Swiftcurrent Creek neck full of mockingbirds, all calling your name

A brush to his cheek—she stretches out and he joins her, his nerves frayed at the insistence of their meeting and the seriousness of her eyes.

Worse, still, was the nausea that stirred at him when she spoke his name: Germanicus.

He breathes out, considering. Was that Silvertongue, embedded on her fur? Like an addict waiting for the chance of a next hit, he thinks of the Riverclan woman—but he hasn’t sought her out either, so what did it matter that Wren had talked to her friend? Little did he know.

“What about him? We can’t do anything without Silvertongue knowing about it.” Implications were not good for him... he needed to know what they were looking at.