The world twisted, shifting like a deck of cards shuffled by unseen hands. The Hatter-Miles gasped, his vision spiraling, and when it settled, he was no longer in the Spire.
He was on a battlefield.
The sky above was split apart by streaks of fire. The ground beneath his feet was drenched in red, bodies strewn across it like broken dolls. The banners of the Queen's army lay tattered, trampled into the mud, their once-proud insignias defiled by the carnage. And there, at the heart of it all, was the Hatter.
He stood atop a mountain of corpses, his silhouette outlined by the flickering light of burning towers. His coat was torn and soaked with blood. Some of it was his own, but most of it was not. In his grasp, the [Harbinger's Scythe] gleamed, its dark metal rippling with something almost alive, drinking in the slaughter like a beast never sated.
Alice stood beside the Hatter-Miles, watching, her expression unreadable.
"This is what you became."
