The grand throne room of the Castle of Hearts stood in eerie silence, bathed in the dim glow of the corrupted Excalibur. Gorlois sat upon the throne, his armored fingers drumming idly on the armrest while his gaze remained locked onto the twisted blade before him. The sword pulsed faintly, its once-holy radiance now consumed by an ominous darkness.

A hollow voice broke the silence. "We have now gathered, my lord."

Gorlois did not move, his attention still fixated on the blade. The Headless Swordsman stood at the base of the throne, his spectral presence as unwavering as ever. Beside him, Pierrot lounged against a pillar, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. Others loomed in the shadows, waiting.

At last, Gorlois spoke, his voice low and firm. "The Heart of Underland is not here."

Pierrot let out an exaggerated sigh, arms spread in a dramatic flourish. "Could it be in a treasury? A dungeon? Perhaps tucked away in some secret chamber?" His grin widened. "You know how these castles are—always full of little surprises."

Gorlois finally turned his gaze from the sword. His crimson eyes bore into the Jester. "The Excalibur should respond to it if it were nearby." He lifted the blade slightly, but it remained still, indifferent. "However, there is no reaction. It must have been taken from this place at some point."

His fingers tightened around the hilt. "I need you all to investigate."

Pierrot chuckled, twirling a dagger between his fingers. "Perhaps those rats trapped in that inner chamber have the answer. Shall I interrogate them?" His grin widened. "Oh, I do love a good conversation."

Gorlois remained unfazed, his voice cold and commanding. "Do whatever you must. Search the ends of Underland if you need to. Just bring me the Heart."

The weight of his command settled over the gathered figures like a heavy fog. The Headless Swordsman merely nodded, silent and obedient as always and set off with his dark steed.

Pierrot gave an exaggerated bow. "As you wish, my lord. I do so enjoy a treasure hunt." With a snap of his fingers, he vanished into a swirl of darkness, off to entertain himself with the unfortunate prisoners.

Anabelle, the Puppeteer, tilted her head, golden threads wrapped around her fingers as she idly toyed with them. Her porcelain-like face twisted into a satisfied smirk as she turned her attention to the Knave of Hearts, whose vacant eyes stared ahead, his will long stolen by her control.

She let one of her threads coil around his wrist like a leash. "Looks like we have some work to do, my dear Knave," she cooed, her voice dripping with amusement. With a delicate flick of her fingers, she and the Knave vanished into a swirling puff of violet smoke, leaving behind the faintest whisper of laughter.

The Hunter gave a curt bow to Gorlois before vanishing in a blur, his form a mere flicker against the castle's cold stone walls as he darted into the night.

The Giant, looming and expressionless, let out a low grunt of acknowledgment. With slow, earth-shaking steps, he turned and began his march, his towering form disappearing into the dark corridors of the castle.

The throne room fell into an eerie stillness, save for the pulsing corruption of Excalibur, its dark aura licking at the edges of reality like a restless beast. Gorlois remained seated, his grip firm on the blade, his eyes narrowing in deep thought.

Outside, the young evening moon cast a pale glow over the ruined landscape of the Castle of Hearts. The once-proud stronghold now loomed like a skeletal beast, its walls cracked and weathered, its banners tattered like forgotten ghosts. Below, the undead army shambled mindlessly, their restless forms casting eerie shadows against the cold stone.

Above them all, the Eaglet landed lightly on a section of the castle's outer wall, carefully choosing a spot that was less infested with the horrors that prowled the grounds. His keen eyes darted across the ruined expanse, carefully taking in every detail—the patrol patterns of the undead, the weakened sections of the structure, the possible entry points.

He took a slow breath, his talons tightening slightly against the stone. "No mistakes," he murmured to himself.

The treasury lay somewhere within, but first—how to carefully enter the castle? He needed a path, one that wouldn't immediately alert the creatures below.

His mind worked quickly, weighing his options. The windows along the upper levels? Too exposed. The crumbling eastern wall? Risky—any wrong step and it could collapse under his weight. The drainage tunnels leading into the lower halls? Possible, but there was no telling what lurked in the dark.

He exhaled sharply, his feathers ruffling as he made his decision. "No other way then..."

With a final glance toward the undead below, he moved—silent as the night itself.

