Percival, the eldest, clutches a bundle of straw, optimism in his eyes despite the gloom. Bramble, the middle pig, lugs a stack of sticks, glancing nervously at the deepening woods. Griselda, the youngest, carries heavy bricks, her gaze steely and distant as the morning fog thickens. "We'll each build a home to keep us safe," Percival declares, forcing a hopeful smile. "Just stay near, won't you? The forest feels alive," Bramble whispers, eyes darting to the shadows.

Percival[/@ch_1] builds his straw house is bathed in weak sunlight, birdsong muted by a distant, hungry howl.] Percival weaves straw with trembling hooves, trying to ignore the sinister rustling from the woods. His house rises quickly, flimsy walls trembling with every gust. The air thickens suddenly. From the tree line, a pair of golden eyes glints—The Wolf, massive and gaunt, emerges with a wicked grin. "Little pig, little pig, let me come in..." The words slither through the air, promising nothing but doom.

The Wolf[/@ch_4] circles the straw house, his claws leaving deep grooves in the earth.] Percival's pleas are muffled by the wolf's menacing laughter. With a thunderous breath, The Wolf huffs and puffs, and the fragile home scatters like chaff. Percival barely has time to scream; jaws flash in the dim light, and the forest is silent once more. "Straw is for the weak," he mutters, licking his crimsoned lips before vanishing back into the trees.

Bramble[/@ch_2]'s stick cottage, which is dimly lit by a flickering lantern. The woods now press closer, their branches clawing at the fragile walls.] Bramble shivers, clutching a stick like a talisman, heart pounding as the echo of his brother’s fate haunts him. The scent of blood lingers, heavy and inescapable. The Wolf returns, saliva dripping from his maw, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Little pig, little pig, let me come in..." The words are all shadow and threat. The sticks shudder as he inhales deeply, then the house collapses in a single, monstrous exhalation.

The Wolf[/@ch_4] pads toward Griselda's brick house, its walls solid and unyielding. Lanterns glow within, casting sturdy shadows against the storm.] Griselda stands behind her iron-bound door, jaw set, a large cauldron boiling over the fire. She listens to the wolf’s approach, each step a drumbeat of vengeance. "Little pig, little pig, let me come in..." "Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin," Griselda replies, voice cold as steel.

The Wolf[/@ch_4] hurls himself against the brick house, fury and hunger entwined. Inside, firelight dances on Griselda's determined face.] When the wolf finds the chimney, he claws his way down, teeth gleaming in anticipation. But below, the cauldron bubbles ominously. Griselda yanks the lid away at the last moment. The wolf tumbles in with a shriek, steam hissing, and the house is filled with the smell of victory and vengeance.

Griselda stands at her door, alone but unbroken, smoke curling from the chimney. She gazes at the woods, eyes hard but dry, and the memory of her brothers lingers—carved into the stone of her survival. "Let them know: the wolf is not always the end," she whispers, voice echoing through the stillness.