The General of the Heart's kingdom marched in silence, barely staring at the Queen's castle that loomed ahead. It was supposed to be a relief to return, but he knew the Queen of Hearts wouldn't tolerate any more bad news. Behind him, the White Knight, the Flamingo, the Lion, the Mock Turtle, the Walrus, and the Carpenter trudged in his wake, their bodies exhausted from the ordeal, their faces drawn and weary. Each of them carried their own burdens, but none spoke.

As they passed through the castle gates, the cold silence seemed to wrap around them, almost oppressive in its weight. The guards stationed by the entrance snapped to attention as they approached, but even they did not speak, their eyes betraying little emotion. The General, however, could sense the undercurrent of unease running through the castle.

The air inside the castle was heavy, thick with an unspoken tension. The torches lining the halls flickered strangely, casting long, distorted shadows against the walls. The usual murmur of servants and courtiers was absent, leaving only the hollow echoes of their own footsteps.

The General's jaw tightened. What happened while we were gone?

The march toward the throne room felt endless, each step filled with anticipation and dread. His thoughts were already forming the words he would need to deliver—how much to reveal, what to omit, how to shape their failure into something the Queen could still use.

The heavy doors of the throne room loomed ahead. Two guards moved swiftly, pulling them open without a word.

And there she was.

The Queen of Hearts sat upon her throne, draped in regal crimson, her piercing gaze cutting through the dim light. The moment they entered, she tilted her head slightly, studying them in silence. The General knew that look well—assessing, calculating, waiting for an excuse to lash out.

At her side, a figure stood partially obscured by the throne's elaborate design. A spindly man in a high-collared coat, his fingers tapping against his forearm in idle impatience. His presence sent a ripple of discomfort through the General.

The Royal Executioner.

The General did not flinch, nor did he allow his exhaustion to show. Instead, he knelt, his voice steady. "Your Majesty, we have returned."

The Queen did not immediately respond. She let the silence linger, drawing it out until it became suffocating.

Finally, she spoke. "I see no victory in your return."

Her voice was deceptively soft, but the threat beneath it was razor-sharp.

The White Knight stepped forward, bowing deeply. "We bring you knowledge, We have confirmed the threat before us. Their forces are unlike anything we have faced before."

The Queen's eyes flicked to him, then back to the General. "And what more did you find out about these new enemies?."

The General met her gaze evenly. "We return with what we could gather. There is more at play here. If we had stayed longer, we might not have returned at all."

A tense pause.

The Queen's fingers drummed against the armrest of her throne. "So you admit to retreating."

The room tensed, the Queen of Hearts' words hanging like a blade poised to drop. The General did not move, his expression calm despite the weight of her scrutiny. The White Knight, standing beside him, kept his head lowered in deference, but there was a quiet tension in his stance.

Before the Queen of Hearts could continue, another voice, softer but no less commanding, cut through the silence.

"Give them some slack, dear sister," the White Queen said, her tone gentle yet firm.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the General and his squad. "They barely stand on their own feet, and yet you demand more from them." She gestured subtly toward the Flamingo, who was still breathing heavily, and the Mock Turtle, whose shield hand trembled ever so slightly from exhaustion. Even the Lion, usually proud and unwavering, swayed on his paws.

The Queen of Hearts exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening against the throne's armrest. "I demand results, sister," she said, though there was a flicker of restraint in her voice now. "Our kingdom stands at the precipice, and all I have before me are weary soldiers and half-formed reports."

The White Queen's lips curved ever so slightly. "And yet, they are here. Alive. Perhaps you should hear them out before sharpening your blade."

The General took this brief moment of reprieve to finally speak. "We understand the urgency, Your Majesty," he said carefully. "We do not return empty-handed, but what we've encountered out there cannot be fought recklessly. A wrong move could mean the end of Wonderland itself."

The Queen of Hearts narrowed her eyes and then finally leaned back in her throne, exhaling through her nose. "Fine", she said, waving a hand dismissively. "You will rest for now. But do not mistake my mercy for patience. You will report back in full detail once you have recovered."

The White Queen smiled faintly. "That is fair, is it not?"

The General gave a small bow, the White Knight following suit. "We will be ready when you call."

