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If one lived in a world steeped in magic—where magical beasts roamed freely and kingdoms mixed sorcery with sciences so advanced they eclipsed reason itself—could anything truly still inspire surprise?

Ordinarily, Grimm would have answered no.

He had marched through foreign lands whose names were unpronounceable to his own people. He had stood before rulers whose customs defied sense, whose techniques bent the rules of power in ways that would have unsettled lesser men. He had crossed blades with aberrations that should not have existed at all. As a General, he had not merely witnessed history—he had forced it forward. Nations had fallen because he willed them to. Victory had followed him like a shadow.

There was little left in the world that could shock him. Even less that could unsettle him.

And despite that—

"Hm."

The sound was almost lost within his helm. Grimm stood motionless, planted firmly where he was.

Calling this place a space felt dishonest.

It was neither vast nor confined, neither finite nor infinite. Distance here did not behave normally—it folded inward on itself, corridors curving back into the very doors they had emerged from, ceilings sliding into the role of floors the moment one stopped paying them proper attention. Color existed as a messy mash: tea-stained browns, pale violets and reds that suggested violence.

And the doors.

They were everywhere.

Arranged in rows, stacked in spirals, leaning against one another as if abandoned mid-thought. Some towered high, built for giants who would never arrive. Others were thin slits, barely wide enough for a hand, let alone a body. Their surfaces refused consistency—wood softened into porcelain when ignored, brass bled into velvet, keyholes blinking shut like eyes the moment Grimm's gaze lingered too long. Handles jutted at obscene positions: too high, demanding reverence; too low, demanding submission. To open some, one would have to kneel. To open others, one would have to break.

Each door seemed to promise something.

Some made noise, humming softly, like lullabies. Others rattled with sounds that scraped at the back of the mind—teacups clinking endlessly, laughter that cut off too sharply, footsteps that suggested approach without ever arriving. A few doors wept, syrup-thick drops sliding down their frames, pooling at the base before crawling upward again, retreating as though ashamed of being noticed.

And for all that excess—

for all that noise and invitation—

there was only one path.

It did not announce itself. It bore no glow, no marking or any grandeur. It existed in what wasn't there: in the misalignment of doors that never quite belonged, in corridors that resisted bending when they clearly should have. The path did not demand any attention.

The walls bordering it were wrong in other ways. Clocks embedded in the plaster ticked backward, forward, sideways, then sighed and stopped entirely. Grimm's shadow lagged a step behind him, lingering too long at doorframes, occasionally drifting off as if curious—before snapping back, chastened, remembering its place.

Gravity, too, wavered in its loyalty. At times it pulled gently toward the ground. At others, it tugged sideways and inward, as though everything here were being drawn toward a thought that no longer existed. Teacups floated by at shoulder height. A chair slept upside-down against the ceiling. Grimm alone remained unmoved, sabatons rooted.

The path did not argue, it simply continued—straight where straightness should have failed, intact where logic had clearly dissolved.

"…Very weird," Grimm finally decided.

The words sounded inadequate, but they were honest.

He crossed his arms, the small clink of alloy echoing, any trace of surprise hidden behind the impassive lines of his helmet. The doors seemed to lean toward him now, pleading to be chosen. The path, by contrast, asked nothing—and that alone made it more compelling.

Still, his thoughts were elsewhere.

("I knew I shouldn't have taken part in that festival.") He exhaled slowly, the sound hollow inside his helm. ("Look where it got me.") A shake of his head followed, small but irritated. ("I could have conquered another nation. Anything would've been better than 'You're the strongest we have, oh mighty Grimm, please fight for us.'") The words replayed with mockery. ("And now I'm here.") His stance stiffened. ("Where is that idiot Mallory?")

When the darkness had swallowed him, she had thrown herself onto him without hesitation—reckless, foolish and stubborn as ever—determined to be taken as well. Yet here, in this place that refused definition, there was no sign of her. No presence or trace.

And worse—

("This place is messing with my senses.") He inhaled again. ("All I smell is tea… and other nonsense.")

For a fleeting moment, he considered tearing the space apart. Testing its resistance. Forcing it to yield. But instinct stayed his hand. Exploration first and violence later.

And so Grimm stepped forward, placing himself upon the only path that existed.

