When most of the audience was already seated, Kier finally made his entrance. He stalked in, head down, shoulders sharp and ears slightly back; his air was quiet, dangerous, angry in such a subdued way. He took a seat at the far side of the audience, closest to the entrance, a dark, ominous presence watching in silence from far too close beside the subjects he ruled to be comfortable — not among them, but close enough that it was clear something had shifted, something had changed. Close enough that if they stood, he was lost in the crowd. Close enough that he was just a small, sinister shape at the periphery, shoulders hunched and eyes narrowed. It was difficult to understand why he had taken a back seat this time — was he now taking the role of official assessing the performance of the deputy? Was he too humiliated, too miserable and petulant, to put himself back on the judge’s platform? Was he sulking? — but it was clear all the same that this wasn’t a sign of weakness. There was too much dangerous observation; too many unknown things passing between the leader and the deputy that only they were privy to, even if those things were just tension and anger and silent, resentful daring. In the weeks following the last trial, it had felt like they were circling each other. They had stopped talking. The cavern of NightClan had finally grown too small for them both, and everyone else was suffocating under the animosity of them.

His position at the edge of the crowd left him far closer to Snowblister than he wanted to be, and when she spoke to Duskpaw, he slowly turned his head to watch them, his ears back and his eyes icy. Even the way she directed the apprentice spoke of her growing confidence, of her maneuvering towards the crown he still wore. She sounded like a leader. And that was the dangerous thing about Kier when he was angry, truly angry: he went silent. He shut down and closed off, and when he finally spoke again, when he finally reappeared, it was with a field of poisoned corpses littered behind him. He’d dealt with the problem. It was just a matter of who got to who first now. The claws of his right paw curled and scraped slightly against the stone, like he were imagining some poison vial beneath them; if it hadn’t been for the uproar in the trial cavern around him, the screeching sound would have been piercing. As it was, it was quiet. Swallowed up. They had had the same idea, to put Cascadepaw up as a judge and Duskpaw as the executioner. What a terrible artisanal cruelty. That knowledge, the knowledge that their minds were so alike that Snowblister had done it without any consultation, ate at him. Beneath all the anger, it felt almost like grief. Niggling, howling grief, empty as a steeple. They were the same. And one was going to kill the other.

The beginning of the trial felt just as empty, and Kier sank into himself further when Snowblister began to speak, his bony shoulders pulling up, bitter disgust at the sound of her voice roiling in his gut. His head twitch had come back lately, after the stress of the last trial. It had faded long before he’d come to NightClan, and he’d almost forgotten it. Now, it was just another thing that gnawed so quietly at the strength of his image. His head twitched slightly and he rubbed his cheek against his shoulder to try and hide it, repositioning his paws; for a few moments, Snowblister’s voice faded to the background of his self-consciousness. When he finally tuned back in, looking slightly more miserable and with his cheek still faintly leaning against his shoulder, she was up to the root problem. He could have heckled, could have interjected. He didn’t. He stayed silent. He couldn’t stomach speaking right now. He hardly remembered why Primrosetuft had to die at all.

Once, these trials had made him feel so alive. Because the first rule of tyranny is this: keep the masses busy. Keep them occupied. Terror alone isn’t enough: you can’t sit back in satisfaction and say, there, now they’re too busy being afraid to spend any time scheming. Fear is the great companion to resourcefulness. Fear always bleeds into fearlessness. No. The finest way to ensure your own safety, your own position, is to give them little tasks to do. It’s as simple and as horribly sad as that. And god bless the fact that it is. With them squabbling over scraps of information they think so terribly important and that he’ll toss into the mire the second they look away, they don’t notice his shadow stretching further and further beyond their borders. Because the first rule is this, hear, the first rule is this — we will all become the weary, the weak, the old. We will all some day be the feeble and the defenceless, at the mercy of those who we had once been so much like. So what point is there in being better now? What point is there in not lording your power today, your strength at this very minute, your untouchability in this exact moment? When you are so young, when you have armies and disciples, when cruelty had given you each and every one of them — why not lap it all up hungrily, suffocated by the knowledge that one day, in a month, in a year, it will all be stripped away and you will again thirst without promise of water? Why not, then, be a monster in a palace today when you will be a beggar on the street tomorrow? Why not indulge the worst evils right this very second, when your money can buy every single one of them? Morality is a very easy thing to think of when you’re not the one feasting at the top of the pyramid. Really, being a tyrant was utterly joyless — paper-pushing and meetings till the early hours and his mate already asleep when he finally crawled into bed. So let him have this. Yes, let him have this. Far better to die a liar in a castle than live a crumb on the streets.

