Beneath the shrouded canopy of the Blackthorn forest, the Queen of Hearts' forces halted their march. The gnarled roots twisted beneath their feet, the damp earth swallowing the sound of their movements as they took refuge under the veil of the forest. The air was thick with the scent of moss and decay, a fitting prelude to the battle that loomed ahead.

The Queen of Hearts stood at the center of her encampment, draped in her regal crimson cloak, her piercing gaze locked on the distant silhouette of her former castle. The fortress loomed like a specter against the storm-choked sky, its jagged towers piercing the heavens like rusted daggers.

A flicker of movement disrupted the stillness—a small, darting shadow slipping through the undergrowth. The Queen's keen eyes narrowed as the Mouse emerged from the darkness, its tiny chest rising and falling with frantic urgency.

"My Queen," it squeaked, bowing low. "I have scouted the enemy's stronghold. Gorlois has fortified the castle with siege weapons and protective spells. The gates are lined with archers. And the outer defenses are still crawling with those…those undead things."

The Queen listened intently, her lips curling in quiet contemplation.

"And his elites?" she inquired, her voice smooth, yet edged like a blade.

"They are there, my Queen. I saw them." The mouse's tiny paws trembled as it spoke. "The Headless Swordsman remains beside their Lord, the Jester, lingers upon the ramparts, the Hunter watches from the tallest tower, and the Giant... guards the main gate. One of them, however, the Puppeteer seems to be missing."

The Queen of Hearts remained still, her crimson-painted nails tapping against the hilt of her rapier. Then, with an exhale, she smiled. A smile not of amusement, but of cold, calculated delight.

"I do wish all of them are here, but I guess that's still a good thing. Now, shall we give them the courtesy of a proper introduction?," she uttered, her voice a whisper of steel.

The first attack came with the whisper of an arrow.

A lone undead knight patrolling the castle perimeter staggered mid-step before crumpling to the ground, an arrow buried in the base of its skull. The others turned—empty sockets scanning the darkness—but there was nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the trees, swaying as if laughing at their confusion.

Then came the fire.

A sudden eruption of flames along the eastern watchtower sent a shockwave around. The orange glow licked hungrily at the stone walls, thick black smoke curling into the sky.

The response was immediate. The undead moved toward the flames in slow, mechanical precision, attempting to extinguish the threat. But even as they did, another explosion rocked the southern wall—this time from a well-placed cache of alchemical fire, hidden beneath a supply wagon.

Panic. Confusion. Undead archers turned their hollow gazes in all directions, searching for enemies that never stood still long enough to be seen.

The first real response came from the tallest tower.

A sharp, metallic twang cut through the crackling flames.

From his vantage point, Nimrod exhaled slowly, his fingers steady as he loosed a bolt. The first arsonist never saw it coming.

—one moment crouched low, the next collapsing against a smoldering wagon with the bolt buried deep between their ribs. A second shot followed, precise and unerring, striking another saboteur in the throat just as they turned to flee.

But the third—

A blur of golden fur intercepted the shot.

The crossbow bolt met steel, sparks bursting in the air as a curved saber cut its path short. The Lion stood firm, blade raised, the embers casting his silhouette against the trees.

"Fall back!" he commanded, his voice sharp as a whip.

The remaining saboteur hesitated, wide-eyed, before vanishing into the underbrush.

Nimrod lowered his crossbow with a frustrated grunt, his lone eye narrowing as he focused on the Lion. His lips curled in recognition.

"You."

The Lion met his glare without flinching. "Hunter," he acknowledged coolly, before shifting his stance.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then, the Lion stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as quickly as he'd appeared.

Nimrod exhaled through his nose, a low growl building in his throat. His single eye twitched. Every instinct screamed at him to give chase—to tear through the underbrush, hunt the Lion down before he could vanish into the depths of the forest.

But before he could take a step, a gloved hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Tut, tut, Hunter~"

A singsong voice whispered in his ear, laced with amusement.