As the squad turned to leave, the Queen of Hearts called out once more.

"General."

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder.

Her red-painted lips curled into a sharp smile. "I hope you do realize that retreat does not absolve you of war."

The General held her gaze, his expression unreadable.

"I never expected it to."

And with that, he stepped out of the throne room, his squad trailing behind, their bodies exhausted but their minds now more burdened than ever.

Meanwhile, back in the ruined temple, the hushed murmurs of the Duchess, the March Hare and the Dormouse cut through the eerie silence. They all gathered near the unconscious bodies of the Gryphon and the White Rabbit.

The Duchess sat on a broken pillar, arms crossed. The March Hare paced anxiously, his mallet resting against his shoulder, while the Dormouse, despite her weariness, kept a watchful eye on their surroundings.

"We should go back to the castle," the March Hare finally said, stopping in his tracks. His voice, though uncertain, carried a note of determination. "The Queen needs to know what we found. Maybe she can—"

"Nuts. You're absolutely nuts," the Duchess cut in, giving him a look of sheer disbelief. "Do you have a death wish?"

The March Hare blinked. "What?"

The Duchess threw her arms up. "You really think the Queen of Hearts will welcome us back with open arms? After we left without her permission? After—" she gestured toward the unconscious Gryphon and White Rabbit, "—this mess?" She leaned forward, her expression dark. "The moment we step into that castle, she'll have our heads. And that's if she's feeling merciful."

The March Hare huffed, gripping his mallet tighter. "Then what do you suggest? We can't just sit here and wait to die."

The Dormouse, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, yawned. "I vote for not dying. Can we all agree on that first?"

The Duchess let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Look, running back to the Queen is not an option. Not yet. We need another plan."

The March Hare frowned. "Then what is the plan, Duchess? Hatter left us. The Rabbit and Gryphon are half-dead. And we're running out of options."

Silence hung between them for a moment.

Then, the Duchess smirked. "We find another way. A way that doesn't end with us on the chopping block."

The Dormouse tilted her head. "And what way is that?"

The Duchess leaned forward, her grin widening. "We go to my people."

The March Hare frowned. "Your people?"

The Duchess tapped her chin thoughtfully before replying, "The rebels. The Knave of Hearts' old faction."

The March Hare's ears twitched in disbelief. "Those are still alive?" he blurted.

The Duchess chuckled. "Oh, Hare, dear, you wound me. Of course they are. They've just gone… quiet since the Knave died." She stood, brushing the dust off her coat. "Without a leader, they've scattered, hiding in places the Queen's forces rarely think to look. But they're still out there, waiting for something—or someone—to pull them together again."

The Dormouse arched an eyebrow. "And you think you're that someone?"

The Duchess smirked, placing a hand on her hip. "Who else?"

The March Hare crossed his arms. "And what, exactly, makes you think they'll listen to you?"

The Duchess rolled her eyes. "Because I was the one helping the Knave run the rebellion in the first place. Half of them still owe me their skins. I just need to call them back, and they'll come."

She then turned, stepping toward an open space in the ruined temple. With a slow, deliberate motion, she reached into her coat and retrieved a small vial filled with an inky black liquid. Without hesitation, she uncorked it and poured a few drops onto the cracked stone floor.

The March Hare and Dormouse exchanged uneasy glances.

"What exactly are you doing?" the Dormouse asked, inching back slightly.

The Duchess ignored her, murmuring an incantation under her breath as she dipped two fingers into the dark liquid. With precise, fluid strokes, she traced a symbol onto the ground—something ancient, something neither the March Hare nor the Dormouse recognized.

The air around them seemed to hum, a faint pulse reverberating through the temple ruins. The black liquid shimmered before vanishing into the stone like it had never been there at all.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, a slow, rhythmic thump echoed in the distance. A beat, like a distant drum or a pulse in the earth itself.

The Duchess straightened, satisfied. "There. That should get their attention."

The March Hare narrowed his eyes. "What was that?"

The Duchess merely smiled. "A little beacon, a whisper to the right ears. Now," she turned back to them, clapping her hands together, "you two get the Gryphon and the White Rabbit. We leave now."