The Eaglet spread his wings just enough to glide soundlessly from his perch, descending toward a narrow ledge along the outer wall. His claws barely made a sound as he landed, pressing himself against the cold stone. From here, he could see an open archway leading into the castle—most likely a ventilation shaft or an old servant's passage. It was small, tight, but more importantly, it was unguarded.

He took another careful glance below. The undead continued their restless march, oblivious to his presence. Good.

Flexing his talons, he edged forward, moving with the precision of a shadow. The opening was just within reach when—

Snap.

A loose stone beneath his claw cracked, tumbling off the ledge. It clattered against the castle wall before dropping into the mass of undead below.

The Eaglet froze.

The creatures below stopped.

For a single, breathless moment, there was silence. Then—one by one—the undead tilted their heads upward, their hollow eyes gleaming in the dim moonlight.

A deep growl rumbled from one of them, a knight in rusted armor. Another let out a low, gurgling hiss. Then, without warning—

Screech!

One of the undead let out a bone-chilling cry, pointing directly at the Eaglet's position.

Damn it.

No more time to sneak—he had to move.

With a swift push, he leaped forward, tucking his wings and squeezing himself into the narrow passageway just as the first arrows and spears clattered against the stone where he had stood. The sound of scrambling claws and rusted weapons filled the air as the creatures surged toward the wall, but the Eaglet was already slipping into the dark, vanishing into the castle's depths.

Inside, the air was damp and stale, the walls slick with age. He took a second to catch his breath, listening carefully for any sounds of pursuit.

Silence.

For now, at least.

He straightened, his keen eyes adjusting to the dim corridors. The treasury was still ahead, hidden somewhere deep within these halls. He had made it inside—but the real challenge was just beginning.

Back the the inner chamber, the Queen of Hearts, the White Queen and the last remnants of their subjects huddled together, tension still heavy in the tight space around them. Torchlight flickered weakly against the cold stone walls, casting long shadows that danced like specters in the dim glow.

Outside, the distant echoes of the undead army clawing at the castle walls served as a haunting reminder of their dire circumstances.

Then, without warning, the torches flared, their flames twisting into unnatural shapes. A sudden flicker of orange light danced across the stone walls. Before anyone could react, a burst of flame erupted in the center of the room, spiraling into the shape of a massive grinning face before vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. In its place stood the Jester, arms spread wide in theatrical flourish, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

All at once, swords, spears, and arrows were raised, the last defenders of Wonderland positioning themselves between him and their queens.

The Jester simply smirked and gave a deep, mocking bow. "Greetings, citizens of Underland." His voice rang with amusement, like a performer stepping onto the grandest stage. "You may all ease up—I don't intend to harm any of you. If I did, I could have simply torn open the doors and let my lovely friends outside come waltzing in." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "And yet, here you all are, still safe and sound. Fortunate, no?"

His gaze drifted lazily over the gathered nobles, knights, and courtiers before settling on the two queens—one bristling with fury, the other as still as a porcelain doll.

The Queen of Hearts took a bold step forward, her crimson gown billowing around her. "State your purpose, fiend!"

The Jester chuckled, pacing along the edge of the chamber, his movements light as if he were balancing on an invisible tightrope. "Ah, straight to business. Very well. I have a simple question, and your answer will determine the continuity of your luck up until now."

He spun on his heel, his grin widening.

"Where is the Heart of Underland?"

At once, the Queen of Hearts snapped, "You will not get an answer from us!"

A hearty, delighted laugh escaped the Jester's lips, rich with amusement. He clapped his hands together as if she had just delivered the punchline to a joke only he understood. "You don't seem to realize your current situation." His grin sharpened, and he lifted a gloved hand. "Allow me to provide a light demonstration."

With a flick of his wrist, the torches lining the chamber suddenly erupted into wild, spiraling flames, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. The flames moved unnaturally, twisting and curling like fiery serpents.

Then, without warning, the fire leaped forward—not to burn, but to ensnare. A bright tendril of flame wrapped itself around the arm of one of the knights, and before he could react, it yanked him forward with an almost playful force. His sword clattered from his hand as he stumbled to his knees.