But now, he just felt hollow.

Afraid. Like the church bells were tolling down his hours. The inevitability haunted him. All Kier ever did now was push back, back against the flowing sands, but they didn’t stop. They never stopped.

---

Leveretpaw cowered on the flat ground at the lip of the podium, half lost to shadow and visibly shaking where he sat. He hoped they would forget he was here, hoped they would so consume themselves with Primrosetuft that his crime seemed so insignificant, that they ran out of time — and then he hated himself for hoping that, because he was shielding his own life with a mother’s. As subtly as he could, with tiny, jerky movements, he turned his head, trying to seek out Oleanderpaw’s gaze in the crowd, or even Bumblebeepaw’s. She might speak up. They had promised they would explain what had happened. His heart hammered in his chest, in his ears, so violently he felt he was going to faint; he could hardly breathe with his chest trembling so hard against his lungs. Sucking in a breath that held a faint, involuntary cry, high and terrified and desperate, he turned his head back to Primrosetuft, gazing wretchedly at the back of her head. A tear spattered onto one of his forepaws, staining the pale fur dark grey; they shook so terribly his dew claws clattered together, his bones aching where they met. But he remained silent. Even as he shook, he remained quiet. He wouldn’t harm Primrosetuft’s defence, not even if it would save him.

But even as he thought it, he didn’t know. If he could conjure up evidence, if he could lie, if he could play the witness from the accused’s podium — if cowardice, if treachery, would spare his life… He drew in another trembling breath, setting his jaw. The fact was, he didn’t know.

---

Brat sat in silence beside Bumblebeepaw, slightly more sombre than usual. The atmosphere had gotten to even her. Everything felt so heavy, so immediate, like the grey air was all gearing up to something terrible and immense, the end of everything; even she couldn’t laugh in the face of it. She drew her forepaws closer together and leaned slightly against the apprentice, letting out a breath, her eyes not leaving the podium. It felt like the trial cavern was filled with discordant, quivering violin notes. This one wasn’t fun. It was deadly. It was a solemn, hateful power-play, cold and storming and barren, one that would drag them all down with it.

i cannot stop listening to rule #4 fish in a birdcage for this thread

There had been many times in their life when they had been told they couldn't read the room, but luckily, Bumblebeepaw could most certainly read this one. It felt odd now, like a twisted sense of deja vu, like a fun-house mirror of a memory that still lingered in the back of their mind. Last trial had been grand; a show, a circus. And they had been in the crowd just like this, excited and eager to prove that they were loyal, devout to Kier and his version of Nightclan. The horror of it, the brutality of it, it had all been hidden behind the grandioseness, and the facade of it being something of an act. To Cascadepaw and her sisters it had most certainly been all too real, but for a casual audience member, Bumblebeepaw recalled it as something of a festival, a show, all in some sick version of fun where adrenaline and horror had mixed with ambition and a corrupted sense of jovialness. It hadn't felt serious, it hadn't felt like the consequences were real, it felt like a chance to move up in the world and a little amusement, all for the measly price of 3 bodies of soon-to-be carrion.

But this, this felt real. The dreariness of it pealed back any curtain that had held up the feigned sense that this was all some graphic theater play for their amusement. It felt like a real trial, and the precepice of something more deadly. There was a tension in the air, and they couldn't help but feel a burning unease at the thought of Keir sitting somewhere behind them all, watching them. The same wasn't made better by the sense that Snowblister was also watching the crowd as well from above. There were two sides filled with a bitter, hateful tension, and they were stuck inbetween the two of them. All of them were.