Its surface bore a checkered pattern beneath his feet. With each step, his sabatons rang out, the sound sharp, swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive quiet that followed. There was no echoes.

("Still,") he thought, eyes scanning the impossible geometry ahead, ("what exactly is this place?") It wasn't magic. Not in any way he recognized. The power was foreign—alien in texture and in presence ("Something closer to what the Ancestors used, perhaps.")

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

As he continued, the world shed what little pretense it had left. Staircases ran along the ceiling, mirroring those beneath his feet, leading nowhere. The doors fell away entirely, replaced by a vast violet expanse on either side of the path—endless and hollow, filled with countless stairs suspended in nothing, all rising and falling without purpose.

The path ended abruptly.

Ahead lay a circular platform, modest in size. At its center sat a single object: a long, rectangular table draped in a pristine white cloth. Upon it rested an immaculate spread—cookies, colorful sweets arranged with meticulous care, a polished tea set accompanied by no fewer than five cups.

One chair stood out immediately: a plush blue that was inviting. The others were dull and mismatched, almost afterthoughts.

And then there was the figure seated at the far end.

Grimm approached with slow steps, stopping well short of the table's edge.

The figure's most striking feature was their hair—ethereal white, falling in delicate strands, impossibly soft in appearance. It framed a face far too refined and beautiful to be coincidence, skin pale and porcelain-smooth. But it was their eyes that truly held the space: glowing red, intense and otherworldly, watching everything without strain.

They were dressed in a tailored black jacket adorned with gold patterns along the cuffs and lapels. Beneath it, a high-collared white shirt, finished with a heavily ruffled frill. At its center hung a ruby pendant, fastened neatly at the throat.

They sipped tea leisurely, as though Grimm's arrival were expected.

Only then did Grimm notice the other seats.

Occupied—not by people, but by things. A stuffed doll in a green suit with orange hair and an oversized top hat. A ragged hare dressed in a velvet suit. An old, brown rat, staring ahead.

Only the blue chair remained empty.

Grimm's attention returned to the lone living presence.

("That appearance…") He tilted his head imperceptibly. ("…a spawn of Octavia?")

At last, the figure's ruby eyes shifted fully toward him. Their rosy lips curved slowly upward into a smirk.

"Oh dear," they murmured at last, the words unfolding elegantly, "I truly did not believe it possible for another soul to wander into this particular… interval." Their voice was smooth and indulgent—soft-spoken in a way that soothed.

Grimm regarded them in silence for a moment, then tilted his head slightly. "You don't resemble the spawn of Octavia from Galadriel," he said evenly. "At least, not beyond the colors. Your facial structure is entirely different."

They inclined their head in response, a gentle motion that only heightened their already unsettling allure. "Octavia?" A hum of amusement followed. "Ah… right, that is what sis calls herself these days. How terribly uninspired." They lifted their teacup and took a refined sip, seemingly unbothered.

"I don't quite follow," Grimm replied, unperturbed, folding his arms as he gestured with his chin toward the warped surroundings. "Though I suspect that isn't what matters. Are you responsible for this… place?"

"No," they answered calmly. "I am merely a guest. This space was fashioned by little Alice."

"Alice?" Grimm echoed, the name unfamiliar enough to give him pause.

They leaned back in their chair, studying him now with curiosity. "How interesting. You smell of dragon." Their lips curved upwards. "I imagine that caught her attention. She was always rather fond of that ancient relic—Ddraig, was it? A dreadful old fossil, but charming in his own way." They waved a hand dismissively. "Do not concern yourself. Unlike most Angels, I harbor no particular distaste for those who lack mana and magic."

"Right…" Grimm muttered, gaze sweeping the platform once more. "Then where is this Alice? I would rather not squander time here. This space is…" He paused, choosing his words. "…frivolous. I have matters to attend to."

"She shall return shortly." The figure reached into their pocket and produced a golden pocket watch, its chain glinting as they snapped it open. A brief click of the tongue followed. "Late again. How dreadfully predictable." They closed it and looked back to Grimm. "A word of advice, Defier—do try not to vex little Alice. She lacks the maturity of her elder self."

They lifted two fingers in a polite, almost playful wave.