The Jester let out a theatrical gasp. "Oh dear, what a fumble! You must be more careful, good sir!" His fingers twitched, and the fire flickered—just enough for the knight's own hand to move against his will, gripping the hilt of his dagger.

The Queen of Hearts' eyes widened, a flash of hesitation breaking through her anger.

The Jester's smile never wavered. "You see, my dear rulers, my patience is quite thin, but my creativity?" He let out a dramatic sigh. "Limitless."

The dagger trembled in the knight's grip, inching toward his throat.

A sharp intake of breath ran through the chamber.

The Queen of Hearts seethed, fists clenched at her sides. The citizens of Wonderland around her were frozen, their expressions shifting between fear and defiance.

The Jester tilted his head, watching her as if she were a particularly curious puzzle. Then, with a flourish, he snapped his fingers. The flames coiled back, releasing the knight, who gasped as if suddenly regaining control of his own body.

"Now then," the Jester said cheerfully, twirling on his heel, "shall we have a proper chat, or shall I continue the show?"

Suddenly, the General of Hearts and the White Knight lunged at the Jester without hesitation, their weapons flashing in the dim torchlight. The General's greatsword cut through the air with deadly precision, while the White Knight's lance sought the gaps in the Jester's defenses.

But Pierrot was already moving. With a fluid backflip, he evaded the first strike, landing effortlessly atop a fallen stone. "Ah, so you do want the show to go on!" he chimed, spinning midair as another slash missed him by mere inches. "I wouldn't blame you. A good performance is hard to come by these days."

The Tweedle Twins barreled forward next, their heavy maces swinging wildly. Their sheer strength was enough to crack the very floor beneath them, but the Jester danced between their blows like a ribbon caught in the wind. Each swing missed by a hair's breadth, and he rewarded their effort with a delighted cackle.

"You're all so lively for people about to lose everything!" he teased, twisting mid-air as the General's sword came dangerously close to his ribs. "Shall I juggle your weapons next?"

The Lion, with a ferocious roar, joined the fray, his claws slashing in perfect sync with the Carpenter, who swung his massive hammer down like a judge delivering a final verdict. The Jester barely touched the ground, flipping, rolling, and contorting his body in impossible ways to avoid the onslaught.

Then, in the midst of the chaos, he vanished.

A flickering afterimage of laughter remained in his place before dispersing into glowing embers.

The warriors skidded to a halt, searching the chamber wildly.

From behind them, perched mockingly atop one of the decorative pillars, the Jester reappeared, lounging as if he'd been there all along. He drummed his fingers against his dagger, a smirk curling his lips.

"My, my, such enthusiasm!" he sighed dramatically. "But if you keep at it, you'll tire yourselves out before we even get to the fun part."

His eyes gleamed, and with a snap of his fingers, the torches flared once more, their flames twisting into grotesque, grinning faces that cackled along with him.

"Shall we start again?"

The Duchess's Cook, never one to waste an opportunity, hurled a pepper bomb straight at the Jester, her aim precise despite the chaos around her.

But just before it reached him—poof!—the Jester vanished, dissolving into a swirl of glowing embers.

The pepper bomb, now without a target, continued its arc and burst against another stone pillar. A thick, choking cloud of spice erupted, spreading in a wide radius. The unsuspecting card soldiers stationed nearby were instantly caught in the blast, their rigid stances crumbling into fits of sneezing and desperate gasps for air.

"—AH-CHOO!" A Spade soldier toppled over, sending a Diamond knight into a sputtering, wheezing frenzy.

"MY EYES! MY NOSE!—AH-CHOO!" Another clawed at his faceplate, while his comrade blindly swung his spear, missing everything but air.

The Duchess's Cook let out a triumphant snort, placing her hands on her hips. "That'll teach you to stand around like a pack o' useless kitchen ornaments!"

But her moment of satisfaction was short-lived.

From above, a familiar voice let out an exaggerated sniff.

"Oh dear—such a pungent tactic!"

The Jester reappeared, perched upside down on the chandelier, his body dangling with unnatural ease. He waved a hand in front of his nose as if warding off an unbearable stench, though his grin never faltered.

"Creative, I'll give you that!" he continued, tilting his head. "But really, you should know by now—"

In an instant, he dropped.