Bumblebeepaw did their best to ignore it, wave away any thoughts or feelings they had. There was a certain stoicness they were trying to uphold, as if to not show anything at all was their best bet of getting out of this without upsetting either party. It was rare that the apprentice tried to go unnoticed, but the tension that buzzed in the grim atmosphere of the cavern was enough to tell them that anything else was likely not ideal. For a while their eyes traced the crowd, trying to get a sense of expressions, of thoughts, of feelings. What did everyone else think of this? What did eveyone else feel? But they stopped when their eyes landed on Leveretpaw, small and pathetic near the podium, the rise of memories they quickly realized they'd rather not think about rushed back to them. There was brief moment, the smallest span of a second, where the two made eye contact, but the apprentice quickly broke it, turning their gaze down. They hated it, the feelings they felt seeing the apprentice cowering in the audience in front of them, and they felt a slight resentment that was aimed only at themselves as pity bubbled up in their chest. It was pathetic, it was shameful, Leveretpaw was a traitor and they had even agreed to help him; why should they feel anything? But that line of logic wouldn't prevail, and so instead the knawing emotions that stirred inside of them continued.

It was perhaps a good thing, though, that their eyes glanced down right as Brat pushed into them slightly. They weren't sure they wouldn't have done something stupid like slightly jumped at being taken out of their thoughts by the feeling. Luckily, instead they had noticed, and so they made sure to stay still, solid, firm. As if somehow that resoluteness was a comfort; perhaps in some ways it was. They wanted to, for the sake of lightening the mood, make a joke. They had a few that played in their mind; maybe a dry joke about how this time it sounded like the frogs were croacking, or some quip about how the mood was so dreary one would think they were about to watch funeral processions, but none came out. Their throat itself felt heavy. So instead the just sat there, waiting for an answer from the accused, as if somehow, some way, that would make this somber gathering better.

---

Centurykit sat somewhere in the middle of the crowd. They preferred this. The somberness, the quiet, the seriousness. It all felt fitting, it all felt right, like everything was properly in its place this way. Not because of the looming implication of death and the tension between the two heads of clan which had moved past them and swallowed everything in the air between them. All that was off, and they hated it as much as they hated anything when the atmosphere felt off, but at least it seemed like the logical feeling for this sort of event. That was a start, that was better than the cheering and amuesement that had filled the last few trials. This at least seemed right.

It didn't show on his face of course, on the outside he was perfectly placid. Sat there like every little wide eyed kit trying to look like a very polite audience member, posture straight, tail coiled around his paws, mouth turned down into a serious little frown that scrunched up his little muzzle with a single, tiny wrinkle. He was the perfect picture of a cute little gentleman. But inside, he was brewing with a cold mixture of an unabashed love and a dreadful, chilling hate for the scene that he had found himself a part of.

NO need for anyone to match length at all ♡

When Pantherpaw entered, Kier turned his head to look at her, gazing for a long few moments, but his eyes were slightly vacant, like he wasn’t really seeing her. There was some vague sort of thought that drifted along at the back of his mind, something like well, she’s really starting to show now, and even to him it felt strangely harmless, strangely delicate, like faint happiness. The more conscious Kier would have felt sick, cocky pride, would have looked at her like she was a keepsake, a conquered little trophy that everyone would know was carrying his kits, his — would have wanted it to be the last thing he said to Primrosetuft, the last thing she heard, sidling up to her on the podium and making some crass, sneer-smiling comment close to her ear about how he’d had his way with her daughter and it had stuck. But this Kier, the fearful, quiet one, the one that could almost be called gentle, felt nothing but faint concern for her, faint hope that she was doing alright, like a thought wisping on the breeze, his stomach clenching slightly with responsibility for her and her kits. He wanted to go sit beside her, fuss a bit, make sure she was alright, keep her company even if he knew his company was the last thing she would have wanted. And then it was gone, drifting away as he turned his head and his uncomprehending eyes back to the trial with slightly jerky, disjointed movements.

