In a path beyond the Mushroom Grove, the Knave and the White Knight journeyed together. For a long while, neither of them spoke. Only the distant creak of armor and the rustling of leaves underfoot broke the silence.

The Knave walked a few paces ahead, shoulders squared, steps deliberate, as though daring the world to challenge him again. His cursed hand hung stiff at his side, the magic circle on his skin now a dim, rhythmic pulse.

The White Knight followed at a respectful distance. His steps were slower, quieter—guarded. From time to time, his gaze would flick to the Knave's back, lingering, uncertain. He looked like a man trying to read a closed book. Then he'd quickly look away, feigning interest in the trees or his footing. But after the fifth or sixth stolen glance, the Knave stopped dead in his tracks.

He didn't turn around.

"If you've got something to say," the Knave growled, his voice low and dangerous, "then say it."

The White Knight halted mid-step, stiffening like a boy caught peeking behind a curtain. He hesitated. Then, slowly, he spoke.

"…Sir Charlie."

The name hung in the air like a ghost, echoing faintly in the hush of the forest.

The Knave turned, his expression unreadable. "What about him?"

The White Knight shifted his weight. "How did you lure him on your side?"

The Knave's lip curled. "I didn't."

The words were sharp—cut clean and cold.

"He followed me," he said after a pause, softer now, like the anger had bled out to something heavier. "He knew as much as I did. That Wonderland needed to change."

The White Knight's eyes narrowed. "And what change was that?" he shot back. "That it was worth endangering the lives of the rest of Wonderland?"

The Knave didn't answer right away.

"Weren't their lives already at stake," he said finally, "in the hands of a tyrant Queen?"

The White Knight's jaw tightened.

"And that White Queen of yours," the Knave added, his voice tinged with bitterness, "did she do anything? Did she raise a hand while the Queen of Hearts forcibly turned children into soldiers and her less important subjects into corpses?"

The White Knight's silence was telling.

"She just prayed," the Knave said, almost spitting the word. "She prayed, and waited. Like hope alone could change the world."

"This wasn't her realm to intervene," the White Knight muttered.

The Knave let out a dry, mirthless laugh. It cracked through the forest stillness like a whip.

"Of course," he said, his voice laced with venomous sarcasm. "Not her realm. Not her problem."

He took a slow step forward, boots crunching on the leaves between them.

"So she just watched?" he sneered. "While heads rolled? While the Queen of Hearts slowly drowned us in fear and despair?"

The White Knight didn't respond. Couldn't.

The Knave's eyes gleamed with fury. "She could have helped us. But no. She kept to her pretty peaceful castle and pretty gardens."

A beat passed. Then softer, almost tired, the Knave spoke once more. "Tell me, was it duty that kept you silent too?"

The White Knight looked up sharply. "I followed orders."

The Knave's eyes narrowed. His voice, low and cold, came like a blade through fog.

"And so you killed him," he said. "Your mentor. The one who stood as your father."

The White Knight's hands clenched into fists, but he didn't look away.

"We fought," he said flatly. "And I won."

The Knave let out another bitter laugh, harsher this time, like it scraped his throat on the way out.

"Then why," he said, stepping closer, "did you have to ask about him?"

The words landed hard.

The White Knight said nothing for a while.

Then.

"He followed you," he finally spoke, his voice breaking just slightly, "cared more for that duty than he did for us."

He took a slow breath, as if saying it aloud had pulled something heavy from deep inside.

"Maybe… maybe I envied that."

He stood there, still and silent, as if silence could hold back the truth, as if standing still might make the guilt stop echoing in his armor.

The Knave watched him for a long moment, then turned away, jaw tight.

"We all have our beliefs," he then muttered. "Only fate can tell whoever is right between us."

The Knave's shoulders rose and fell with a weary breath.

"As for Charlie," he said, not turning around, "All I could say is he simply followed what's left of his heart. A duty to protect the oppressed."

He finally turned, and for a moment, there was no anger in his face. Just sadness—like something broken that had never quite healed right.