And then they were gone.

Not vanished—there was no sound or any dramatic departure. One moment they occupied the chair, the next the space simply forgot them.

Grimm found himself alone once more.

("Splendid,") Grimm thought dryly. ("The only other person disappears.") His patience thinned as he raised one gauntleted hand, resolve settling in his mind. ("I'll just erase this place entirely—")

"He's right. You really do resemble Ddraig."

The voice cut through his intent—light and youthful.

Grimm stopped.

"…Hm?"

He turned, just enough.

Someone stood behind him.

She had not been there a moment before. There had been no sound or warning. It was as though reality had decided she ought to exist now and not a second sooner.

Her skin was porcelain-pale, stretched delicately over fine features, almost translucent. The blush on her cheeks was a perfect rose, so immaculate it seemed painted on—untouched by warmth or exertion. Her hair, spun gold, fell neatly around her face, each strand refusing disorder, as though the air itself dared not disturb her.

But it was her eyes that unsettled him most.

Wide, blue and vast as an empty sky.

They reflected light but held none—no depth at all. Doll's eyes. Windows opening onto nothing at all.

Her dress was simple: blue fabric, a crisp white apron, white stockings and black ballet flats. Nothing extravagant. And yet Grimm felt it immediately—

There was nothing simple about her.

For the first time in a very long while, he had sensed nothing.

No shift in air, no scent and no disturbance.

As a Descendant of a Greater Dragon, his senses surpassed those of most living beings. And yet she might as well not have existed until the instant she chose to.

"And you are?" Grimm asked at last, voice steady as he looked down at her.

She smiled.

It should have been sweet.

It was not.

"Alice Pleasance Liddell," she said pleasantly, dipping into a flawless curtsy. "A pleasure, Grimm."

"…So you know my name," he murmured, folding his arms once more. ("Something is deeply wrong with this brat. She's a child—and yet every instinct I have is screaming.")

"There is no cause for alarm," Alice said gently, as though correcting a misunderstanding. "I merely wished to make your acquaintance. Now it is only proper to introduce oneself, after all."

"What's the point," Grimm replied flatly, "if you already know who I am?"

She sighed softly, it was restrained and tinged with disappointment. "Because it is basic etiquette. Truly, have you no manners?"

He shook his head slightly. "Fine. Grimm. A pleasure."

Alice fell silent.

"What?" Grimm questioned.

"After introductions," she said primly, "one generally shares a little about oneself."

"I don't recall you sharing much, kid."

"Alice," she corrected at once, wagging a finger. "Not kid. And I am quite fond of cakes and biscuits. Your turn."

He considered ignoring her. Children were exhausting. Still—if she held answers, indulging her might be prudent.

"I'm a General," he said bluntly. "I've conquered several nations, killed a few thousand people, and I prefer coffee."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "How dreadfully unamusing."

"True." Grimm exhaled. "Now—there was someone here. White hair. Hard to miss. They said you created this place."

"Ah, yes. He visits often." Her gaze drifted wistfully. "A pity I just missed him." She gestured lazily at the warped world around them. "But yes. I made all this."

"Wonderful," Grimm said at once. "Then show me the exit."

She tilted her head. "Are you not curious as to why I brought you here?"

"I'm guessing you weren't the one responsible for taking me from the festival in the first place. I'm gathering that someone else was responsible, and the course of my journey was different," Grimm replied.

"Indeed," Alice nodded. "I plucked you away before that could occur."

"…There was another with me," Grimm added sharply. "Silver hair. Green eyes. Stupid looking."

Alice considered. "She smelled of dragon as well. Regrettably, I could not retrieve her. She has already arrived in Álfheimr."

"…Álfheimr," Grimm repeated.

"That," Alice said politely, "requires an explanation far too lengthy for now." Her gaze lifted upward, distant. "Another force is drawing you away. I cannot retain you much longer." Her blue eyes returned to him, fixing him in place. "You are… fascinating," she said softly. "Unpredictable and uncertain. They say your path is the most volatile of all." A small smile formed. "Seek out the older me. She will wish to speak with you as well. Perhaps she can even help you." Her voice gentled further. "We shall meet again soon, Grimm."

He opened his mouth to respond—

And the world went black.

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