leg, some phycological psych-outs, and a few deathberries did the trick. Don't judge her, she did what she had to do.

If she's being completely honest, that's probably why Death chose her. He'd seen the greed in her eyes that was present in no other's. A few seasons later, Silver's the mother to two kits. Oak, a tom-kit with a pelt as dark as his father's; Dapple, a pretty she-kit with her mother's innocent blue eyes. She'd given Death his perfect heirs, and he'd given her her power.

Silver thought it was a fine but delicate relationship. She used to remember that, used to stay on her guard. But she'd gotten comfortable that night, and had forgotten everything could topple at any given moment.

That night was dark. Thick, stormy clouds covered the moon, and a breeze that drifted by Silver's nose brought her news of rain. But if anyone else sensed this, they all seemed unconcerned; it felt as though every cat in WarClan were out in the camp's clearing at the moment, passing whispered secrets in their huddles.

"Look at them." Death's voice came from behind Silver, softly, and the she-cat craned her neck to look at her mate. "I love when they get like this."

"Like what?"

The black tom jerked his head at the whispering cats. "Like this. They're acting like mice." He took a deep breath, as though he's reveling in it. "This is what winning feels like."

Silver thought that was awfully dramatic, but she didn't say so. "They're upset, Death. They'll get desperate, and desperate cats are dangerous."

"Not these cats. These cats couldn't separate a mouse from a vole, much less fight me."