Survival of the Fittest

Stormfeather sat erect in the soft nursery, along with three kits and their mother. He surveyed each of them individually, checking their nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. He then let them go, observing them scramble to their mother and nurse. One was a bit slower than the rest.

“What’s this one’s name?” He asked sharply, pointing with a claw.

“Rainkit,” the mother answered in a quavering voice, curling her tail around her kits.

“Rainkit appears to be below average health. We’ll see if he improves before the next sorting.” Stormfeather looked the kits over once more, then left abruptly. He padded briskly to Quickstar’s den.

“Silvertail has two healthy kits, one questionable. The large, red tabby turned around, muscles rippling in the dim light.

“Okay. When’s the next sorting?”

“A quarter moon,” Stormfeather answered without any thought. As the deputy, it was his job to know these things.

"Very well. When you have a minute, organize a patrol along the Riverclan border. Our scents have been mingling a little too much lately." Quickstar narrowed his eyes, then flicked his tail for Stormfeather to leave.