Nimrod twisted sharply, already raising his crossbow—only to find himself staring into the painted grin of the Jester. Dangling upside down from a twisted iron torch bracket, the fool had appeared without a sound, his body swaying lazily as if the chaos around them was nothing more than a festival performance.

"Oh-ho~ Someone's eager!" Pierrot giggled, flipping down from his perch and landing gracefully beside him. His bright eyes—one red, one blue—sparkled with mischief. "What's wrong, Hunter? Your little kitty-cat got away?"

Nimrod growled, his patience already worn thin. "Move."

Pierrot didn't. Instead, he flicked his fingers, juggling three razor-edged playing cards between them. "Orders, orders, dear Nimrod. The master says hold your leash, so here I am. Aren't I thoughtful?"

Nimrod clenched his jaw. His hand tightened around his crossbow, but he knew better than to waste a bolt on the fool. "We're being attacked!"

"Doesn't look like that though." Pierrot spun in place, his bell-tipped hat jingling as he twirled. "More like being baited."

Nimrod's scowl deepened, his fingers twitching toward his belt, where a silvered dagger rested. "And you're just going to sit here laughing while they burn down our supply line?"

Pierrot shrugged, flipping a card effortlessly between his fingers. "Oh, I'm sure Gorlois has bigger problems to worry about than a few burning wagons. You, for example—if you run off and get yourself killed chasing ghosts."

Nimrod bristled. "You think I can't handle a few insurgents?"

The Jester's painted grin widened. "Oh, I have no doubt you'd rip them apart if they stood still long enough. But that's not their game, is it? They poke, they prod, they run. They want you to chase them." He twirled a card between two fingers before sending it flicking through the air—where it embedded itself with a sharp thunk into the smoldering remains of a wagon. "And what do you think happens when all the hounds leave the kennel?"

Nimrod said nothing. He hated to admit it, but the fool was right.

Pierrot giggled again, as if reading his mind. "See? I do pay attention when Gorlois speaks. And you—" he leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper—"are exactly the kind of brute they're hoping will take the bait."

Nimrod bared his teeth, but Pierrot simply twirled away, his bells jingling mockingly.

"Now, now, don't be grumpy! There will be plenty of real killing to do soon enough." The Jester stretched his arms over his head, humming a lively tune. "But for now? We wait. And let them dance."

The Lion and his team sprinted through the open field, their breaths steady despite the undead horde shambling after them. The Lion had counted their steps from the moment they started running—thirty, forty, fifty—almost there.

Then, the first arrows came.

From the trees, precise shafts whistled through the air, each one striking true. Undead knights staggered as arrows embedded themselves in skulls and eye sockets, toppling them like brittle statues. A few still crawled forward, armor clanking, only to be silenced by well-placed bolts to the back of the head.

And then came the real chaos.

Glass spheres tumbled from the branches above, shattering against the ground in bursts of acrid smoke. Pepper bombs. The moment the undead stumbled into the clouds, their movements slowed. They didn't breathe—but something about the concoction interfered with their undead senses, making them sluggish and confused. Some even halted altogether, standing as still as corpses were meant to.

Not all. Some of the more intact knights pushed through, dragging their rusted blades behind them. But then, from deeper in the treeline, came another surprise—tripwires. The Lion had set them earlier, thin but strong, running low along the brush. The first ranks of undead never saw them, their balance already hindered by the bombs, and they collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs and broken bones, making a pile for the archers to pick off.

Only when they had gained enough distance did the Lion finally slow, boots crunching against the damp leaves as he and his team crossed into the deeper forest. His people were already falling back to their next position, melting into the trees to prepare another ambush.

And waiting there, arms crossed, was the Queen of Hearts.

"The Hunter?" she asked, watching as the Lion came to a stop.

The Lion glanced back toward the burning fields, his sharp eyes searching through the mass of movement for any sign of pursuit. He expected at least some sign of the Hunter.

