The underground warren buzzed like a kicked hornet's nest as the rebels scrambled to prepare for battle. Card soldiers polished their spears with grim determination, the metallic shink-shink of whetstones on blades filling the cavern.
The Tweedle Twins squabbled over a map of Wonderland, each tugging at opposite ends until it ripped down the middle.
"Now look what you've done!" Tweedledee snapped.
"You started it!" Tweedledum retorted, puffing out his cheeks.
Nearby, the Walrus and the Carpenter worked in uneasy silence—the Walrus oiling a set of stolen clockwork blades, the Carpenter nailing makeshift barricades across the tunnels. Their usual camaraderie had soured since the fall of the Castle of Eternity; now, they only spoke in terse nods and grunts.
Perched atop a stack of crates, the Flamingo preened its feathers with fastidious care, its beady eyes tracking every movement. It had become the rebels' unlikely sentry, its sharp beak and quicker reflexes making up for its refusal to speak.
Away from the chaos, in a small alcove lined with moth-eaten tapestries, the White Queen stood with her back to the White Knight, her fingers tracing the edge of an ancient weapon rack.
"You sent for me, Your Majesty?" the Knight said, his voice carefully neutral.
She turned, and in her hands lay a sword—its blade pale as moonlight, its hilt wrapped in silver vines. The sight of it struck the Knight like a physical blow.
"That is Sir Charlie's sword," he breathed.
"Yes," the White Queen said softly. "My first White Knight. Your master."
The Knight recoiled as if burned. "I'm not worthy of wielding that. I'm the one who killed him."
The White Queen didn't flinch. "Because you had to."
"But—"
"It's time we let go of the past," she interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. "You know as well as I do that if there's anyone he'd want to wield this blade, it's you."
The Knight's gauntleted hands trembled. Memories flashed—Sir Charlie's patient smile, the way he'd adjusted the Knight's grip on a practice sword, the look in his eyes when the coup began. When the order came. When the blade went in.
The White Queen's fingers lingered on the sword's pommel as she continued, her voice softening like snowfall. "And you'll need this blade for a new role."
"A new role?" The Knight's grip tightened instinctively around the hilt.
"You're to join those who will revive Alice," she said, her pale eyes reflecting the sword's muted glow. "And once she returns, you will protect her with your life."
"But—"
"She is the key to all of this," the White Queen interrupted, her tone leaving no room for debate. "I feel it in my senses."
The Knight hesitated, then asked the question that had gnawed at him since the battle plans were drawn: "What about you?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the White Queen's lips. "You forget—I fight with my sister at my side now."
The Knight stiffened. "Is this because I lost to her?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them—the shame of his defeat to the Queen of Hearts still fresh.
"No," the White Queen said simply. She reached out, adjusting the sword's angle in his grip. "It's because I trust you with what matters most."
Before the White Knight could react, a loud crash suddenly echoed from the main chamber, r, followed by the Tweedles' overlapping shouts. The Flamingo's wings beat a frantic rhythm against the stone walls.
"Go," the White Queen said, stepping back. "Find the Caterpillar's place. You'll know it by those peculiar shaped smokes. And Knight?" She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear. "When you see the Duchess...tell her the looking glass still remembers."
The Knight's eyes widened, but before he could question her, the White Queen had already turned away, her pale gown disappearing into the shadows of the alcove.
The White Knight stood frozen in the alcove long after the White Queen had gone, his fingers curled tightly around Sir Charlie's sword. The blade caught the dim light, its edge gleaming like a sliver of trapped moonlight.
For years, he had carried the weight of that day—the day he had driven this very steel through his mentor's ribs. He remembered the way Sir Charlie had gripped his shoulder at the end, not in anger, but in something worse: understanding. As if he had known, even then, that the Knight had no choice.
Now, the weapon hummed in his grasp, as though the ghost of its former wielder whispered through the metal.
"You were always meant to carry this."
The Knight exhaled, slow and steady, then sheathed the sword at his side.
When he stepped back into the chaos of the hideout, the Tweedles were still bickering, and the room was still noisy with various preparations and discussions. But none of those mattered to him. He simply strode toward the exit, where the first bloody hues of dawn painted the tunnel's mouth.
He had nearly reached the tunnel's exit when a small, determined voice piped up from behind him.
"I'm coming with you."
He turned to see the Eaglet perched atop a barrel, his feathers ruffled but his golden eyes sharp. The little bird had always been slight—too often overlooked in the chaos of the rebellion—but there was a fierceness in his stance now that the Knight hadn't noticed before.
"Do you know where I'm going?" the Knight asked, though he already knew the answer.
The Eaglet fluttered down to land on a nearby crate, his talons clicking against the wood. "I've heard your conversation with the White Queen. And I've heard enough to know you're going after her." He didn't say Alice's name, as if speaking it aloud might jinx their chances. "I owe her friends."