"And now he's dead for it."

The wind rustled the leaves above, whispering between them like ghosts of the past.

Then, a new sound.

Not the wind. Not the creak of branches.

Footsteps—light, deliberate.

Both men turned.

Out from the trees stepped a figure clad in velvet and shadows, her pale face painted like porcelain beneath a dark veil.

The Puppeteer.

A wicked smile curled her lips. "Here you are," she said, voice dripping with mock affection, "my favorite puppet."

The Knave's face hardened. "Anabelle."

Her grin widened. "Still so sharp. So full of fire. That's what I always adored about you." She twirled the marionette once, then let it dangle again. "But no strings this time. You cut those, didn't you?"

Her eyes flicked to the White Knight. "And yet, he's still tangled."

The Knight reached for his sword, but the Knave held out a hand, stopping him.

Anabelle giggled. "Oh don't worry, darling knight. I didn't come alone."

From behind her, movement stirred.

Figures emerged—faces painted, expressions blank. They moved stiffly, like broken dolls barely clinging to animation.

White soldiers from the White Queen's army.

"This time," Anabelle said, "I brought a new cast. I think you'll love their performance."

She tilted her head. "Shall we begin the show?"

The White Knight staggered a step forward, his eyes wide. Recognition flickered across his face. "No…" he whispered, jaw clenched, voice cracking.

The Knight's hand trembled at his sword hilt.

Behind him, the Knave stepped close, voice low but firm.

"We can't fight them like this."

The Knight's fists balled. "We can't just leave them—"

"I'm not saying leave them," the Knave muttered. "I'm saying we live long enough to free them."

Anabelle raised a hand, and her puppets jerked forward, moving like clockwork nightmares.

The Knave stepped beside the Knight, his smirk returning.

He looked up at Anabelle and called out, "I'd really love to stay and join your creepy little circus…"

A flick of his wrist.

Smoke bombs.

They burst against the ground in a sudden flash—thick plumes of violet and gray swallowing the clearing in swirling chaos.

"…but we've got another show to catch."

By the time the wind cut through the haze, they were gone.

Anabelle stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

She snarled under her breath, the marionette trembling in her grip.

"CURSE YOU, KNAVE!" she shrieked, voice like a shrill chord snapping in the forest air. "I'll find you wherever you'd go! None of my puppets can ever escape me!"

The Puppeteer's head snapped violently to one side, as if mirroring her rage.

But her smile returned too quickly.

The game wasn't over.

Not yet.

She turned slowly to her controlled soldiers. "Come, darlings," she said. "Let's prepare a warmer welcome for next time."

Meanwhile, the Knave and the White Knight settled at the base of a cliff. Shielded by stone and shadow, they stopped to catch their breath.

"I knew those men!," the White Knight muttered.

"Perhaps," the Knave responded. "But they were under her influence."

"Why did we have to leave them?"

"Then what?," the Knave snapped. "Wave your sword at your former comrades? Or perhaps join them in being that monster's puppet."

The White Knight said nothing. His mouth pressed into a hard line, and his gauntlet curled tight around the hilt of his sword. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, as though he could find meaning in the dirt, an answer in the gravel.

Silence lingered between them, stretched taut like a pulled string. Only the wind moved, brushing the edges of their cloaks and whispering through the crags.

"I don't blame you for wanting to save them," the Knave finally spoke again, this time a bit quieter. "But we wouldn't be able to do anything at that time. With this curse, I wouldn't be able to help you without me blowing to pieces. For now, we ought to survive and maybe rescue them once we could."

The White Knight slowly sat down, leaning his back against the cool stone of the cliff wall. He didn't answer.

The Knave let him. After all, what else was there to say?

Then, at last, the White Knight spoke—quiet, almost hesitant.

"…Thank you."

The Knave glanced over, brow raised.

"For earlier," the White Knight added, eyes still fixed ahead, unfocused. "You could've left me behind."

The Knave snorted, almost scoffing. "And have you skewered by your own comrades? Tempting as it was…"

The White Knight's lips twitched slightly. Not quite a smile. Just a brief softening.