The Dormouse rubbed her temples. "You could've just sent a letter."

The Duchess grinned. "Bah, this one's faster!"

And with that, she strode ahead, leaving the March Hare and the Dormouse to hoist their wounded allies and follow.

Shifting to the Frozen North, two figures faced the massive shadowed figure that sat upon a frozen throne. One knelt down - trembling, while the other one stood, unnervingly composed.

The kneeling one was the Hunter, his massive frame hunched, kept his head bowed, his left eye tightly shut, his clawed fingers digging into his own knees. The air around him flickered, his very presence shifting between form and shadow as if he were struggling to remain whole.

Standing tall behind him, the Headless Swordsman remained motionless, his stance rigid and unwavering. Though he had no face, his presence radiated something cold and absolute. The unseen force of his stare was enough to keep the Hunter's trembling from turning into outright collapse.

After a long silence, the Swordsman finally spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. "The Hunter disobeyed your command," he reported, the words cutting through the stillness like a blade. "You told us to observe. He engaged."

The throne room remained silent for a moment.

Then, a deep, rumbling chuckle echoed through the air.

"Relax, Swordsman," their leader drawled, amusement lacing his tone. "The Hunter merely did what he had to."

"And so is survival," the shadowed leader replied, leaning forward ever so slightly. His glowing eyes burned into the kneeling Hunter, who stiffened under the weight of that gaze. "I do not blame him for wanting revenge. The Shadowed Wolf was his kin. What else would he do?"

The Hunter sucked in a sharp breath, his trembling increasing. "My lord…"

The shadowed figure smirked. "Look at you. Still clinging to your pride, yet barely holding yourself together." He tilted his head, his amusement never fading. "Tell me, Hunter—did you learn anything from your little tantrum?"

The Hunter swallowed hard before speaking, his voice hoarse. "They're… not that strong. We can crush them whenever we want. Why are we not doing anything?"

"Oh but my dear Hunter," their leader mused. "The weak do not survive long in Underland."

The Hunter's claws dug into the frozen ground, frustration simmering beneath his skin. His pride was already in shambles, and now this? He wanted vengeance, retribution—he wanted to tear those fools apart, not sit idly by while they scurried around, thinking they had a chance.

His golden eye burned with barely contained rage. "Then why let them live?" he snarled. "They're vulnerable now. Wounded. If we strike—"

The deep chuckle from the throne sent a chill down his spine.

"Oh, Hunter…" Their leader leaned forward, his massive form casting an even darker shadow across the icy chamber. "Do you truly think this is about winning?"

The Hunter hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

Their leader rose from his throne, his towering presence filling the space with a suffocating weight. "You think we should crush them now? Kill them before they can fight back?" He took a slow step forward, and though his movement was unhurried, the sheer force of it made the ice beneath his feet crack. "Tell me, what sport is there in that?"

The Hunter's breathing hitched, his instincts screaming at him to lower his head, to submit—but his rage burned too hot to obey so easily.

The Headless Swordsman remained silent behind him, unreadable as always, but the air around him seemed to hum with something like expectation.

Their leader stopped just short of the kneeling Hunter. The air between them was thick with power, his golden eyes glowing with something far more dangerous than mere amusement now.

"The weak do not survive long in Underland, yes," the leader murmured. "But do you know what does?"

The Hunter clenched his jaw. "What?"

The shadowed figure grinned, sharp and cruel.

"Despair."

The Hunter's eye widened.

Their leader chuckled darkly. "Let them scramble. Let them think they have a chance. The more they struggle, the more delicious their fall will be." He turned, walking back toward his throne. "Victory is inevitable. But breaking them? That is an art."

The Hunter swallowed hard, the rage inside him slowly twisting into something colder. Something more dangerous.

He bowed his head.

"…I understand."

The shadowed figure sat back upon his frozen throne, satisfied. "Good."

Then, a faint shift in the air caught his attention. He tilted his head, eyes flickering with interest.

"Ah… it seems the time has come for the show to begin."

The Headless Swordsman finally spoke. "Shall I summon the others then?"

Their leader smirked. "Of course." He leaned back, golden eyes glinting. "The real fun… is just beginning."