Smalls easily could have eaten twenty bowls of whatever it was that Gort had made. Wilfred only let him have fourteen.

            “You don’t want to be sick on top of everything, do you?” Wilfred asked, raising his eyebrows when Smalls made to get up for the umpteenth time. He sat back down sheepishly. He was always hungry. It wasn’t like it was his fault! These days it seemed that no matter what he ate, it wasn’t enough. And the last full meal he’d had had been at Vandalia Citadel weeks ago.

            His eyes wandered around the room. The hostility they had elicited within their first moments of being there had mostly dissipated, and they now were primarily ignored in an icy silence. Smalls leaned his head on his hand and closed his eyes. The only problem with having eaten was the fact that the exhaustion now set in, along with the true pain of his injury and the headache that had never actually left.

            He sensed someone watching him, and he looked up to meet Heather’s gaze. She blushed, and turned away, towards Picket. Picket’s eyes flicked between Smalls and Heather, and his face hardened. He turned away too. Smalls was confused. Girls are strange. He decided. With Heather and Picket distracted by a conversation with-was it Emma? He’d probably missed that introduction; he’d lost interest rapidly in the small talk-Wilfred took advantage.

            “Hm.”

            “What?” Smalls asked, yawning.

            “Nothing. I just find it interesting.” Wilfred replied.

            Smalls wasn’t sure he liked where this conversation was going. “What’s interesting?” Smalls asked. Wilfred raised his eyebrows, and glanced at Heather, and then back to Smalls. He smirked. “What are you-” The meaning clicked, and Smalls turned very red. “That-that isn’t-”

            “Now there’s a lie if ever I heard one.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Smalls insisted. “There isn’t anything-”

            “Of course not. You don’t know her well enough yet.” Wilfred stood. “C’mon. Lord Rake is waiting for us.”

            The fact that he was so distracted that he didn’t even realize to be annoyed about the fact that he had to go have yet another useless chit-chat conversation was the first sign.

            The second was when he glanced at Heather on the way across the room and couldn’t help but notice that she looked pretty when she was smiling.

“It’s going to cause trouble-all of it.” Rake said quietly. They were standing in the corner of the Savory Den. “I hate to say this, Wilfred, but the other citadel leaders won’t be happy that you’re here. Or about the other two, either. Smalls here might not be prosecuted as much since he isn’t your real son, but no one will know who he is and that’s almost worse.”

            “They don’t know, Lord Rake.” Wilfred said, glancing over to Heather and Picket. “Whittel raised them in practical isolation. They know nothing of the outside world.”

            Rake looked completely astounded. “He did what?”

            “I stand by what I said. They don’t know anything. They don’t even know their last name.”

            Rake, startled by this sudden turn of events, rubbed his forehead. “That isn’t good, Wilfred. It may be months before they can be initiated. Until then they can’t be told anything. You haven’t, have you?”

            “No. Neither of us did.” Wilfred shook his head. “I gave them a brief overview, but that was it. Morbin raided Nick Hollow, and Whittel and Sween were taken during it. So was there youngest son, Jacket.”

            Rake shook his head. “That concerns me. The Hollowers have already been hit so hard. Even before the old king’s fall they weren’t doing well.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid nothing can be done now. Our resources are scattered and, well, traitors have become common. We fear to trust anyone. I hope this citadel congress will aid that.”

            “It will take more than one congress.” Smalls said. “Half-Wind, I know, will need convincing.”

            “Blackstone isn’t much better, I’m afraid.” Rake added.

            “Even with Evan there?”

            “Even with Prince Evander there.” Smalls suddenly remembered the stack of letters in his pack that were from Evan. I need to read those later, if, at least, to stave off his inevitable whirlwind of  more letters demanding why I’m not answering.

            “What about Vandalia?” Asher, another of Smalls’ brothers, had been sent there.

            “They aren’t an issue, as far as I’m aware. Their lord was there when you were named heir, and he swore loyalty to you that day.”

            Smalls didn’t remember that day. He had been far too young.

            Because Smalls was the heir to his father’s throne.

