In the time of fire-leaf skies and shadow-thick forests, when the Clans clawed for survival beneath the looming threat of famine and feud, a kit was born under the gnarled limbs of a fallen alder tree. Her pelt was the color of bark left long in the sun coarse, rough, and steadfast - and her eyes, even as a kit, held a sharpness not born of innocence, but of quiet knowing. They named her Alderidge, for she stood as solid as stone even before her legs could carry her.
From her earliest moons, hardship was her constant companion. The leaf-bare that followed her birth took her mother. Rogues took her siblings. War took her peace. Yet nothing ever took her. Where others swept or wavered, Alderidge endured.
She rose not through charm nor loud command, but through sheer unrelenting resolve. As an apprentice, she never shirked the hardest task. As a warrior, she never hesitated at the front lines. Her shoulders, broad as storm-battered cliffs, became the wall behind which her Clan could breathe. Her claws sang in battle not for bloodlust, but for duty. And her word - rarely spoken - was as binding as stone carved by time.
Though many young cats flinched beneath her cold gaze and few dared to challenge her judgment, those who weathered her tests learned that beneath her bark-skin beat a heart of iron: forged in grief, shaped by sacrifice, and wholly given to her Clan. She would never coddle. She would never lie. But she would never, ever leave you behind.
Some say she once loved, long ago, and lost that love to the wind. Others whispered that she turned her back on vengeance when it cost too much. What remains true in every version of her tale is this: Alderidge is the shield did not shatter.
Now, as moons press on and young warriors rise with fire in their paws, Alderidge watches still. She does not seek glory. She does not hunger for rank. But when the wind howls and the forest quaked, her Clan knows one thing above all:
Alderidge will not fall.
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