Hello everyone!

My name is Akila and I am the author of Warriors Kingdoms, the now 4-book saga of Fantasy AU fanfiction of the first arc of Warriors. What a ride, eh? Welcome to the fourth book, Waning Moon, the AU of Rising Storm.

This book will follow Samn and Clowd as they navigate Thundria with Sir Cawle exiled and Samn promoted to captain. If you're wondering who/what all those are, I advise you to begin with Into the Fire and catch up with the whole AU. It'll only take one feverish bad decision from 2-6 am, if you're slow.

Finally, before we get started, I'd like to send an enormous thank you to Ice, my spectacular, tireless, and brilliant beta reader. Let's not dwell on what this would look like without your help.

Alright! Here we go, you know the drill, allegiances and prologue. Please enjoy.

CHARACTERS

Kingdom of Thundria

Queen Bluelianna Star—Tall woman with long, gray-blue hair streaked with silver and blue eyes. (Bluestar)

Captain of the guard: Samn Schorme—Lanky, strawberry blonde-haired woman with greenish-gray eyes. (Sandstorm)

Squire: Briatte

Court Healer: Yllowei Fennen—old woman with frizzy gray hair and a flat face, formerly of the kingdom of Shodawa. (Yellowfang)

Novitiate: Cindra—Very short, chubby woman with gray hair and blue-gray eyes. (Cinderpaw)

Knights:

Whit Strommer—Tall, white-haired man with hazel eyes. (Whitestorm)

Darriek Styrp—Slick man with gray and black streaked hair and hazel eyes. (Darkstripe)

Liang Teyl—Thin, young man with long blonde hair with streaks of black and blue eyes. (Longtail)

Squire: Sewif

Rynnin Wynnd—Short, wiry man with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. (Runningwind)

Mauzian Fyrra—Wiry, spry woman with short, light brown hair. (Mousefur)

Squire: Thorrin

Fiyr Harte—Tall, skinny ginger-haired man with bright green eyes. (Fireheart)

Squire: Clowd

Duss Peyelt—Short man with dark brown hair and amber-brown eyes. (Dustpelt)

Brakken Fere—Brown-haired man with brown eyes. (Brackenfur)

Squire: Faern

Frostialla Fuor—Tall, beautiful, long white-haired woman with bright blue eyes. (Frostfur)

Brindellia Faise—Pretty, chubby woman with creamy brown-blonde hair and green eyes. (Brindleface)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Willowamina Peilte—Graceful, ash-blonde haired woman with long limbs. (Willowpelt)

Goldanna Flourer—Gorgeous, golden-blonde haired woman with dark eyes. (Goldenflower)

Speikall Tiall—Short woman with oddly specked long hair that she keeps in a braid, stern hazel eyes. (Speckletail)

Squires: (Training to be knights)

Sewif—Skinny, short boy with black and white streaked hair and hazel eyes. (Swiftpaw)

Thorrin—Lanky boy with golden-brown hair and pale blue eyes. (Thornpaw)

Briatte—Short girl with orange hair streaked with white, and blue eyes. (Brightpaw)

Clowd—Very tall boy with broad shoulders, pale skin, bright blue eyes, and downy white hair. (Cloudpaw)

Faern—Short, chubby girl with brownish-gray hair and pale green eyes. (Fernpaw)

Elders:

Heff Tyle—Tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair and an arm missing. (Halftail)

Samal Eyre—Wizened old man with gray hair. (Smallear)

Wonn Eie—Short, wise woman with graying hair and an eye-patch. (One-eye)

Dapplianne Tayel—Once-beautiful tall woman with long, shiny dark brown hair with golden-blonde highlights. (Dappletail)

Partch Peld—Small man with black and white hair and hazel eyes. (Patchpelt)

Kingdom of Wynnd

King Tahliorius Star—Tall man with long, black and white hair. (Tallstar)

Captain of the Guard: Daede Futt—Wiry, tall man with black hair and a twisted foot. (Deadfoot)

Court Healer: Barrik Feas—Short dark-haired man. (Barkface)

Knights:

Meude Kelaw—Broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. (Mudclaw)

Squire: Vebbe

Tuoren Ayer—Tall, thin man with streaked brown hair. (Tornear)

Owen Newskar—Young man with sandy brown hair. (Onewhisker)

Squire: Georse

Roanin Brauc—Tall, young woman with gray hair. (Runningbrook)

Whytt Teala—Skinny, short woman with stark white hair. (Whitetail)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Ashra Fote—Tall, muscular gray-haired woman. (Ashfoot)

Marrani Flor—Short woman with brown, white, and red hair. (Morningflower)

Kingdom of Rivier

King Crukkedaro Star—Tall, broad-shouldered man with short brown hair. (Crookedstar)

