Picket's breathing was harsh, rattling against his chest. The small cave entrance was tiny, just big enough for Picket to crawl through. Not big enough for the wolves, he assured himself. Not big enough for the giant, red-eyed wolf just outside.

"Come out, little rabbit," the insidious voice said. "And I won't kill you. Yet."

Picket didn't move from where he was hidden. He prayed that the wolf would give up and leave. He hoped that Heather would arrive soon. More seconds ticked by, and the ragged breathing of the wolf felt like an intonation of doom in Picket's ears.

No more taunting words. Picket still didn't move, frozen against the wall. He could see the shadow of the wolf–or wolves, he didn't know how many were out there, waiting for him to give up and crawl out in defeat. He wouldn't. He had promised Heather he wouldn't look back and fall into the hands of these enemies.

He hoped Heather was safe.

"Just let the brat be," snapped another voice. "We have more important things to attend to."

Two wolves, and maybe even more.

Everything had gone so wrong so quickly, and it was horrifying. Like watching the lightning strike the dead maple tree, and being unable to move in time. It was like that burning limb was racing towards him right now, and he didn't have the courage nor strength to do something about it. And Heather wasn't here to save him.

"Last chance, rabbit," the voice finally growled out, ignoring what his companion had said. Picket's heart seized up in fear. "I won't kill you if you surrender now."

Picket doubted, even if he wanted to, that he could unfreeze himself from where he was standing. A beat of silence. Picket was sure the entire world could hear his heart pounding like a drum.

There was a shout, and the sound of impact. Picket stiffened, unable to identify what was going on. It sounded like a fight. Was someone attacking the wolves? He unfroze himself, shakily detaching himself from the wall and daring to peer around the edge of the small opening. He, at first, couldn't comprehend what he was seeing–it most certainly was a fight, but all he could see were blurs of dark and light gray. He couldn't see where the second had gone. Dead already?

Eventually, the wolf and the unknown rabbit detached, and Picket's eyes widened slightly. The buck was standing in front of the cave entrance, a gleaming sword in hand, and three long lines on his back. Picket flinched inwardly at the sight of the wound.

"Aha!" the wolf growled out. "I knew you would come. This makes me very happy, you know. My mission." He looked happy, his eyes wide with bloodlust. The image felt scarred in Picket's mind.

The gray rabbit handled his sword calmly. Picket thought he looked a bit like how Father described heroes of the past, like Whitson Mariner or Fleck Blackstar–the way he carried himself and the way he spoke. However, even so, Picket could easily tell the rabbit didn't have a chance against the hulkering, slavering wolf.

Then out of the bushes strode a white rabbit, holding a gleaming sword. He had an air of easy confidence around him, an elegant black scarf draped around his neck. He bared his sword at the wolf. "Unless you would die like your father, Redeye Garlackson, leave now."

Redeye's eyes widened at the appearance. Tense seconds ticked by, as if Redeye was weighing his options and debating whether to spring to attack the two or flee and regroup. Picket still didn't move, still hidden by the rocks and the darkness of the cave. He could keep watching until Heather appeared, right? She had to be coming soon. Right?

Eventually, Redeye slunk away with a bitter growl. Picket felt his shoulders relax slightly, but the fear still coursed through his veins. What if these rabbits weren't, in fact, friends? Another dastardly duo intent on ruining his life? Possible. His mind conjured up thousands of scenarios as a horrible howl emerged from the woods.

"The howl of shame," the white rabbit said, sheathing his sword.

"It's not the first time I've heard it," the gray rabbit said. Picket's eyes widened.

"Father?" he asked, very slowly getting out of the cave. His mind was still racing to figure out all he had witnessed.

The two seemed to remember he existed, and a small, sad smile flashed across the gray rabbit's face.

"I'm not your father, lad," he said gently. "I'm the next best thing—I'm your uncle."

Yes, Picket could see the familiarity between the two. There were differences, though.

"I'm Picket," Picket said, both wearily and warily.

"I know, lad," his uncle said, giving him a friendly wink. Picket liked him already. "I'm your Uncle Wilfred." Uncle Wilfred's smile faded slightly. "Where's your sister? I thought you two would stick together."

Picket's heart dropped, and he felt a wave of nausea. "She told me to run to the third mound," he finally said. "She was planning to distract the wolves, and she said she would meet me—"

The white rabbit closed his eyes, glancing away. Picket didn't like the look on his face.

"Is she—"

"At best, she's with the wolves, captured," Wilfred said, his shoulders slumping. A weary look crossed his face. "At worst…well…" he glanced away, fingering the handle of his sword.

"She's not dead," Picket said. He wasn't saying it to his uncle, but to assure himself, like pouring a temporarily soothing balm on a wound. Heather was smart. She could survive…right?

"Believe that, lad," Uncle Wilfred said. "Keep believing that. It'll give you something to fight for in this world."

Picket nodded very slowly.

"Wilfred, we need to move," the white rabbit said. "I have no doubt Redeye is going to send a company after us. We best make ourselves scarce."

Picket wanted to protest, glancing over his shoulder to where five or six clouds of smoke were rising in the air. He wanted to stay and wait a little longer, see if Heather was well and truly coming. But judging by the white rabbit's rather hurried look, and Uncle Wilfred scanning the woods, he would have to leave.

It was terrifying.

He had never stepped foot outside of Nick Hollow. In fact, the mounds were the furthest he'd ever gone.

"We'll head down the river," Wilfred told Picket and the white rabbit, who nodded and began making his way through the thick cluster of trees. Picket could already hear the gurgling of the river. "That's how we came."

"Why are you here?" Picket asked.

"We were coming to visit you," Wilfred smiled crookedly. "I haven't seen you all since—" he cut himself off, staring at a tree for an obscene amount of seconds, before shaking his head. "—since Heather was a baby."

"And then the wolves attacked."

"Aye, lad," Wilfred nodded. "We came as fast as we could as soon as we caught wind of the attack. But we were too slow."

Picket frowned. "Did you see my parents?" he asked. "And Baby Jacks?"

Wilfred hesitated, before nodding. He cut down some brambles with a steel knife, careful to scatter them to make it appear natural. "I won't lie, Picket," he said. "Your father looked rough."

"I bet he didn't stop fighting until they made him," Picket muttered resolutely.

"I'm sure he did," Wilfred agreed. "Whittle always had a stubborn fight inside of him."

"And did you see Heather?" Picket ventured.

"I didn't," Wilfred shook his head. "I didn't have enough time to check on the group they had rounded up—she could be there, Picket. She probably is, they might be under orders not to kill anyone." There seemed to be something else in his tone, a blend of emotions that made Picket feel a bit uneasy.

They moved faster now, and Picket could hear the faint growls and barks of wolves. "Keep up with me, lad," Wilfred urged him. He could see a boat, just right where the stream was fastest, straining against its ropes binding it to the land.

The white rabbit leapt in, followed by Picket, and Wilfred cut the rope holding it tight. They sped downstream, the boat rocking from the sudden momentum, and the wolves cleared through the woods. There were more than Picket could count.

They barked and yowled as they chased after the speeding boat, but Wilfred only laughed as they slowly fell behind. "Adventure!" his uncle cried victoriously, waving a mocking fist at the wolves.

Picket could only watch as Nick Hollow faded from view, along with his family.