His eyes found Cascadepaw, slightly pitiful, and on her they stayed. Everyone knew he was devoted to Eris, everyone knew she was the queen and the terror who could send someone to the gallows for daring to look at her, everyone knew he was nothing but a worshipful idiot for her, but with her so often hidden away, he needed the image of someone at his side — the First Lady of NightClan, someone sophisticated and elegant and willing to raise toasts at dinner parties, someone who would sit beside him at the head of the table and make him look all the stronger for having such a beautiful, unattainable prize nodding along with a silent, knowing smile at his words. He needed a mindless figurehead, a perfect lady, an example to everyone, a symbol of the old order joined with the new — bowed to the new, but equal. He needed Cascadepaw. So that the cats who weren’t swayed by Kier, by his charm and his smiles and then his slimy, whispering threats, could be swayed by her. Especially now with Snowblister fracturing the Clan down the middle, he needed that insurance policy, that added half-half to pick up where and what he lacked. Anyone who didn’t like Kier could like Cascadepaw. She could be his perfect lady companion in the eyes of the public, platonic and demure and politically savvy but politically silent, married to a loyalist in his entourage and plucked out to raise red wine at state functions and lend his upstart image elegant legitimacy — and always at his side. It pricked at his gut to see her beside Snowblister now — if she got to her first… But she wouldn’t. She didn’t think like that. Even though Kier, beyond the stubborn, dismissive misogyny that clouded so much of his conscious thought like a wilful, desperate haze, knew that Snowblister was so much more than he dismissed her as, knew she was clever and resourceful and cunning, knew that, beyond his half-truths about needing her might, was the true reason he had approached her — because she was an equal. Even despite all that, he still comforted himself with the knowledge, however untrue, however delusional, that she didn’t think like him. That she was less than. It was the only thing keeping him going, the only thing preventing him from bundling into a corner and rocking back and forth.

The stress of this, of being hounded on every side, had taken the clear-thinking, brilliant young leader and turned him to a paranoid wreck. And the answer to everything was Cascadepaw. The answer was young cats like Bumblebeepaw, like Lilacpaw, like Ratsneer — like Laertes. If he had them— if he had them, he had NightClan. Now, the strength of their rule had crumbled into a matter of campaigning, of who was the better one to die for — and Kier, if he was good at anything, was good at getting cats on his side with promises and quiet, intimate words, however panicked his eyes. He needed them to stay loyal to the idea of him on the throne. He needed them to be willing to fight for him, if the worst thing happened — needed them to get back his crown, to conspire and undermine and betray if he lost it, if it was taken from him, which was becoming more and more likely. He needed their loyalty in NightClan.

He needed Cascadepaw.

He needed the shield of her. It was all he thought of when he lay awake beside his mate, a nervous mess. Somehow, he’d pinned his hopes to the golden image of a traitor’s daughter. He would do anything.

If someone were to sit him down and explain everything rationally, clearly, calmly, logically, explain precisely what he needed to do; if they had said ‘there’s an easy way to fix this — your Clan is still under your control — they’re following your lead, not the other way around — you’re the conqueror, not the victim’, he would have backed away in blind fear, would have shook his head with wide, helpless, pleading eyes and said ‘no, no, no, you’re wrong, it’s beyond fixing, there’s nothing left.’ He felt hunted. He couldn’t think, couldn’t take the time to lay it all out for himself like he always did, couldn’t close his eyes and breathe and let himself how easy, how simple, this all was — there was just terror, an unintelligible tangle of limbs and parts, and the need to act first, before Snowblister could— He wished his mate were here; then, just to show off for her, he could gather some energy and vitriol. Some of that narcissistic flair. He wished, he wished—