The Knight studied him for a long moment. "It won't be safe."
"Nowhere is," the Eaglet shot back, puffing out his chest. "Besides, you'll need someone who can scout ahead."
A reluctant smirk tugged at the Knight's lips. The Eaglet wasn't wrong.
"Hey! You wouldn't go on a journey empty handed would you?," the Walrus called out. As the Knight turned, he tossed a small, cloth-wrapped bundle toward the White Knight.
The White Knight caught the bundle with a deft motion. "Thank you," he then uttered while meeting the Walrus's gaze.
The Walrus simply nodded, his usual gruff demeanor softened by something almost like approval. "Just bring her back," he muttered, before turning away with a dismissive wave of his flipper. "And try not to die before you do."
Then he lumbered back into the shadows of the hideout, leaving the Knight and the Eaglet standing at the threshold of the tunnel, the first light of dawn stretching long and bloody across the stones.
The Knight secured the bundle to his belt. It was a quiet gesture—one he hadn't expected from the Walrus of all creatures. But then again, Alice had always had a way of turning even the most unlikely allies into something resembling friends.
The Eaglet fluttered up to perch on the Knight's pauldron, his talons clicking softly against the metal. "Ready?"
The Knight adjusted the weight of Sir Charlie's sword at his side and stepped forward into the light.
"Now we are."
Back in the hideout, the White Queen glided, her pale gown whispering against the stone floor as she approached her sister. The Queen of Hearts stood hunched over a war table, her fingers pressing down on carved figurines.
"So," the White Queen murmured, her voice as soft as snowfall, "what are you really planning?"
The Queen of Hearts didn't look up. "To storm our enemies, of course." She flicked a pawn off the table with a sharp ping.
"I know you are reckless," the White Queen said, tilting her head. "But you're not that stupid."
The Queen of Hearts scoffed, her crimson-painted lips twisting in irritation. "I don't know what you're implying." She swept another pawn off the table, sending it clattering across the stone floor.
The White Queen's pale fingers tightened around her own chess piece - a delicate ivory queen. "You know these people aren't ready to face those monsters," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper only her sister could hear. "You're practically sending them to their deaths."
"They seem willing to do so," the Queen of Hearts countered, gesturing to where the Tweedles were now arm-wrestling over who would carry the explosive charges. The Walrus watched them with what might have been amusement in his beady eyes.
The White Queen opened her mouth to respond, then stopped. Instead, she brought her fingers to the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes as if warding off a headache. The faintest tremor ran through her usually immaculate posture.
When she finally spoke again, her words were measured. "When we were children, you used to rip the wings off butterflies to see if they could still crawl. Do you remember what Father told you?"
The Queen of Hearts went very still. The hideout's noise seemed to fade around them.
"'A ruler breaks what she must,'" the White Queen continued, "'but never what she cannot put back together.' These people..." She gestured to those outside the room, "...are not butterflies, Sister. And neither is Wonderland."
"For once," the Queen of Hearts said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet, "will you just trust me, sister?"
The White Queen studied her—the stubborn set of her jaw, the fire in her crimson eyes, the way her fingers curled into fists like a child clinging to a favorite toy. She had seen that look before. On the day their father had taken the crown from her sister's hands and placed it on his own head. On the day the roses had been painted red.
The White Queen sighed. "I will follow you either way," she said, reaching out to straighten her sister's slightly crooked crown. A gesture so old, so instinctive, it ached. "You can always rely on that."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in the Queen of Hearts' expression—something raw and unguarded. Then it was gone, smoothed over by a sharp grin.
"Good," she said, turning back to the war table with a sweep of her sleeves. "Then let's show those monsters what happens when they forget who rules this world."
The White Queen said nothing. But as the hideout's clamor rose again around them, she slipped the broken chess piece into her palm, its edges biting into her skin.
A reminder.
A warning.
A promise.
The Tweedle Twins were at it again—this time, wrestling over a rusted dagger, their faces red with exertion.
"Give it! It's mine!" Tweedledee yanked the blade sideways.
"Liar! You stole it from my stash!" Tweedledum kicked his brother's shin.
A thunderous ROAR split the air, shaking dust from the ceiling. The twins froze mid-scuffle as the Lion loomed over them, his golden mane bristling.
"Enough," he growled, snatching the dagger from their hands. "Save your fighting for the real enemy."
The twins scowled but fell silent, rubbing their bruised limbs.
The Lion turned, his tail lashing as he addressed the ragtag group—the Walrus, the Carpenter, and the Flamingo.
"Listen well," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of a war drum. "Today, we fight for the ground beneath our feet. For the air in our lungs. For every fool who ever stood when they should've run."
The Walrus huffed, adjusting his spectacles. The Carpenter leaned on his hammer, nodding slowly. Even the Flamingo stilled, its beady eyes fixed on the Lion.