A blur of red and black, he landed right beside the Duchess's Cook, his dagger twirling between his fingers.

"—I never stay still for long."

With a wicked gleam in his eye, Pierrot flicked his wrist, the dagger's tip slicing through the air—straight for the Cook's throat.

But before the blade could find its mark, a mass of thorny vines erupted between them. Sharp, twisting brambles shot forth, coiling like a living wall. The Jester's dagger barely skimmed the surface before he was forced to retreat, backflipping away with a theatrical sigh.

"Tsk, tsk," Pierrot clicked his tongue, eyes flickering toward the source of the interference. "How rude."

From the shadows of the chamber, the Talking Rose swayed, its crimson petals unfurling as more vines slithered across the ground, ready to strike again.

"Touch my allies, Jester," the Rose hissed, "and you'll find yourself pruned."

Pierrot let out a bark of laughter. "Charming! And here I thought I was the dramatic one."

But there was no time for further mockery.

The General of Hearts charged again, his sword gleaming in the dim chamber light. The White Knight was close behind, his lance aimed true. From the sides, the Tweedle Twins stormed in with their maces, and the Lion and the Carpenter joined the fray, hammer and claws ready to strike.

All at once, they closed in.

And yet—

Pierrot was gone.

Their weapons swung through nothing but empty air.

A blur of movement flickered in the shadows, a disembodied chuckle echoing through the chamber.

"Ah, my dear friends," Pierrot's voice taunted from seemingly everywhere at once. "Didn't I just tell you—?"

A gust of air rushed past the General's ear.

A whisper of fabric behind the White Knight's shoulder.

A shadow flitting across the chamber ceiling.

"—I never stay still for long."

The Jester's laugh rang out, bouncing off the walls like a twisted melody.

The chamber fell still for a moment, the defenders scanning their surroundings, weapons raised, breaths tense.

Then—

A sudden flicker of movement, and Pierrot's voice purred from somewhere just out of reach.

"Now then… where were we?"

The General of Hearts gritted his teeth, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. His mind raced. Should I use it?

He had only ever resorted to his beast form once before—when he fought against the Puppeteer's monstrous pet. But back then, it had taken everything in him not to lose himself completely. If he transformed now, in such a confined space, with so many allies nearby... No. It was too risky. If he lost control, he could do more harm than good.

Before he could decide on another course of action, a voice cut through the tension like a blade of its own.

"It's inside the Well of Wonders in the Frozen North."

All movement in the chamber ceased.

The Queen of Hearts whirled around, her eyes blazing. "Mirana!" she snapped, fury laced in every syllable.

The White Queen, standing poised and composed despite their dire situation, met her sister's gaze evenly. "This is pointless." Her voice was quiet yet firm. "He's obviously just toying with us. It's better to give him what he wants than for all of us to perish right here."

A long, slow chuckle filled the air, curling around them like smoke.

Pierrot reappeared, perched lazily on the arm of a toppled throne, legs crossed as if he had all the time in the world. He clapped his hands together in amusement, tilting his head at the White Queen with a mocking smirk.

"A wise choice—Your Majesty." He dragged out the words, his tone dripping with mock reverence.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, his dagger vanished into thin air.

"See? That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" He hopped down from his perch, stretching as if he had just awoken from a pleasant nap. "Now then… I suppose I should be on my merry way."

His grin widened as he spun on his heel.

"But don't worry," he added, glancing over his shoulder. "This isn't goodbye. No, no, no—this is merely an intermission."

With a flourish of his hand and a swirl of black smoke, the Jester disappeared.

The tension in the chamber lingered like a ghost. No one spoke at first, the weight of what had just transpired pressing down on them.

Then, from near the back of the gathered survivors, a voice—soft yet trembling with worry—broke the silence.

"Oh, Eaglet… where are you right now?"

The Lory's feathers ruffled as she clutched her wings close to her chest. Her eyes darted to the sealed doors, as if hoping that by some miracle, the young warrior would burst through them at any moment.

"Please be safe," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "And come back to us before more of these monsters get here."

The mere mention of the undead brought a fresh wave of unease. The muffled echoes of groaning and shuffling just beyond the chamber walls served as a chilling reminder that their reprieve was only temporary.