Disclaimer; I may have the same name as a famous writer, but I did not write the Sisters Grimm, nor do I own them.

Prologue

"Really, how hard is it to alert the man in charge? I'm not asking for you to pull out an AK47 or transform into a ninja. I'm asking for you to turn yourself around and do what you do best. RUN."

"Yeah, I- I know-"

"No, obviously, you don't know, because if you did, you'd be kicking up dust right now. If you had any sense, if you truly understood the severity of the situation, you would be following my orders and warning Charming's division about-"

" Get down!"

Usually, I don't take orders from anybody, but if you heard the shrill, keening call of a deadly missile aimed in your direction, what would be your first reaction? Yeah. Get down.

Dozens of bodies hit the worn, wooden floor with a thump. A few of them got up, but not many. I faced the unlucky ones with a bitter expression. These were my men, and hardly any of them were alive, much less fit to fight. If I had it my way, it'd be me and Mirror, hand-to-hand combat. No magic, no weaponry. By now, I could kill him. Not just from anger, but because I had gotten stronger. None of these Scarlett Hand fools had the raw skill that I did. My work is not tainted by the use of magic wands, or control over dangerous creatures like the Jabberwocky. I could take any fine-tuned wet-work artist with nothing but the plastic end of a shoe string. Actually, I could take about forty of them with nothing at all.

"Ma'am. Um…Ms. Grimm?" whispered the young soldier to my right. He tapped my shoulder.

"What?" I mumbled, not really looking at him.

The soldier's Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Well, the last time I talked to Charming, he said he was going to pull us out. He said we were losing too many without taking down any numbers in the Hand."

"What? We've taken out plenty! What did you tell him?" The boy backed up.

"I- I told him that it was…uh.." he was sweating now.

I took hold of his shirt collar. "What, boy, what did you say to him?"

"I told him it was a good idea."

So, the boy had the right idea. To be afraid, that is.

Before the wild wind above our fort had moved another strand of blonde hair into my face, the soldier was horizontal on a broken table.

"Well, then," I said sweetly to the boy, "Why don't you go tell our dear friend that we won't pull out until every single one of us is rotting in the ground."

His face crumpled. Wincing as he stood up, he replied, "Yes, ma'am."

I turned away from his limping figure to stare out at the dreary scene before me. Great clouds of smoke, like a thunderstorm from Hell, filling every pothole of the dead land, were the only things moving. But I knew there were people there. Not people, exactly, but living creatures that thirsted for destruction and blind revenge. Nasty little things that dreamt of the death of me and my family. They were the enemy. They were the ones that caused the separation of me and my parents, and more importantly, the disappearance of my dearest friend. They had terrorized us for seven years now. They were the Scarlett Hand.

And this disturbing, eerie place is the battlefield of the Everafter War.