Captain of the Guard: Leaparra Fore—Lean woman with curly golden hair and sharp amber-brown eyes. (Leopardfur)

Court Healer: Mede Frer—Short man with long brown hair. (Mudfur)

Knights:

Bellack Clah—Tall man with long black hair. (Blackclaw)

Stowen Feur—Broad-shouldered man with close-cropped gray hair and scars. (Stonefur)

Squire: Sheyd

Lowd Baley—Dark brown-haired man. (Loudbelly)

Squire: Zilfer

Garais Wesschar—Short, very muscular man with brown hair. (Grasswhisker)

Heffeigh Stape—Heavy-set man with long brown hair. (Heavystep)

Graie Sterrip—Short, chubby man with fluffy gray hair and yellowish-hazel eyes, formerly of the kingdom of Thundria. (Graystripe)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Meistya Feot—Muscular, plump woman with short gray hair and piercing blue eyes. (Mistyfoot)

Mahse Pelle—Plump woman with multi-coloured, streaked hair. (Mosspelt)

Elders:

Girai Paolle—Small, skinny, old woman with dark hair and hazel eyes. (Graypool)

Kingdom of Shodawa

King Naitienne Star—Thin, black-haired man with asthma. (Nightstar)

Captain of the Guard: Cinnier Faer—Thin, elderly gray-haired man. (Cinderfur)

Court Healer: Rannin Naos—Small man with pale, streaked hair and cloudy amber eyes. (Runningnose)

Knights:

Stoumpei Toile—Short, gray-haired man without a hand (Stumpytail)

Bellue Faet—Skinny, gray-haired young man. (Bluefoot)

Squire: Oke

Laitlte Cleud—Tiny man with dark brown hair. (Littlecloud)

Ladies of the court: (Pregnant or raising children)

Dawhnnea Clouhd—Small, brown-gold-haired woman. (Dawncloud)

Daerkki Follar—Black-haired woman. (Darkflower)

Elders:

Aish Faor—Thin, haggard old man with graying hair. (Ashfur)

Outlanders, Mercenaries, and God-toys

Ravne—Lanky man with messy black hair and one white stripe and blue eyes. (Ravenpaw)

Barrleigh—Tall, muscular man with black and white streaked hair and blue eyes. (Barley)

Princesca—Lean woman with unnatural brown and white hair, freckles, and brown eyes. (Princess)

Roche—Tall, thin, dark gray haired man. (Boulder)

Blayke Fouhte—Short, broad-shouldered man that always wears black boots and gloves to hide hideous burn scars from when he was a child, formerly of the kingdom of Shodawa. (Blackfoot)

Tigre Cawle—Enormous man with short-cropped brown hair, amber eyes, and broad shoulders, and one blind eye, formerly of the kingdom of Thundria. (Tigerclaw)

Prologue.

Death sings in the trees.

According to the Shodawes legend, on the coldest day of winter, when the wind howls in the treetops and the frost runs deep in the earth, the spirits of all those that have walked the earth before return to flit through the trees, crying out for those they've left behind. The man outside can believe it; the air is almost thick with them. They smell like the rot emanating from the healer's wing.

Med Rannin Naos of Shodawa had left the stifling healer's wing to escape it, but he finds no respite in cold winter air. It is a dark night; clouds obscure the Starlaxi's rank, and his healer instincts race ahead to find a second meaning in the innocuous weather.

Perhaps even they have turned their backs on us.

He doesn't blame them.

The hopelessness, the black, cold depths of despair that greets him when he turns to self-reflection is enough to make even their heavenly ancestors afraid of the future, he thinks. He's certainly paralyzed with terror, knowing that tomorrow he will wake up and his court will be worse off, as it has been for months.

They have buried Sir Hiscare.

Lady Fennen's brother, he remembers with a pulse of sadness. I will have to tell her the news at the winter solstice. If he is able to leave his court for the night, that is. Though what good am I here? he wonders. I cannot help them. They are dying, and I cannot help them.

The list in his head, the one that ranks his court from sickest to strongest, runs through his mind again. Over and over, the same names, all spiraling in a loop of death. One by one, they are dying, and he does not know what to do. This sickness is from the vampires, or so he theorized, but the garlic he is using seems about as effective as a pinch of flour in the wind and a prayer to some four-faced deity, like the villagers would do.

He takes another deep breath of the cold, foul air, and then turns back to re-enter the castle. His joints are beginning to stiffen in the icy air and his lungs haven't cleared the way he hoped, so he may as well return to this fortress of death. Perhaps he can soothe their suffering with his presence, if not cure them. What a cruel joke, to be in the pink of health while my court dies around me. He turns, casting his gaze up to the stars once more. Have you preserved me to save them? Nothing I seem to do is helping.