But there was nothing.

"He didn't follow," the Lion murmured.

The Queen of Hearts exhaled sharply, her expression unreadable. Then—Tsk.

"Annoying," she muttered. "Fine. We keep at it." Her gaze flicked toward the battlefield, where the fire still raged. "If they won't take the bait, we make it bigger."

At the Queen of Hearts' words, the White Queen stepped forward from the shadows of the trees.

"I suppose it is my turn," she mused, her pale fingers tracing the air in fluid, elegant motions.

She had prepared this spell long before the first fires were lit—woven in whispered incantations, etched into the very air with unseen sigils. A slow, patient kind of magic. And now, the time had come to unleash it.

With a flick of her wrist, the temperature dropped.

A creeping mist slithered across the battlefield, weaving between burning corpses and shambling undead, sinking into every crack and crevice. The flames didn't die—not completely—but the fire began to twist, its glow shifting into a ghostly blue-white, licking hungrily at the dead with unnatural intensity.

Then came the frost.

It spread in jagged, crawling veins, coating rusted armor and hollow eye sockets with a thin layer of rime. Some of the undead stiffened mid-step, their bodies locking up as ice formed inside their joints. Others, those unfortunate enough to still burn, found their bodies wracked with unnatural cold and heat—flesh cracking, bones splintering under the warring elements.

A deathless army was nothing if its bodies refused to move.

The White Queen lowered her hands, exhaling softly. The magic still lingered, the battlefield now a grotesque tableau of flickering blue fire and creeping frost.

The spell continued to unfold, its effects spreading like a wildfire, scattered by the wind.

Then, from the ice-riddled remains of shattered corpses, figures began to rise. White pawns, sculpted from pure frost and enchanted ice, humanoid but faceless, moved in eerie silence, advancing toward the castle walls with chilling purpose.

Some brandished weapons made of frozen air—jagged spears, crystalline blades. Others simply rushed forward, their sheer presence disrupting the carefully held lines of the undead army. They crashed into Gorlois' forces with the weight of the White Queen's magic behind them, sending undead knights stumbling, archers thrown from their perches by relentless frostborn fists.

The castle itself was not spared. Ice-coated hands slammed against the wooden gates, frost creeping into the iron reinforcements, making them brittle. Cracks formed.

Watching from the high walls, Pierrot the Jester gave a slow, entertained clap. "Oh, interesting~" he chimed, tilting his head.

Nimrod, still gripping his crossbow, narrowed his one eye. "So do we still stay put?" His voice was edged with impatience.

"Yes, we do," Pierrot answered cheerfully, twirling a single playing card between his fingers. "We don't move yet."

But something else did.

From the main gate, there was a deep, rumbling thud—metal groaning, the earth trembling beneath an unnatural weight.

Then, the doors shattered outward in a storm of splinters and frost.

A massive figure emerged.

Towering over the battlefield, his sheer bulk casting a long shadow over the frozen ground, Goliath the Giant stomped forward. His enormous frame was wrapped in chains, dragging behind him like broken shackles. Armor plates, scarred and dented from countless battles, barely concealed the monstrous strength underneath. His fists, each the size of a warhorse, clenched with the promise of destruction.

The Jester sighed dramatically.

"Uh oh~," he sing-songed. "Now he's awake."

Nimrod scowled, his grip tightening on his crossbow. His scratched eye flicked toward the battlefield, where the frost-forged pawns still wreaked havoc among the undead ranks. If they were going to move, now would be the time.

But instead—

Thud.

Thud.

THUD.

Goliath strode forward, each step making the ground tremble beneath his sheer weight. Splintered wood and shattered ice crunched beneath his boots as he closed in on the White Queen's conjured forces. One massive hand reached out—then smashed downward. A frozen pawn shattered instantly, its form reduced to little more than scattered shards.

Nimrod's jaw tightened. "Will you not stop him?"

Pierrot merely tossed a card into the air, watching it twirl lazily before catching it between two fingers. His painted grin never wavered.

