Standing on top of the Breezerock, looking down on the charred shall of the camp you find your suspicions true.

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You dont feel 'better' or 'cursed by the stars' for standing here.

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The worn spot where Twilightstar stood is just a spot, on top of whats just a rock, occupied by just a cat.

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Your breath rushes out of you hard as you sit, eyes wide at nothing. They're just cats, the leaders the deputies the medicine cats all. Just normal fallible cats who'd just been (generally) very good. Anyone could fill those ranks, sit on this rock, and do what they did if they had the resilience for it. And the difference was that not many did, but that was all it was.

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Your growing feeling that'd been building seeing Twilightstar suffer with loss, Wolffang with his own prejudices, Fallownose with apathy was right. They were good cats and just that, not star chosen gods.

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A high rank was made, not born or chosen.

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Somehow this alteration to you beliefs changes everything and nothing.