The calico had been half-expecting a ceremony but with no cat ready for a promotion, he was not surprised that other news had left his mentor's mouth. Forbidden from hunting at Carrionplace, hm? Conceptually it seemed like a good idea, avoiding disease. But if there was no food, what would kill them more quickly? Even if sickness, if the clan was well-fed, wouldn't they be able to stave it off? Burntpaw hadn't faced an outbreak of illness before. Yet there was an aggravation that clawed at him from the pits of his stomach. This couldn't be a good idea. Restricting food in leafbare was like saying they were no longer going to drink water during the dry days of greenleaf. Not that he had lived through either but he had listened to the tales the elders told and stories passed on while he had been with the exiles. Something wasn't right about this.
His cool green gaze held back the mounting disagreement that flickered in a frozen fire behind his eyes. Burntpaw sought to read the expressions of his clanmates around him. Finally, they settled on Frog. The way her paws curled into the earth. He knew she understood. With a flick of his tail in farewell to his kin, the apprentice made his way over to the she-cat and meowed lowly, "I admire how you've held your tongue. Disagreeing now will not do anything but pose a challenge. We can speak to Scorchstar, change his mind, before we all starve." Scorchstar truly thought what he was doing was for the best, and Burntpaw could see it. At what level did the clan leader's word being law become dangerous to the survival of a clan? Regardless of the many unanswered questions, the tom knew one thing: he wasn't about to let the cats he cared for die.