"As if I could," the Jester said lightly. "Do you want to try?"

Nimrod's silence was answer enough.

Goliath swung again, wiping out another frozen construct with brutal efficiency. His presence alone was already shifting the tide. The battlefield, once a carefully orchestrated ploy, was now tilting in Gorlois' favor.

And from the tree line, the Queen of Hearts watched.

"Tsk," she muttered, folding her arms. "Well… that's one piece off the board."

The Tweedle Twins exchanged an uneasy glance before turning back to the battlefield, watching as Goliath crushed another pawn beneath his boot like it was nothing. The frozen warriors had served their purpose, but against that? Against a walking fortress of flesh and rage?

"But how will we face that?" they asked in unison, their voices tinged with something close to concern.

The Lion didn't hesitate. His eyes locked onto the giant, golden and burning with determination. He rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers as if already anticipating the fight ahead.

"We don't," the Lion said, his tone calm but firm. "We just need to lure it in. The forest will do the rest."

The Tweedles blinked, then exchanged another glance.

The Queen of Hearts smirked. "Very well said Lion."

The Mouse twitched his whiskers, his small frame practically vibrating with energy. "On it," he chirped before vanishing into the underbrush, a blur of motion that even the keenest eye would struggle to follow.

The Queen of Hearts turned to the rest. "Scatter," she ordered, her tone sharp, decisive. "We still have a few of them to lure out."

Without hesitation, her forces broke apart. The Tweedles darted into the shadows, their movements oddly in sync despite their clumsy appearances. The White Queen stepped back, already weaving the next layer of her magic. The Lion vanished into the shifting green, his presence a whisper on the wind.

And the battlefield, for a moment, seemed empty.

The Mouse moved like a ghost, a flicker of motion too quick to catch. Weaving through the underbrush, he closed in on the towering form of Goliath. The giant was a mass of muscle and heavy iron plating, his every step shaking the ground. His enormous hands flexed at his sides, crushing frozen remains of fallen pawns without a second thought.

The Mouse didn't dare get too close—not yet. Instead, he reached into his satchel, fingers finding a small alchemical charge. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it toward the giant's feet. The tiny glass vial shattered, releasing a burst of thick, acrid smoke.

Goliath grunted, his massive head swiveling toward the disturbance.

From the shadows, the Mouse smirked. Gotcha.

"Oi, big guy!" he called, his voice just loud enough to carry over the battlefield. "You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna chase something worth crushing?"

The response was instant. Goliath turned toward the sound, his enormous fists tightening. He let out a low, guttural growl—more beast than man—before lunging forward.

The Mouse was already moving.

Through the wreckage, past the frozen undead, darting between twisted branches and the scattered remains of Gorlois' army, he ran. He let himself be seen just enough, a flicker of red between the trees, the flash of movement that kept Goliath's dull, wrathful gaze locked onto him.

Behind him, the ground shook. Trees splintered under the weight of the giant's pursuit.

Nimrod exhaled sharply, already raising his crossbow. "Now I think we gotta stop him," he muttered. "Or at least help him."

Pierrot, for once, didn't respond immediately. His usual grin had faded into something more pensive, his sharp, painted eyes following the Mouse's rapid movements.

Nimrod's finger hovered over the trigger. "Well?"

Pierrot flicked a card between his fingers, spinning it absently. "Hmm."

The Hunter scowled. "Not the time to start thinking, Jester."

Before Pierrot could answer, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the battlefield.

"You two! Back in the castle! We've got an intruder."

A heavy presence strode toward them, the air around him thick with something unnatural. Dullahan's armor gleamed under the dim morning light, his greatsword resting effortlessly against his shoulder. Even without a head, there was no mistaking the weight of his authority.

"I'll handle the giant," he added, his voice carrying a cold finality.

Pierrot clicked his tongue. "Knew it was a distraction."

