The sun was high in the sky, but the ThunderClan camp felt like the heart of a blizzard. Outside the nursery, warriors were shivering, their fur matted with unnatural frost. "It's the middle of Green-leaf!" Bluestar yowled, her breath hitching in the frigid air. "How can there be ice?" Inside, Lillyclaw was a statue of despair. She pressed her paws against the walls, but they didn't feel like stone or gorse anymore. They were smooth, clear, and lethally cold. With a sickening crack, a spiderweb of fractures raced across the wall. Her nursery was turning into shattered glass. Her kits were gone—dragged into the mist by a trail of singed fur. Lillyclaw’s heart felt just as frozen and brittle as the den around her. If she moved, she might break. If she stayed, the shadows would claim her.

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  The rest of the Clan looked everywhere—under the High Ledge, behind the medicine den, through the warrior's thickets—but there was nothing. No kits. No tracks. Only a lingering scent of frozen amber and old, dark blood.