The path the White Rabbit had chosen was not a path at all, but a treacherous vein through a part of Wonderland that had given up on sense. The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of rotting blossoms and the wet-dog smell of damp earth. Gnarled, weeping willows draped their skeletal branches over a narrow trail of sucking black mud, their leaves whispering secrets that slithered away before they could be fully heard. Alaric Haregrave moved with stiff, precise urgency, his gloved hand a firm, unyielding pressure on her arm, pulling along. His pocket watch, usually a metronome of calm, clicked with a frantic, impatient rhythm.

“We must maintain the schedule,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, his ears twitching at every rustle in the oppressive gloom. “This detour is... unfortunate. But necessary to avoid... unsavory elements.”

A high, sing-song whisper drifted from the left, weaving through the willow fronds. “*Unsavory...*”

From the right, a deeper, rougher echo answered, harmonizing perfectly. “*...he means us, brother.*”

The Rabbit froze. His grip on her arm tightened to the point of pain. His other hand flew to the pistol at his hip, his entire body going rigid. “Show yourselves,” he demanded, his voice cutting through the swampy air like shards of ice. “You are in violation of the Cross-Woods Transit Accord!”

Laughter answered him. Not one set, but two, overlapping, a discordant nursery rhyme tune. From behind a thick, pulsing tree trunk, Twain stepped into view. He was leaner, a shadow given sharp edges. His butcher’s apron was already spattered with fresh, dark stains, and his eyes, wide and fever-bright, streamed their perpetual crimson tears. He held a long, boning knife loosely, its point drawing idle circles in the air.

“No accord for lost little lambs, Time-Keeper,” Twain crooned, his Cockney twang twisting the words into a threat.

From the opposite side, Twein emerged. He was broader, a wall of muscle and menace, his presence making the very ground seem to sink deeper. A meat cleaver, notched and brutal, hung from his fist. His blood-stained lips were pulled back in a grin that was anything but friendly. His glowing, predatory eyes were fixed on the Rabbit’s hand on her arm.

“Specially not when they’re takin’ what ain’t theirs,” Twein rumbled, the sound like stones grinding together.

Alaric’s composure cracked. A sliver of pure, undiluted fear showed in the widening of his eyes. He tried to pull her behind him, to use his body as a shield, but the mud sucked at his polished heels, slowing him. “She is under my protection. You brutes wouldn’t know what to do with something so refined. You’d only break it.”

Twain’s head tilted. A fresh tear of blood traced a path through the grime on his cheek. “Break it?” he whispered, as if the idea were heartbreaking. “We don’t break our treasures.”

“We keep ‘em safe,” Twein said, taking a heavy step forward. The mud made a wet, grasping sound around his boot. “Safe from fancy words and cold cages.”

“Let her go, Rabbit,” they said in perfect, chilling unison. “You’re holding our heart.”

Alaric’s answer was to raise his pistol, the barrel gleaming dully in the half-light. It was a fatal mistake. It was a challenge.

The world exploded into violence.

Twain moved like a striking viper, a blur of stained apron and gleaming steel. His knife wasn’t aimed at the Rabbit, but at the arm that held her. The blade bit deep into Alaric’s forearm, not a killing blow, but a painter’s stroke of agony meant to make him release his prize. The Rabbit cried out—a sharp, undignified sound—and his grip spasmed open.

In that same instant, Twein was there. He didn’t attack with his cleaver. He simply collided with the Rabbit, a battering ram of brute force. The air left Alaric’s lungs in a whoosh as he was slammed back into the trunk of a willow, the impact shaking a shower of dead leaves and bitter water down upon them.

What followed was a short, brutal symphony. It was not a fight; it was a dismantling. Twain’s knives flashed, precise and surgical, finding tendons and ligaments, painting the Rabbit’s immaculate white waistcoat in blooming red roses of pain. Twein’s fists and the heavy pommel of his cleaver fell with blunt, bone-jarring force, a methodical punishment for the sin of touching what was theirs. Alaric Haregrave, the paragon of order, was reduced to a gasping, broken thing slumped against the tree, his watch shattered on the ground beside him, its frantic ticking finally stilled.

Silence returned to the Sunken Grove, broken only by the Twins’ heavy breathing and the slow drip of blood onto the hungry mud.

They turned to her as one. Their terrifying synchronization was absolute. They took a step forward, then another, their forms blotting out the sickly light. The rage was gone from their faces, replaced by a look of awed, desperate reverence. They were two halves of a single broken soul, and their gaze was fixed on her with the intensity of pilgrims finally finding their shrine.

Twein reached out first, his large, bloodied hand surprisingly gentle as it cupped her elbow. Twain mirrored the gesture on her other side, his touch light, almost trembling.

“There now, dove,” Twain whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “We’re here.”

“No more cages,” Twein murmured, his thumb stroking a soft, comforting rhythm on her arm. “No more schedules.”

“Just us,” they said together, their voices weaving into a single, possessive promise. “You’re ours now. Safe.”

And with her nestled between them, they turned their backs on the broken Rabbit and led her away from the order and into the warm, bloody darkness of their devotion.