"But… thank you," he said again, more firmly this time. "You didn't have to."

The Knave leaned his head back against the stone and closed his eyes.

"No," he murmured. "I didn't."

A beat.

"But I guess I wouldn't want to risk being alone again."

This time, the White Knight did smile—just barely.

"But that dagger could have killed me," the White Knight retorted lightly.

"Come on man! I had no choice. You want me to grab you and explode?"

The White Knight laughed. "Right. You got a point there."

Slowly, the night settled in around them, cool and heavy with the scent of moss and damp stone. Crickets chirped somewhere in the darkness, accompanying their light conversation.

"So… where were you supposed to be headed, anyway?," the White Knight asked.

The Knave didn't answer right away. He reached down, picked up a small stone, and flicked it idly across the ground. It skipped once, then clattered against the cliff wall with a quiet clink.

"To be honest," he said at last. "I didn't really know."

The White Knight raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said there's somewhere you ought to go anyway. You've said that back in the Caterpillar's place. Or well, the Butterfly's…whatever."

"I thought I ought to return to my old castle," he admitted. "See if I can still get anything useful there."

A pause.

"But after what happened… I realized it wasn't a good idea after all."

Silence settled again, not heavy this time—but solemn.

"Still," the Knave went on, his voice almost wistful, "it was the only place that ever felt like it was mine. Even if it was built with shattered dreams and half a revolution."

The White Knight nodded slowly. "Well, I think it's still standing though. But you're right. It's too risky to visit right now, especially with that Puppeteer on our tail."

The Knave gave a low grunt of agreement. "Yeah… obviously, she's not one to lose her toys easily."

The White Knight's gaze hardened. "Well, she won't have you."

A beat passed, then the Knave chuckled, quiet and dry. "Spoken like a true hero."

"I don't feel like one."

"Good," the Knave said, smirking. "Heroes are usually idiots."

That earned a faint laugh between them, brief and flickering, like a candle in wind.

Then, quieter, the White Knight spoke again. "So what now? We keep running?"

"For now," the Knave replied. "We can't go back to them. I'd be a walking danger among the others."

.The White Knight shifted, his hand slowly rising—instinct, maybe. A gesture of reassurance. A hand on the shoulder. A shared grief.

But just before he made contact, the Knave's voice cut through the quiet.

"Don't."

The White Knight froze.

The Knave turned his palm upward, fingers slightly curled. He showed the mark etched on its skin. It pulsed faintly, a dull shimmer beneath the surface like smoldering embers.

"Still cursed," the Knave said with a forced smile. "One touch and boom—there goes the Knave of Hearts."

The White Knight's hand dropped back to his he was about to turn them both into smithereens. Then, gave a quiet nod, his voice low. "We'll break it. Somehow."

The Knave let out a low chuckle, a bit more genuine this time.

"Yeah," he said, rolling his eyes. "But for now, let's keep me from exploding, shall we?"

The White Knight chuckled too, the sound rare and rough from disuse.

"Wouldn't want that on my record."

They both laughed—quietly, but real. It echoed softly off the stone, carried off by the breeze that rustled through the cliffside brush.

For a brief moment, the heaviness between them eased.

Then, with a smirk still lingering, the Knave leaned back against the stone. "Still," he added, "good to know I got a comrade with me."

The White Knight looked at him, brow furrowed, but said nothing—only offered a firm nod.

The firelight between them flickered gently, casting long shadows that danced like memories on the stone.

The Knave tilted his head slightly, then pointed toward a dark opening nestled between two jagged outcrops of rock further up the cliff wall.

"There," he said, nodding toward it. "That ought to keep us safe through the night."

The White Knight followed his gaze, spotting the narrow cave entrance half-hidden by moss and twisted roots.

"You sure it's not already occupied?" he asked, half-joking.

"Well," the Knave shrugged, "if it is, we'll just have to convince whatever's in there that two tired idiots are not worth the trouble."

The White Knight chuckled faintly. "Fair enough."