The Starlaxi has given him an illness without a cure. It goes against everything Lady Fennen taught him, everything he learned about them from before he could even speak. They give us only burdens we can bear. Misery clogs his throat for a heartbeat. But this is unbearable. They are dying! Please help me.

When the clouds don't part, no star twinkling with the promise of a better future, he turns around, utterly defeated, and retreats back into the castle.

The acrid smell of sweat and disease is even stronger in the trapped air, but his allergies mute it. He is thankful, for once. He makes his way to the healer's wing, the familiarity of the shadows and small dividing-room failing to comfort him the way it usually does.

It is empty; everyone is either too sick to be anywhere but on a care-bed, or tucked away in their rooms, trying to sleep through the nightmare. He alone is wide awake, witness to the slow, inevitable extinction of his court. Too many deaths. Too soon after the populations of the courts had faltered; they'd evaded the infanticide rates by having more, stronger, children at once by the Blessing.

It was a shame his king could not provide a new Blessing to salvage the court. He remembers the King in the Night, and the power that rippled deep within his pale, muscled skin. He remembers the Broken King, and the muted stars that were buried in his dark, dark gaze. When he looks into Naitienne's eyes, he sees the fog of sickness, the glossiness of tears for the dead, but no stars and no power.

Rannin doesn't blame him anymore. He is just as powerless as his king. He has all his life-force, certainly, but he has mimicked every life-force he has ever seen in an effort to heal his court. The last thing he thinks to try is that of the Thundrian novitiate. She will be receiving her full name soon. Anger thrums through him, thinking of his old mentor and her new novitiate. They sit in the trees, safe and thriving, while we die.

He cannot stay angry for long, though; he knows Lady Fennen's life-force cannot help him because he's already tried it. Claiming the sickness of the king stopped him from being able to bury the dead, and healthy Naitienne was about as useless as the alternative. He gave his sickness back within the hour. But perhaps she could guide him if she was here—or perhaps she would be just as useless as he feels. I wonder how many times everything spiralled out of control and I never knew because of how sure I was she would be able to fix it. He casts his gaze to the shadowed entrance of the healer's wing, thinking about the few healthy members of the court.

I need a novitiate. It's the least of his concerns, but he can't help thinking it. I'm not getting any younger. Someone has to succeed me. Especially if he gets sick. He's been lucky so far, but it doesn't last forever, not when it comes to him. If he dies, then Shodawa is truly lost.

"Rannin," a voice croaks out of the darkness.

The king sounds worse. Rannin moves to his side anyway, peeling away the sweat-soaked sheet when the king paws at it feebly. His forehead is apple-red and shining with the sweat that wetted the sheet in his hands, and his thin black hair is greasy and limp against his skin. Rannin brushes it aside anyway.

King Naitienne coughs, and then blinks open glassy eyes, black and round like a puppy's, then murmurs, "You left…"

"Just to get some air, Your Highness," he assures him, disposing of the sheet and hurrying to the back of the wing to fetch a fresh one. They're running out. No one has done the laundry in weeks. Another low priority. He needs to escape the sight of his king. Not when he looks like that, so weak and helpless like a wounded animal. All of Shodawa is a wounded animal right now. He wonders how long it will be before the other courts smell blood. The copper king in the west, the blue-eyed eagle in the south, and the ancient, hungry man in the east. They will circle us and pick our bones clean unless we can rally ourselves. Or at least hide our weakness.

"Rannin…" he croaks again.

He steels himself, then turns back. "Yes, Your Highness?"

"Surely—" he breaks himself off into a cough and then begins again. "Surely you can give me something for my throat. It feels scratchy and… raw."

Raw is the right word. The king has been coughing up blood since his neck purpled with the illness. "Yes… I will get you something."

He returns to the back of the wing. They have precious little medicine for coughs, but it is no cure. It only dulls the suffering—he knows that the depletion of it means they have a finite number of peaceful deaths left, which is the most he dares to hope for. The rest of them will be dragged into the Starlaxi, coughing up their throats and clawing at their necks, trying to itch, trying to breathe, trying to rip open that clogged passage. He has had dark thoughts for four nights. Tuck the cough medicine deep in the back of some unused cupboard, wait to get sick, and then to make your own journey to the stars as peacefully as possibly, his worst, weakest parts urge him under the cover of a sleepless night.

He knows he would not be going to the stars if he gave in to such selfishness. Instead, he takes the pouch of hard, round packs of ground powder from off the dusty, bare shelves. He will dissolve it into hot water for his king. They ran out of tea six days ago.

Rannin draws to the king's side once more with the steaming mug of water in hand. The smell is sharp and unpleasant, but if the king complains then perhaps Rannin will bend to his selfish urges anyway.

