Sauron suddenly lifted his head. The Ring heated up. Not painful.
But as if receiving a signal. He closed his eyes.
And saw the Forest. The Moon. Two dark figures.
He opened his eyes. "I know where you are…" he whispered.
Seraphelle stood behind him, her hand on his back.
"And you will take him?" Sauron didn't answer immediately.
At Wonderland—
Alice opened her eyes. Not panicked. Not confused. Just annoyed.
The Mad Hatter breathed a sigh of relief at Alice waking up.
"Oh, you're alright, that's good. I was terrified. Would you like me to help you up? We're going to be late for tea, and I have some hats that would be perfect for the theme of…"
Alice sat up. "Take me to the tea party."
Not loud. Not shouting. Not threatening.
Just giving a command.
The Mad Hatter stood still. His heart pounded.
His brain said: Don't listen.
His body said: Obey.
He bowed his head. "Yes… Your… Majesty?"
He didn't understand why he said that. But he said it.
Alice rose. No crown. No armor. No weapons.
Just a girl with black hair, wearing a blue and white dress.
But nothing dared look her in the eye.
Elsewhere, deep inside the whale's belly, Pinocchio opened his eyes.
The small fire Geppetto had lit still burned, but its light seemed… dimmer. Not because the fire had weakened, but because something else was present—heavy, deep, solid as stone.
Pinocchio sat up. Geppetto took a step back. "Pinocchio," he whispered, not knowing whether he was asking himself or the wooden boy before him.
Not because of the appearance. Pinocchio was still the same wooden boy. But the presence was different.
"Son…" Geppetto whispered, his voice breaking. "Are you alright?"
Pinocchio looked at him. His gaze deepened, as if looking through layers of time, then he lifted his head.
"You've done your job well," he said.
The voice wasn't childish. Not just old. But like an ancient, speaking mountain. Geppetto was speechless. The whale stirred. Pinocchio turned to the vast darkness of the creature's throat.
"Now," he said slowly, firmly,
"take us out."
The whale shuddered. Then, as if understanding, it lifted its head, spitting both tiny humans out of its enormous body through its vent.
The night sea was salty and cold.
Gepetto collapsed onto the sand, gasping for breath, his hands trembling as he clutched the ground as if afraid the world would slip away. He looked up and stared.
Pinocchio stood there. Unmoving. Not needing to.
He stood there, yet seemed the center of everything, as if the waves, the night wind, and the starry sky were all revolving around that spot.
"Pinocchio…" Geppetto called, his voice trembling almost to the point of being inaudible.
"Is that… you?"
A long moment passed. Then Pinocchio approached.
A smile appeared. It was still the familiar smile. Warm. The honest smile of a son to his father.
"Yes, Father," he said.
His voice was now soft and intimate again. As if the mountain had bowed down to speak to an old carpenter. Geppetto wept. Unable to restrain himself, he rushed forward and embraced his son, holding him tightly as if afraid that if he let go, the boy would vanish into the wind.
Pinocchio returned the embrace just as tightly.
And for the first time since touching that ancient hammer, he allowed himself to be simply… a son.
Snow White was retreating, step by step, her eyes still fixed on the Witch-king.
"I will not open that door…" she said, her voice hoarse. The Witch-king did not reply. Because he no longer needed to. The air behind her cracked like a broken mirror.
Darkness gathered—then dispersed.
Sauron stepped forward. His cloak as dark as a starless sky. The Ring on his hand blazed, not brilliantly—but overwhelmingly.
Seraphelle stepped behind him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, as if it were her natural place.
Snow White turned and understood immediately. No running. No screaming. Just… despair.
"You…" Snow White whispered.
"You will destroy everything…"
Sauron looked at her. No anger, no hatred, no emotion, nothing, only certainty.
"No," he said.
"I will end the decay."
The Morgul sword appeared in his hand as if it had always been there. Its blade was thin. Slightly curved. It glowed with a sickly blue light.
Snow White took a step back. The ground around her screamed, cracking, but The One Ring compressed space, bending her force like hot metal.
Sauron advanced. Quickly. Without hesitation.
The Morgul sword pierced Snow White's chest.
The world fell silent for a single heartbeat.
Then Snow White screamed. Not a human scream. Not a scream of pain.
But the birth cry of a Nazgûl.
The sound ripped through the forest. Ripped through the mountains. Ripped through cities miles away.
Windows shattered. Birds fell from the sky, their hearts stopped beating. Everyone who heard it clutched their heads in pain and fear. Children awoke, screaming in bewilderment.
The Morgul poison spread not like blood, but like a black mist through her veins. Her skin turned pale. Her gaze lost its focus, then became… infinitely deep.
The Witch-king was just waiting.
Snow White knelt on one knee, her hands clutching the earth. Part of her was still crying.
Another part… was learning not to cry anymore.
Seraphelle wrapped her arms around Sauron's waist. She rested her head on his shoulder. Together they gazed at the scene as if it were a perfect painting. Her eyes swept over Snow White. The girl the mirror had once called more beautiful than her.
Now no longer an opponent. No longer a symbol.
Just something being redefined.
Seraphelle tightened her grip around Sauron. Not trembling. Not hesitant. Only captivated. The man she loved, not just conquering the world. He rewrote souls. And he had just turned a pure girl…
Into a slave of darkness.
Seraphelle closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath. A smile bloomed—slow, contented, almost gentle.
She loved this moment. Every beat of its heart. Every echo of that scream.
The Ring on Sauron's hand burned brighter. As if it… agreed.
Snow White lifted her head one last time. Her eyes—now as deep as bottomless wells. Her voice broke into two layers: her own and something else.
"I… am… still… here…"
The Witch-king stepped forward. For the first time, he placed his hand on her shoulder. And far out on the horizon, the shadowy figures of the nazgul began to gather.