My feelings of NightClan are simply put. When Kier looked up, startled by the speaking, his wide, uncomprehending eyes and slightly open mouth looked almost innocent. And when Primrosetuft went on, when she called NightClan shameful and lacking all honour, a loud, single bark of laughter left Kier’s mouth, shattering the silence and disrupting the grandiosity of everything — because it was so funny, it was really so very funny; she was right, she was absolutely right, and she was telling it to Snowblister. The laugh was so startling, and his attention so unsteady, that it took him a second to realise he had made the sound. It was only when a few cats at the edge of the audience turned to look at him warily, uneasily, that he sat up straighter, looking bewildered with his eyes darting about and his paws shuffling closer together, and clamped his mouth shut tighter. He realised then that he hadn’t remembered to tell Duskpaw to make the execution quick like he’d promised, and even though logically he knew Primrosetuft’s daughter would, the thought panicked him. He rearranged his paws again, heart hammering in his chest. “Yes, yes,” he spoke up from beside the audience, and his voice sounded strangely stammery compared to his usual silkiness as he addressed Primrosetuft, a manic, mocking sort of look on his face, half a smile. “What a good thing you stood firm to your beliefs — what a good thing. You’ll be honoured for centuries, not forgotten the second your body starts to rot in the ground. Yes, what a good thing. Then you’ll know a festering wound.” He almost laughed at the mention of StarClan, almost tossed his head and cackled, but he held back — by whatever brittle string was keeping him together, he held back. That was one bargaining chip he wouldn’t lose, his divine right. “No, no — rest assured, Primmy, your daughters will be well looked after. Cascadepaw will make such a fine centrepiece for my little empire.” Not Snowblister’s; never Snowblister’s. “Goodbye, Primrosetuft, you won’t be missed.” With that, smiling to himself and lost again to the spinning fog of his own head, Kier looked back down at the stone ground like it held the mysteries of the universe and half-lay where he sat, brushing circles in the dust with his paw.

“Oh! Oh!” He looked up again, like the world had faded out and then suddenly lurched back in. His eyes were wild with excitement, with joy. He wasn’t a judge, but he was leader. Leader trumped judge. He could do anything, anything. This was his Clan. He was high on parading how the rules didn’t apply to him, not realising how embarrassing he was being in his insane, desperate show of untouchable self-importance, sounding like an audience member interrupting the proceedings — and no one could stop him. “Cascadepaw, do some interrogating — come on. Ask a question or two. Hit her! Hit her! That’s the wonderful thing about this life, my dear, this life with me — no one can stop you. Wring the final confessions from her! Who did she love most? Not Duskpaw — what’s to love about the runt of the litter? Anything you’ve ever wanted to know, my dear — clock’s ticking! Be a good little judge and show her how fine you’ll be by yourself when she’s gone. Show her just how little a traitor to our fine home means to you. Show her what a mother’s pitiful, meaningless love is worth. Break her heart!” It was a joyful threat for his own sick, manic amusement: be cruel to save yourself; ruin your final minutes together and know you can’t ever take it back. He was almost bouncing where he sat, eyes darting between the mother and daughter. His head twitched; he didn’t care.

Disgraced clan that does not deserve to inhabit this forest. Snowblister laughed very nearly the same time Kier did, the sound leaving her mouth sharp and quick and genuinely, sincerely amused at her words. It was an insult. Immediately it cut out, her eyes finding him, scathing, before drifting back to Primrosetuft, very much the same look. Where Kier found it amusing because he felt her words were right, Snowblister was amused at the ridiculousness of such a statement. They were so different, but the reaction spoke of a certain synchronization, a similarity between them, a rhyming note, and it was that that bothered her the most. She listened to Kier's words with a grimace, watched the shadows rise around him as the audiences' faces melted away into obscurity, and for a moment it looked as though there was a spotlight on him, like he was the only thing illuminated in the room. Snowblister's fur prickled, an unusual yet subdued display of unease. Cascadepaw will make such a fine centrepiece for my little empire. She could only muster a quiet huff of annoyance. She turned her attention back to Primrosetuft, letting her face set into one of dignity, straight-faced and unreactive, though it took a minute for the prisoner's features to return. 