Nimrod didn't argue. If there was an intruder in the castle, then the attack had already served its purpose. "Tch. Fine." He lowered his crossbow, already turning back toward the gates.

"Hurry!" Dullahan snapped, his irritation clear.

Pierrot gave a lazy two-finger salute before vanishing into the shadows. Nimrod followed close behind.

The forest was alive with movement. The Mouse darted through the underbrush, slipping between tangled roots and low-hanging branches like a shadow. Behind him, Goliath crashed forward, each step a tremor, each tree in his way reduced to splinters.

The mouse simply ran, leading the Giant further into the forest.

The deeper they went, the more unnatural the terrain became. Strangely placed boulders, thick vines coiling over the ground, and a peculiar narrowing of the path—all subtle, all designed for one thing: control.

Then came the first snap.

A rope, hidden beneath the forest floor, pulled taut as Goliath's massive foot pressed down on the wrong spot. The release triggered a cascade—logs, bound high between the trees, came swinging down like battering rams, slamming into the giant's side. It wasn't enough to fell him, but it staggered him, his balance shifting as he roared in frustration.

Mouse didn't stop.

He sprinted past a seemingly harmless patch of underbrush. The moment Goliath followed—CRACK!—the earth beneath him gave way. A deep pit, concealed with woven branches and leaves, collapsed under his weight, sending him tumbling into the trap.

But they knew a fall wouldn't be enough.

Even as he dropped, sharpened wooden stakes lined the pit's walls, angled to pierce and slow his descent. Not fatal—Goliath was too massive for that—but painful, enough to force him to struggle and thrash rather than climb.

And then came the real problem.

Above him, high in the trees, several figures moved in unison. With a whispered command, they lit the fuses of small oil-filled pots. In an instant, a rain of fire cascaded down into the pit, flames licking at the tar-coated spikes and dry wood lining the walls.

Goliath bellowed, a sound that shook the very trees.

Mouse, now crouched at a safe distance, smirked. "Gotcha."

However, a deep, guttural bellow tore through the forest, the kind that sent birds scattering from the canopy and made the very ground tremble. The flames roared hungrily, but even fire struggled to consume something as massive as Goliath.

Mouse's ears twitched. That was not a death cry.

"Move out!" he barked, already backing away. No one questioned him. In a blur of motion, his companions scattered, vanishing into the trees like smoke on the wind.

A scream—short, choked off—snapped Mouse's head back toward the pit.

The Dodo.

Before he could even react, a massive, charred hand shot up from the flames, blackened fingers curling around the struggling figure of the Dodo. The fire hadn't stopped Goliath—it had only angered him.

Mouse's stomach dropped.

"DODO!"

With a deafening crack, Goliath leapt. The fire pit, meant to be his tomb, barely slowed him. His massive frame surged into the air, blackened but unstoppable, landing with an impact that sent shockwaves through the ground.

And in his clenched fist—

A sickening crunch.

The Dodo never screamed. One moment, he struggled. The next, he was nothing but pulp in the Giant's grasp.

Silence.

The Mouse, the Lory, the Duck, the Pigeon—they froze, eyes wide, breaths caught in their throats. Fear gripped them like a vice, their bodies refusing to move even as Goliath's heavy gaze turned toward them.

Then—

"MOVE!"

A voice cut through the terror like a knife.

Smoke erupted. Acrid, blinding, thick enough to burn the lungs. Pepper bombs—a flurry of them, bursting against Goliath's hulking form. The Giant let out a thunderous snarl, momentarily disoriented.

"Let's go!" A firm hand grabbed the Pigeon, then another yanked the Duck into motion. The Talking Rose, its vines twisting, its petals shaking, pulled them all away from the battlefield.

"Back—fall back!" it urged, dragging them toward the shadows of the trees.

Behind them, the Duchess' cook stood tall, more pepper bombs in hand, her face set in grim determination.

"You're not winning this fight, you great lumbering beast," she muttered under her breath. Then, to the others— "RUN."