"Whatever happens," the Lion finished, holding the twins' stolen dagger aloft, "we all stick together. For the legacy of the Mock Turtle—who sacrificed himself for all of us."
A beat of silence. Then—
The Walrus slammed his flippers together. "Aye."
The Carpenter spat to the side and hefted his hammer. "Till the last nail bends."
The Flamingo didn't speak. But it stretched its wings wide—a battle standard in the dim light.
And the Tweedles, for once, didn't argue.
On one corner, the Talking Rose watched from a distance as the Duchess' Cook moved through her makeshift kitchen. Her hands never stilled—restocking satchels of pepper bombs, testing the heft of her cast-iron ladle, dragging a whetstone along the edge of her cleaver with a rhythmic shink-shink-shink.
The Rose cleared its throat—a delicate rustle of petals. "You've been quiet."
The Cook didn't look up. "War's coming. Noise won't fill bellies or stop blades."
"No," the Rose agreed. "But neither will grudges."
The Cook's hand paused mid-stroke while she tested one of her knives.
"I think it's time we let go of past grudges against her," she pressed on, nodding subtly toward their makeshift War Room.
The Duchess' Cook scoffed, crossing her clenched her fist in agitation, but she said nothing.
The Rose continued, undeterred. "She may have been ruthless. But right now, she's also the only one mad enough to stand against what's coming." A pause. "And if we're being honest… haven't we all done things we regret?"
Silence. The Cook set down her cleaver with deliberate care, then reached for a sack of dried fire-mushrooms, measuring them into glass vials. Then, with a huff, the Cook grabbed a nearby ladle and stirred a bubbling pot with unnecessary force. "Either way, I'm fighting. But not for her," she muttered. "I'm fighting for those that dreamed of a better Wonderland."
The Rose's petals relaxed. "Well, I guess that's close enough."
Then the war room doors burst open as the Queen of Hearts strode out, her crimson gown swirling around her like a banner of defiance. The rebels fell silent as she climbed atop the makeshift platform, the glow of enchanted lanterns casting her shadow long and sharp across the cavern walls. Her crown, polished to a vicious gleam, caught the light like a warning.
She raised her scepter, and the air itself seemed to still.
"Today," her voice rang out, sharp as a blade dragged across stone, "we remind our enemies why Wonderland bows to no one!"
A roar erupted from the rebels—the Tweedles whooping, the Lion's growl shaking the rafters, even the Flamingo's wings snapping open in salute. The Duchess' Cook didn't cheer, but her grip tightened around her cleaver, her knuckles white.
The Queen's smile was a thing of teeth and triumph. "They think us broken. They think us afraid. They think their rot has seeped so deep into our roots that we'll wilt at the first strike of their blades." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a venomous purr. "Let them think it. Let them march into our halls with their arrogance as armor. And when they do—"
A beat. The rebels leaned in.
"—we will show them what happens when you mistake survival for surrender."
Her scepter came down with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. "We fight for every inch of ground they've defiled! For every soul they've shackled! For the very idea of Wonderland—that madness and mercy can share a throne!"
The cheers were deafening now. The Walrus bellowed, the Carpenter slammed his hammer against his palm, and the Talking Rose's thorns dug deep into the ground, as if bracing for the storm.
And then—
A hush rippled through the crowd as the White Queen emerged from the war room, her pale gown untouched by dust, her silver crown a muted contrast to her sister's fire. She didn't climb the platform. She didn't need to.
She simply stood at its base, her hands folded, her gaze steady. A silent counterweight to her sister's fury.
The Queen of Hearts glanced down at her, and for a heartbeat, something unspoken passed between them—a challenge, a concession, a century-old understanding.
Then the Queen of Hearts threw her head back and laughed, the sound wild and bright as a splintering mirror. "To battle, then! And let the enemy tremble for once!"
The rebels surged forward, a tide of blades and fury, as the lanterns above burned hotter, their light staining the cavern walls the color of blood.
The cavern echoed with the chaos of departing rebels—the clatter of weapons, the battle chants, the Lion's roar rallying the vanguard. The Queen of Hearts remained atop the platform, her chest rising and falling with the aftermath of her fury, her knuckles pale around her scepter.
Then, softly—
"Are you ready, sister?"
The White Queen didn't answer immediately. Her gaze drifted over the scattered chess pieces on the war table, the cracked looking-glass propped in the corner, the single white pawn she'd left upright in the center.
"No," she said at last, lifting her eyes to meet her sister's. "But I suppose that's what makes it bravery."
A flicker of something like surprise crossed the Queen of Hearts' face. Then she grinned, all teeth. "Spoken like a true queen."
She extended her hand.
After a heartbeat, the White Queen took it.
Together, they stepped into the blood-hued light of the lanterns, the shadows of their linked hands stretching long behind them—one sharp as a blade, the other soft as a whisper, but both unbreakable.