My girls. The words hurt Duskpaw much worse than they should have. The crowd was quieter this time, all the charm and the excitement of the previous trial left behind when it had ended, now remaining only the dull knowledge that it would end in tragic bloodshed. She tried to block everything out, sitting still and focusing on the way her tail tapped rhythmically on the ground in front of her paws, counting the times, making a tune in her head, doing her best to ignore it all until her name was called, until the verdict was decided. She knew what it would be, everybody did, there was no denying it with the way Primrosetuft stood steady in her beliefs, didn't try to defend herself once even though she would be leaving her three daughters behind. She took a few deep, steadying breaths, but it didn't seem to quell the anxious knot in her stomach. Cascadepaw, do some interrogating — come on. She looked up to the judges' stand at her sister's name, blinking up at her though not trying to meet her eyes. She didn't feel she could. Should. Duskpaw could understand her anger, but where Cascadepaw felt a fire, Duskpaw always felt a rainy day — her hurt was never angry or bitter, it was quiet and sad, pitiful and detrimental, all mixed with nauseating anxiety and panic, like the emotions were always too much. Knowing how this ends, knowing what you are forcing us to do, have you no guilt? She forced herself to look at her mother, still so defiant, yet there was resignation. She knew her fate. She didn't try to wriggle out of it. Briefly, she wondered where Pantherpaw was, assuming somewhere in the crowd, granted the luxury of watching instead of participating, an onlooker to Cascadepaw's sentence and Duskpaw's execution. Her mind had been too buzzy to fully grasp the pregnancy, the implications and the reasons, the obvious nepotism that Kier showed her sister despite Pantherpaw not doing much to deserve it at all. She just knew that she herself were the poisonous one, the one that the title of family traitor would fall to when Primrosetuft was put to death. By herself. The thought hit her like claws to her face, a sudden, jarring realization, the fogginess she had dipped her mind in clearing all too suddenly — she was the executioner, she was the reaper, the enforcer, of her own mother. Her breath hitched, and Primrosetuft's stubbornness felt much more vile than it had before. 

---

Oleanderpaw had quickly gotten bored of searching for Leveretpaw, not risking calling out his name and looking for a good few minutes before giving up with an annoyed grunt, taking a place beside Bumblebeepaw instead, side-eying Brat out of the corner of her eye but not saying a word to her. How long could she hold a grudge? The answer was forever. She could die and her last words could be 'I hate Brat,' and she would be content with that because they were so incredibly true. She gave Bumblebeepaw a confused look, a slight pout in her face, before nudging them, "cheer up. This one's boring now, but it'll be interesting soon, look —" She pointed to Primrosetuft as she started to speak, Oleanderpaw's face forming an open-mouthed 'o' look, totally having expected her to defend herself in some way. 

"That's probably where Duskpaw gets it from," she laughed, looking at the other apprentice briefly with a slightly uneasy look. "But, like, at least they're honest." 

The scene around Ratsneer felt like a comfort, making him startlingly different from those that were around him, those who seemed to just want this to be over quickly. To him this was what he waited for, the only excitement and pleasure that really seemed to light his life; it was pure entertainment. And, of course, it was an intense outlet for his rage and disgust. Admittedly the tom wasn't on the smart side, and perhaps that's why he fed so easily into the tyranny that was his life, why he ate it up like he was on the verge of starvation, why he held onto Kier's every last word; maybe he was just a sick, sadistic cat. The scene unfolding was something he wanted to savor, and savor it he would.

Unfortunately to him, there was not near enough attention on Leveretpaw. Ratsneer knew this trial was for Primrosetuft, that it was inevitable what was going to happen to her, that it was an example. Oh, but Leveretpaw. How much he wished to see their blood flow across the podium, to meet their gaze as their life dwindled so he could smirk back. There was a twisting feeling in his gut that he wouldn't get what he wanted today. Yes, he wanted to see Primrosetuft suffer at the paws of her own daughters, it was so laughable, so sick and twisted and perfect. Truly something to marvel at while you munched on a warm piece of prey.

But Leveretpaw. The name squirmed around his brain like a bug, multiplying like a colony of cockroaches that were infesting his mind. It was all he could think about as he watched everyone on stage. His claws scraped the hard rock beneath him and his hungered gaze fell to his prey that huddled so pathetically at the edge of it all, too cowardly to own up to their treason.

"Traitors. Both of them." His voice echoed in the empty space between the conversations at hand, and he hoped it would find Leveretpaw and let fear sink into him like a parasite.