He's done it since he was a child.

If I can beat Daire to the solstice pavilion, then Lady Fennen will finally show me how to fight. If this medicine works on father, then Mother will let me have extra white-cherries with breakfast. The universe doesn't usually pay attention to his bargaining. Daire is very sick. He thinks his brother will die in a few days. It bounces off the hollowness of his heart with a dull thud.

"Thank you," King Naitienne whispers, taking the cup in shaking heads.

Rannin recoils from him, suddenly feeling short of breath again. He leaves the healer's wing silently, the king watching him with big eyes at the man's sudden departure, and once more feels winter's kiss when he passes through the main doors. His cheeks don't sting yet. He finds the cold clears his nose this time.

He looks into the pine trees. A worn path leads out directly in front of him and he follows it with his mind for a moment, imagining the turns he could take to get to a village, or a field, or a border, or… a garden. He's about to step forward, to walk into the night on foot in nothing more than his draped purple healer's robes, but then he freezes as a dim orange glow lights the ground.

His gaze snaps up instinctively to find the source of the light—a torch? Some kind of enormous firefly?—and his breath catches in his throat.

The moon is shrouded in dark, thick gray clouds and the night should be dark, but those clouds are lit from underneath in a blaze of saffron-orange and yellow as what looks like a fireball careens across the sky. It's distant enough that he has a moment to study it before it disappears.

It's bright—so gloriously vibrant that the rest of the world seems colourless around him, utterly overshadowed by the vermilion, marigold, copper that spray like sparks from the trail of the ball of light. He shields his eyes, stumbling back, and squints closer. It's not round, he realizes, but the form is surrounded by such a brilliant halo that it's difficult to make out.

Just as it begins to finish its journey across the cloud, he realizes what it is.

A phoenix.

Once he knows to look for it, he can spot the white-hot edge that makes the curve of massive wings, the feathers spread behind like the core of a fire, like molten glass, like a second second sun in the night sky. He is breathless. It is glorious.

And he knows the Starlaxi has spoken at last.

A second sun in the night. A blaze of glory out of the darkness.

Hope is unleashed in his chest and he is dizzy with the euphoria of answered prayers. We are saved. We will rise to rule all the kingdoms.

He continues to stare up into the sky long after the phoenix is gone. The night is no longer cold, the air no longer heavy with illness, but sizzling and warm with the promise of summer and glory.

There is a certain lingering feeling in him, though, that prevents him from whirling around and waking the entire court with his giddy cries. A feeling of doubt, perhaps, that it will not all be tied up so neatly. There are bodies in the ground, he knows that. By now, even if King Naitienne did have all…

They're not coming back.

The Starlaxi's promise of a glorious future for Shodawa won't undo that.

More than that, though, something about the sky bothers him. The clouds are all dark, certainly, but that blazing path the phoenix cut through them minutes before seems especially so. Perhaps those clouds are pregnant with storms, but they don't make him think of thundering rain.

No. The clouds look charred. Blackened, dead, and ruined.

There will be a price, he thinks, wondering if his thoughts are guided by the Starlaxi or his own paranoia. Or perhaps after so many years, he really has learned that no one's luck lasts. But ours has to turn. Perhaps we won't pay it.

He turns back to the castle at last, satisfied that he has seen all the Starlaxi needed to show him. Once more, the smell floods his blocked nose. This won't last, he finally thinks. It is the first time he has dared hope in a long, long time. Shodawa's day is coming, and it will ride on the back of the phoenix of Shodawa. Whoever or whatever that will be.

Then as he draws to the side of his ailing king, he thinks, This is not our future. With the promise of fiery triumph so near, he cannot help looking at this weak, sweaty thing and thinking, He is no phoenix.

He takes the empty cup from the table he dragged over for the king. Unanswered letters from villagers are scattered over it. The king has not sent out a patrol for weeks, and Sir Faer is hardly in a condition to do better. Sir Faer will die before the king, Rannin thinks. Then the king will be too weak to name a successor. Then the king will die, his own ailing life-force unsupported by the Blessings that belonged to that tyrant, and then… Rannin casts his gaze to the window. Then the phoenix will come, and we will crown him in fire and sulfur.

He looks at the mug in his hand. If this mug breaks, it is true.

Then he drops the mug and doesn't flinch as the shards shoot across the floor.

Thank you so much for reading! Please please please leave a review, follow, favourite, and REVIEW to feed me. I've been writing this for four years now, and as silly as it might be, it's important to me, and I really hope you tell me if you enjoyed!

Next chapter will be up on November 5th. If you're starving for AU in that time, cmon over to warriors-kingdoms dot tumblr dot com and hang out!

As always, I'm

~Akila