            The chain he wore around his neck held the Green Ember, a large emerald that marked him as the heir to all of Natalia. He would inherit someday. How, when, where, and under what circumstances were yet to be decided, and Smalls hadn’t considered it much. He’d spent most of his life in hiding. He hadn’t been allowed to tell anyone, though Evan and Asher both knew. Winslow knew. Morbin knew-though he couldn’t figure out where Smalls was or how to track him. It was a great burden, a great responsibility, and a great honor Smalls was determined to live up to. He didn’t know why his father had chosen him, the youngest son, the least mighty, the least impressive, to carry on his legacy.

            He only knew that he was duty-bound to follow through with it.

            Wilfred and Rake continued with their discussion, but Smalls was only half-listening. The sadness and weight of the room, the hidden burdens every rabbit was carrying, pressed on him painfully. Even though there was laughter and cheerful conversation, Smalls couldn’t help but notice the underlying grief. And anger. There was anger too-though Smalls guessed that was primarily because of Wilfred.

            Wilfred had a place in all this as well. Most didn’t remember it, most refused, but Wilfred had been one of Jupiter’s closest friends, right up there with Perkin One-Eye. That was why it had been such a terrible blow when Wilfred’s eldest brother, Garten, had betrayed the king to Morbin. The name ‘Longtreader’ was as good as a curse now. Heather and Picket were Longtreaders-but they didn’t know it. They didn’t know anything about it.

            Wilfred hadn’t known about Garten’s plans. Wilfred had never known, but he blamed himself anyways. Smalls hated that.

Hated it more than anything.

            There was a commotion at the food line, and Smalls glanced over. He rolled his eyes-it was just a couple foolish bucks making trouble for Gort and stealing food. Honestly, the immaturity of most rabbits his age completely baffled him. If he told Wilfred that, he’d likely get a lecture about how childhood trauma affects the brain. Smalls guessed that there was something to be said for that, but it didn’t change how he felt about most of his age bracket. He watched the group for a moment, noticing that they deferred mainly to a larger, golden-grey buck.

            There was something about him that made Smalls wary.

            He wasn’t sure what. He didn’t know who he was or any of that, but Smalls felt a vague recognition that he couldn’t pin-point, as if the buck reminded him of someone.

            Smalls watched him wander over to Heather and Picket’s table, promptly beginning to bicker with-Smalls could’ve sworn her name was Emma-Emma. The buck didn’t leave, and instead began to talk with Heather. Unease grew, quickly turning to dislike as he watched the buck vanish over to where Pacer was standing, leaving Emma annoyed, Picket more sour-faced than ever, and Heather giggling.

            The buck caught his eye on the way out the door with his snitched food items. For a moment, the other buck’s face changed, and then his smirk returned, and he winked, dashing out the door. Now Smalls was certain. He did not like this rabbit.

            “I can see that you’re wounded, Smalls.” Rake said, calling Smalls’ attention back to the conversation. He hoped he hadn’t completely missed any important information. He glanced quickly at Wilfred, but the expression on his face revealed nothing. “I hope it isn’t bad.”

            Smalls nodded. “It isn’t. Just a scrape.”

            Rake nodded and released them. Wilfred glanced at Smalls, “A scrape you’ll be seeing a doctor for.”

            “What? I never said I wouldn’t.” Wilfred gave him a look. “I’m getting more food.” Smalls said. The conversation (and the strange buck) hadn’t done wonders for his mood. Wilfred looked worried and tired, and didn’t bother stopping him.

            Smalls was utterly exhausted. He did end up seeing the doctor, which was about as pleasant as he assumed it would be. But the wound certainly did feel better cleaned and stitched, leaving only a barely noticeable aching.

            He tried to read a few of Evan’s letters after he was finally alone in his room, but only got through about two sentences before he decided that it wasn’t worth it, and he put them away. But it was hard to sleep. As much as he wanted to, as much as his instincts told him he needed it, his mind wouldn’t relax. How long he lay there-an hour, two, three-he never remembered. And the thing that finally calmed him enough wasn’t the thought of the Mended Wood, strangely, like it normally was. It was the thought of Heather.